Dirty Laundry

This is one part of many short stories that go together...Someday. I am a beginner at this..but so love the writing process. Even when it's not perfect.

Dirty Laundry

The summer I turned 12 was the year I learned about airing dirty laundry. I would lay behind the old, sun-bleached leather sofa and spy on mother and our neighbor Joan. They would take turns dishing out their best gossip of the day. Chain-smoking cigarettes and sipping black coffee, they would prattle on for hours.

Mother and Joan would hunker down at the yellow formica table in mother’s impeccable kitchen. Joan cheated at cards and mother would swear she’d never play again. But each day the two would sit down and play pinochle. 

As I hid quietly behind the couch, I could see mother and Joan scurrying around the kitchen, preparing the porcelain percolator and emptying ashtrays. Finally landing in the soft, bright, overstuffed chairs mother had refurbished just for their gossip sessions. 

Joan fired off at the mouth, her green eyes blazing with contempt, “Me and Jessie were at the beauty shop this morning when Miss Sassy -you know, the Mayor’s housemaid- stomped through the door”. Joan jumped to her feet, thrust out her hip and lit a Pall Mall, then began to retell the morning’s event in her best Sassy imitation. 

“The Mayor’s wife caught him leaving the Sea Lion Inn with Widow Stevens at noon yesterday. She said they both looked showered...if you know what I mean.”

Joan plopped down into her chair and flicked the long ash off the end of her cigarette, as if to say ‘top that!’

Mother took a long drag from her Newport. “That Sassy is crazy and Widow Stevens is a tramp”, mother said, flashing her pirate smile. “You know she’s a witch”, she whispered. Joan leaned in close, afraid she might miss something. “She put the mojo on all the good-looking men in this town. Last week she asked Joe to fix her screen door. I forbid him to step one foot on her property!”

Widow Stevens was the prettiest lady in town. She didn’t socialize much, but you could almost always find her working in her rose garden or painting brightly colored portraits of local barns and bridges from her veranda.

The screen door opened and my father walked in, slightly amused by the women, yet shaking his head to show disapproval.

”Speak of the devil,” Said Joan, grinning at my father.

Mother blushed, hoping father had not heard them talking about the widow.

As father walked past my hiding spot he winked at me and said “Hello, Rose.” 

Before I could explain, Joan appeared over the top of the sofa, wagging her bony finger, her face pinched tight as she scolded me. “Miss Rose, it is not lady like to eavesdrop on people, nobody like a snoop!”

I looked down at my feet and thought; it takes one to know one.

Reviews

[Jo Billygoat]

nice story, yeah folks oft place themselves in the ironic situation of the "pot callin the kettle black".

If you like stories, I have two you might want to check out: A Cross To The Road and An Entrapment Gone Good

I mostly scrip poetry.

Thanks for the story.

[Shannon]

This is a great little read. Descriptions are vivid. Language well choosen.