What’s in Your Closet?

Hillary Lyon

The doorknob rattles, waking me up. I hear muffled voices. I move closer, but I don’t want to touch the door. I can almost—almost—hear what is being said. The effort of listening wears me out. I go back to sleep.

Another rude awakening. I become aware of slow stomping up the stairs. Heavy tread on the floorboards in the hallway overhead. I hear doors creak as they’re opened and closed again.

Click-clack, click clack. Footsteps approaching. Heels on the hard wood floor. Wow, my mother would have a fit, some princess prancing in heels on her polished hard wood floor. Probably scuffing up that beautiful stained red oak.

The doorknob rattles again. I picture a middle-aged woman’s hand, gold rings on at least three fingers, well-manicured nails pink and shiny. Like my mother’s. Except my mother would pound on the door and cry. Such a drama queen.

I’m bored with all this noise; I wish they’d go away. When did people become so rude and inconsiderate? Don’t they know I’m trying to sleep?

* * *

Reed shuffled up beside Moira, breathing hard. Climbing stairs made him sweat, made his heart pound. Moira ignored him, focused as she was on trying each key on the key-ring in the lock on the closet door.

“Any luck?” he wheezed. He took his plaid handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped the perspiration from his neck and forehead.

Moira glanced over her shoulder. “Looks like we’ll have to call a locksmith.” She sighed. “Can’t sell this property if prospective buyers don’t have access to every space.”

She dug around in her designer handbag until she found her phone. “I’ve got a good one in my contacts.”

With much appreciation, Reed watched Moira. Even in her fifties, she was still a stunner. Well-preserved, he’d overheard a younger salesman say in the breakroom. More than that, she was professional, well-spoken, and charming. No wonder she won so many awards for selling more upscale homes than anyone else in the county. Asking her to come aboard his real-estate company was the best decision Reed had ever made.

“Here it is,” Moira mumbled, mostly to herself. “Wisneski and Son.” She pressed the call button.

Reed hiked up his too short khakis. With all the money you make, his wife nagged, you could buy some pants that fit. Instead of old ones that ride up your butt. Thinking of her comment, his hand involuntarily went to his floppy belly, which drooped over his belt like a sack of jelly. He promised her he’d buy new clothes when he sold this house. The commission would be huge.

“He’ll be here in the morning,” Moira said, already walking out the front door.

* * *

Looking at the lock, Jimmy Wisneski noted, “Old lock like this shouldn’t be too hard to pop.” He glanced at Moira and grinned. “Easy peasy.”

Lemon squeezy, Moira finished in her mind. She smiled back at him. Jimmy was a handsome young man, with blonde hair, green eyes, and an easy masculine manner. If she was 20 years younger…

“Hey,” Jimmy said as he worked, “isn't this the house that belonged to the Winston family? You know, the rich folks whose daughter disappeared, what, twenty years ago? I was in middle school at the time; everyone talked about it. I remember she was quite the looker. But had a bad reputation, if you know what mean.”

Reed cleared his throat. He’d really hoped people had forgotten that little tidbit; he didn’t want anything—especially unfounded gossip—to threaten the sale of this house.

“Ah,” Reed began, “yes. That teenage girl—Kenzie, I think her name was. She was wild and unruly. Parents couldn’t do anything with her. She ran off with a scruffy musician passing through town with his band.” Or so I heard, Reed added to himself. “Never heard from her again. Broke their hearts.” He added this last comment to make the Winstons seem more sympathetic; he didn’t know how they felt. Maybe her parents were relieved she was gone. He would be.

Jimmy sat back on his heels. “Huh. So, the Winstons still own this place?” He examined his lock-picking tools, chose another one.

Moira answered, “Several years after Kenzie left—when it was clear the girl wasn’t coming home—they closed up the house and moved to south Florida. Said they wanted to downsize, have a change of scenery.” Moira wished Jimmy would hurry up. She wanted to see what was inside the closet. Maybe some vintage coats? Maybe furs, or something equally valuable Mrs. Winston had forgotten about. And wouldn't miss.

“So how come they didn’t rent it? It’s been empty all these years—why sell it now?”

Moira shrugged. “Mr. Winston was killed in a boating accident. Got drunk and fell overboard into a canal behind their home. A gator ate him.” She bit her tongue to keep from laughing, the man’s death was so absurd. “Mrs. Winston contacted me and said to sell. She wants to move to Arizona. Already has her eye on a townhouse in Scottsdale.”

“Here we go,” Jimmy beamed as the lock clicked. He stood up, ran his fingers through his hair, an effortlessly sexy gesture that made Moira blush. She brushed against him as she moved forward, placing her hand on the knob. She opened the door.

“Jeeeezus!” Jimmy hoarsely whispered upon seeing what the closet had held all these years.

* * *

After all this time in the dark, when the door was opened the light should have been blinding. If I still had eyes. No matter.

I stand and stretch. My bones crack, but at least they didn’t ache. Not anymore. I take my first step in more than twenty years. I comb my fingers through my long brown hair; clumps fall away, leaving a lone patch on the very top of my skull. I imagine it makes me look like Pebble Flintstone. A flirty, naughty Pebble.

Being locked in that cramped closet hadn’t done anything for my figure, that’s for sure. My curves have all rotted away. Mother would be pleased to see how much weight I’ve lost. I can still hear her say, I will not have a fat daughter! Sent me to tennis camp that summer. The camp sent me back when I was caught having a three-way with my instructor and his fiancé.

I guess that was the last straw for my parents. What a violent, a stormy argument we had! No more talking, Daddy yelled as he shoved me into this dark claustrophobic space. Don’t know which one locked the door. Or which one literally threw away the key. Where are dear old Mom and Dad, anyway?

“Jeeeezus!” I hear a man say. I turn my head in his direction.

Well, looky here, aren’t you one fine specimen of manhood! Just what the doctor ordered.

I raise the disintegrating hem of my thin sundress. Higher and higher. I run my tongue along my lower lip—something that used to drive the boys in my class crazy. I want to work that same feminine magic on this hunk. Can you blame me? It’s been so long since I’d had any lovin’ and he looks soooo tasty.

But my lip sticks to my desiccated tongue, pulls off. I spit it out.

I cock an eyebrow, but it falls off. “Sometimes I swallow,” I try to say in my most sexy voice. I say try, because it came out as more of a low grunt.

I raise my dress high enough to expose my—well, there was hardly anything there anymore. I smile at this handsome creature, and as the skin stretches across my cheekbones, it tears. Flaps hang down. He backs away.

“You can close your eyes and pretend I’m Madonna,” I say. “I’ll be your virgin, touched for the very first time,” I sing, though it sounds more like a growl. I never could carry a tune.

I hear heavy thuds as somebody runs down the hallway. Not my daddy, but some moose of a man I don’t recognize. A very fashionable woman runs after him. She reminds me of my mother, but it’s not her. Mom was never that spry. They both bolt through the front door.

I move closer to this hunka hunka burnin’ love. Run the exposed bony tip of my finger down his tight t-shirt. And though the skin sloughs off, I slide my hand down inside the front of his pants. Hmmm, he’s warm and, against his will, welcoming. He trembles, and I like it. Reminds me of when I used to make the boys in my school shiver with ecstasy. In the back of a car, in the field house by the track, in their parents’ bedroom.

Damn, it’s good to be back.