Close Encounters by Jen Michalski Read Free Book Online Page B

during this time in my life. Not that Allen and Adrian were my cosmic connections—hell, they were back-stabbing little rats of men—but they were my back-stabbers. And they didn’t need to blackmail me for money; God knows I’d paid enough alimony and child support to keep a third-world country dressed in Old Navy and eating McDonald’s (neither of whom I have any endorsement deals with, although I have pitched a Spriggs Salad to that redheaded trans-fat clown more often than someone in my power should have to).
    So maybe I leaned a little bit on Audrey during this time, yes. Did I mention I had recently learned that Adrian had written a book? Son of Sprigg: My Life With America’s Housewife—my agent got me a copy of the galleys, and I can say I was none too pleased. Granted, Adrian didn’t expose enough to get himself written out of the will—his lawyers combed that worthless piece of pulp over a fine-bristle brush—but it is another chink in the iron apron.
    And did he really have such a terrible life? The private schools, the summer vacations in Geneva, the Lamborghini for his sixteenth birthday? He should be happy I didn’t meddle in his life like some psycho queenie. The only wire hanger I ever waved at him was when he got that heroin addict from Sarah Lawrence knocked up—no grandchild of mine will be spawned by a Sarah Lawrence grad.
    So Audrey, I decided, would be America’s daughter. Photo-ops, please: Diana Spriggs and her assistant Audrey at soup kitchens, ladling Campbell’s soup into Styrofoam bowls. Diana and Audrey combing scraggly mutts at the SPCA, handing out sun visors at the race for MS.
    â€œShe’s like the daughter I never had,” I told Daily People at the breast cancer awareness walk. “Audrey has helped me to not only be America’s housewife, but America’s Mom as well.”
    I never should have said that last bit. It’s hard enough getting dates being just America’s housewife. Yes, I have needs. And Audrey was like family—her family is my family. I can’t count how many excruciating autograph and photo sessions I have engaged in when stuck at Audrey’s mother’s house in Kansas, trapped among women who wear every one of my brooch and earring and necklace sets from Homeshopping America and look none the better for it. If I had to share the pain of an extended blue-collar family with Audrey, then she could share the cream of her life with me.
    Such as her dashing young stud, Carl, a sailing instructor and frequent visitor to the Sprigg compound. It wasn’t something I went into with the worst intentions. In fact, I was able to get my rocks off in a purely voyeuristic fashion for some time, courtesy of the Sprigg compound security cameras. I discovered one night while making a surprise inspection of the security room (I always suspected our night watchman was a drunk who slept on the job), that Carl and Audrey had conjugal relations at about one o’clock on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday mornings. I mean, it was my right to make sure Audrey wasn’t doing anything unwholesome in her apartment, like smoking crack or pilfering Diana Sprigg collectable items for sale on Internet auction, right?
    Carl had a kielbasa. And he knew where to stuff it. A pure specimen, it inspired in me hundreds of Eastern European sausage recipes for my next cookbook. How I loved to watch it bounce on the security camera. Every Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, when I was at home I sat with a container of gingerbread Spriggs and a high ball and watched Adonis come to black and white, grainy life. I even had my tech guru send me a live feed to my laptop on those nights I wasn’t home, all in the interest of compound security.
    â€œWhy wouldn’t terrorists threaten Diana Sprigg, America’s housewife?” I pondered aloud to his skeptical, smug face. I waited until Ramadan to fire him. Then something