Just Friends by Robyn Sisman

here, getting everything back into shape. I think I’ll rearrange the furniture, too. It’s so important for Mikey to have a fresh start, with no reminders.”
    Mikey? Freya rolled her eyes.
    “. . . Of course, it was his decision, Myra. You know I never interfere.”
    Ha!
    “He knew in his heart that she wasn’t the woman for him. She was always so offhand when I called, you know what these city girls are like nowadays. Well, I say girl , but from what Michael told me she sounded quite ‘experienced,’ if you know what I mean.”
    Bastard!
    “. . . Yes, I do know times have changed. I may not be an Eastern liberal, but that doesn’t mean I’m unworldly. I see those magazines at the hairdresser’s with all the articles about ess ee ex. There are pernicious forces abroad in these United States of ours. We have to fight to protect those we love. My Michael has always been such a sweet, innocent boy. Did I ever tell you that darling thing he said once at Sunday School?”
    Only nine billion times, I bet.
    “. . . Oh. Well, anyway, I know what’s right for my son: a nice American girl, somebody young and fresh who can make him a lovely home, not some Mata Hari.”
    Freya ground her teeth.
    “. . . not actually Dutch, no. I understand she’s British. But these foreign women are all the same. He told me she never cooked him a real breakfast, not once. She wouldn’t even sew on a button for him, though she’s been living off him for months.”
    By now Freya was burning with indignation. How could Michael have been so disloyal? It was intolerable to think that all the time she had been trying to fit in with his lifestyle, he had been giving his mother weekly bulletins on her behavior. She glared malevolently around the bedroom, center of their supposed togetherness. Her eye fell upon the pile of clothes that Mrs. Petersen had instructed her to take to the cleaner’s. It gave her an idea.
    “. . . I imagine it was one of those, you know, physical things. But that always wears off, doesn’t it. Which reminds me, how’s Harold? Still enjoying his ham radio? And where do you think you’re going? ”
    These last words were addressed to Freya, who was walking boldly across the living room to the front door. Wedged between her arms and chin was a great heap of Michael’s suits, under which she had contrived to conceal her own possessions. Mrs. Petersen stiffened in her chair. Her eyes bulged with outrage.
    For explanation, Freya nodded at her overflowing armful. “Sí sí por favor y viva españa hasta la vista,” she gabbled frantically, trying to open the apartment door with her little finger. It was maddeningly resistant. “Enchilada Lope de Vega agua minerale la cucuracha.”
    The door yielded explosively, nearly toppling her backwards. She headed for the elevator at a rapid waddle and stabbed the down button. Quick! she prayed, glancing back at the door of 12B, which had slammed behind her and so far remained shut. As soon as the elevator arrived Freya leaped inside, threw everything on the floor, and pressed L for lobby. She checked once more to see that she was safe, and nearly froze with horror to see Mrs. Petersen’s white little-old-lady head playing peekaboo around the apartment door.
    “The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain,” Freya told her, in her haughtiest English accent, and stepped back smartly. The elevator doors lumbered shut an inch from her nose.
    Five minutes later she tumbled into Joe’s Dri-Kleen and dumped Michael’s suits in a slithery pile on the counter. Her arms ached. She felt sweaty and untidy and unattractive and extremely angry.
    “Name?”
    “Petersen.” Freya spelled it out for him, impatience rising.
    “Regular or rush?”
    “Whatever’s most expensive.”
    While Joe filled out the tickets, Freya rested her elbows on the counter, scowling at a sign that read, repairs on the premises. just ask! What was she doing here? What kind of person took the dry cleaning for