Patti Standard - His Perfect Family

“Lisa’s thirteen now,” Blanche went on, stealing another carrot from the growing pile on the cutting board. “Any day now she’ll be thinking about nothing but makeup and boys, makeup and boys.”

“Grandma.” Lisa groaned, pulling out bologna and a jar of mayonnaise and swinging the refrigerator door shut with her hip.

“Your mother practically lived in the bathroom at your age.” She looked at the carrots critically. “You should cut them larger or they get mushy.”

“Lisa likes them tiny,” Adrianne told her mother, her voice mild.

“Hmm. So, tell me, when do we begin this construction project?”

“He’s supposed to start first thing Monday morning.”

Blanche moaned. “It will be such an enormous headache, the mess, the noise, some strange man in your house all...” Her carefully plucked eyebrows rose. “Have you met this man?”

Adrianne shook her head. “But a friend at the bank said her sister had a friend who used him. I guess he made a beautiful coffee table for her.”

“Lisa, child, there are a million calories in every spoonful of that.” Blanche hurried to the table where the girl lavishly spread mayonnaise on a piece of bread and grabbed the jar, twisted on its blue lid and returned it to the refrigerator. “You’re getting to the age where you’re going to have to start watching your figure, you know.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Adrianne saw Lisa deliberately lick the knife, savoring every calorie behind her grandmother’s back. She sighed and added the carrots to the pot of boiling meat on the stove. Even with a long, bulky sweater over her dance leotard, Lisa’s tummy was obvious. And her black tights did little to slim her heavy thighs. Of course it was only baby fat, Adrianne assured herself. Even Blanche said so. Thirteen was too early to worry about her weight, she had lots of growing to do yet, but still...

She watched her daughter attack the sandwich with gusto. They really couldn’t afford to do any remodeling right now, with the bills still piling up after Harvey’s death, but if it would help Lisa’s self-esteem to have her own little private space... She just hoped the girl really meant it when she said she wanted the new bathroom. It was hard to tell what Lisa wanted, she tried so hard to please everyone, intent on being so—good.

“Well, I have to be going now,” Blanche told them, pressing air kisses all around. “Another meeting of the library board.” She caught her wavering reflection in the door of the microwave and gave a slight tug on the jacket of her pale pink suit. Then she bent down until she could see her face in the square, patting at her carefully frosted blond hair and fluffing her bangs.

“Thanks for picking Lisa up from dance class,” Adrianne told her. “This working late on Fridays is getting to be a bad habit.”

“I enjoyed watching her. She dances like an angel, a cloud, so much talent... That color looks good on you, dear,” Blanche interrupted herself as she eyed Adrianne’s apricot skirt and matching blouse, “but you have a run in your stocking. You don’t want to let yourself get sloppy now that you’re a widow. Harvey would have loved you in that, wouldn’t he? He always liked you to look so feminine.”

Adrianne stiffened at the mention of her late husband, felt the knot inside her stomach pull another notch. “I don’t think Harvey paid much attention to my clothes, Mother.”

“Nonsense. He thought you were gorgeous, the dear, dear man.” She picked at a stray thread on the jacket of Adrianne’s suit, which lay hooked over the back of a chair at the table. Her voice softened dramatically. “High-school sweethearts. Just like your father and me. So romantic.”

She sighed, then straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath. “Well, I’m off. I’ll stop by tomorrow evening and we’ll visit.”

Blanche swept from the room—exit stage right. Adrianne always added mental stage directions to her mother’s exaggerated movements.

Mother and daughter looked at each other as the front door slammed. Lisa made a face and said, “Trust me, Mom, if I danced like a cloud, it was a rain cloud.”

Adrianne laughed. “Now, you know that’s just the way your grandmother is. She likes to see everything a little larger than life.” She fished a potato from the dusty plastic sack and began to peel it into the sink.

“Compared to the other girls in my class, I’m definitely larger than life,” Lisa said dryly.

Adrianne winced. “How are dance classes going?” she asked cautiously. Lisa had been in ballet for two years now. She insisted she liked the classes, but...

“Fine.”

She shot her daughter a look over her shoulder, but Lisa didn’t meet her eyes. The girl stood and shoved in her chair. “Really, Mom, everything’s fine. I’ve got to start my homework now. Call me when supper’s ready.”

Adrianne listened to her daughter’s heavy tread start up the stairs. Everything’s fine. Adrianne gave the potato a vicious jab. That’s right Everything was always just fine.

Cutter glanced at the address again on the fussy contract Jonathon Round had prepared for him, signed in triplicate, yellow copy to accounting, goldenrod to client and mint to file. He threw the paper on the dash and squinted into the morning sun as he drove slowly down the cul-de-sac of a middle-class suburb on the edge of Little Rock. Except for the trim, the houses were identical. The owners had managed to wrestle some individuality from the landscaping, and took obvious pride in their new spring flower beds and carefully, edged grass. greening up nicely from the April rains.

He pulled his truck into the driveway of a house with steel blue trim, recently pruned rosebushes and a split-rail fence, and cut the engine. He glanced up and down the street. The American dream—and a burglar’s paradise. Everyone off to work, garage doors pulled down tight, curtains drawn, but always a window somewhere left open—just a crack. But it gets so warm in the afternoon, they’d tearfully tell the officer when they came home to find a dusty square instead of their TV.

He got out of his truck and shut the door quietly behind him so it latched with barely a click. An old habit, hard to break. He made his way up the walk and punched the doorbell. When he heard no footsteps, he reached up and ran his hand along the trim over the door. His fingers quickly encountered the key, just where Mrs. Adrianne Rhodes said she’d leave it for him, and where even the stupidest burglar was sure to look. He sighed, unlocked the door and walked into the silent house, easing the key into the pocket of his jeans. He’d make a copy when he went to lunch. Another old habit.

The living room was to his left, kitchen to his right, stairs to the second story straight ahead. The carpet was gray, the walls white, the furniture tasteful with gray-and-turquoise pinstripes in the blue upholstery. The coffee and end tables were oak veneer, he noted, not the real thing.

He turned into the kitchen and made a quick tour, easily locating the walk-in pantry he’d been hired to make over. The door stood open, and its floor-to-ceiling shelves were empty. A pedestal sink stood beside the pristine white john in the middle of the floor, a roll of vinyl leaned against its tank. He surveyed the boxes in a neat stack—medicine cabinet, faucets, towel bars, toilet-paper holder—even a fresh one-gallon can of paint An efficient little thing, our Mrs. Rhodes, he thought. Always good to know how your mark thought.

He made several trips back and forth to his truck, unloading tools and unrolling extension cords, then he strapped on his tool belt. He let it settle low on his hips, liking the weight and the familiar way his hammer banged against his thigh as he walked. Time to get to work. Finishing the bath would take two full weeks and didn’t leave much time to snoop.