I am a walking disaster magnet. It’s a gift, really. I once helped an old lady cross the street and the rumor mill claimed I was trying to swindle her Social Security check. I was spotted feeding a stray cat outside my apartment, and suddenly I was the neighborhood cat burglar. My reputation was lower than a snake’s belly, so I figured, why polish a turd? I leaned into it, going full tilt as a professional bad guy. Does your family need to split up their assets, but someone’s dragging their feet? Is your elderly parent being manipulated by a greedy cousin? Hire me to come in and raise hell. I take the heat, you split the cash. My abrasive manner and sheer grit made me the local nightmare in a ten-mile radius. Then, the youngest Associate Professor at the city’s top university showed up at my door and asked me to marry him. “The doctor called it 'Martyr Complex,' but I call it 'Total Doormat Syndrome,'” he sighed. “My mother gives away everything she owns. Our family savings are almost gone. I need the most unhinged, unreasonable, hell-on-wheels daughter-in-law in the state to manage her.” My eyes lit up. I rubbed my hands together with pure, unadulterated glee. “Say no more, brother. You just cured my fatigue.” 1 Gordon Hewitt’s handsome, refined face instantly crumpled. He let out a long, weary sigh. He pulled a timid, middle-aged woman out from behind him. She was gentle, soft-spoken, and gave me a faint, almost apologetic smile. “Frankie,” he said, using my chosen name, “I brought my mother, Cecilia Hewitt, so you could meet her.” He then pulled out a tattered red savings passbook and handed it to me. “Don’t laugh, but this is literally everything we have left.” I took the book, flipped it open, and my eyeballs nearly popped out of their sockets. “Fifty-seven dollars?” “I make thirty-four bucks a month working part-time at the diner!” I protested. “You’re a university professor. Your salary has to be close to three hundred. How on earth is there only fifty-seven dollars left?” Gordon and his mother both looked at me, their eyes red-rimmed and moist. “Frankie, since my father passed, I’ve been working constantly, traveling for conferences. My mom has been home alone,” Gordon explained. “Every relative, every neighbor, every well-wisher—they all show up. They borrow a little rice today, a little cash tomorrow. They say ‘borrow,’ but they never, ever pay it back.” He paused, voice thick with worry. “I’m being sent on a three-year lecture tour overseas. I need to leave immediately. If I don’t find a tough-as-nails wife to guard the fort, I won’t just come home to an empty house. I suspect my mother will have been sweet-talked into selling herself off for scrap.” I nearly fainted in disbelief. I looked at the handsome, scholarly son and his fragile mother. I sighed, tucking the passbook into my pocket. “I’ll take the job. I can guard the fort for three years. But you have to let me set the terms. I run a wild operation. I am going to make your aunts, uncles, and neighbors miserable. If I scare one of them into an early grave, you can’t get mad.” Gordon jumped to his feet, gripping my hand tightly. “As long as the house is safe and my mother is protected, you can do whatever the hell you want.” My prospective mother-in-law rushed over, tears streaming down her face. “Thank you, Frankie. Thank you for your service.” We came to an agreement, and less than a week later, we were married. On the day we signed the papers, Gordon rushed off to catch his flight. I grabbed my battered suitcase and headed for his house. I reached the front door of the Maplewood Faculty Quarters just as I heard a shrill voice yelling from inside. “Oh, Cecilia, bless your heart, but you’re from an educated family. You’re going to be stingy about two little apples?” I peeked through the crack in the door. A smug, heavyset woman—I’d later know her as Donna Mae, the biggest busybody in the complex—was forcibly prying a net bag of apples out of my new mother-in-law’s hand. My mother-in-law, Cecilia, was pleading softly. “Donna, please, leave me two. I bought them for Gordon’s new wife.” “Don’t be ridiculous! Gordon’s gone overseas! He doesn’t have a new wife,” the woman sneered, stuffing the apples into her apron. “And I heard you bought meat yesterday. Hand that over, too! My little boy, Kevin, is going through a growth spurt!” Oh, hell no. This wasn't borrowing. This was blatant robbery in a university housing complex. I dropped my suitcase, strode into the room, and snatched the net bag of apples back. Donna Mae froze, then flew into a rage, stabbing a finger toward my face. “Who the hell are you? You stray animal! How dare you steal from me?” I calmly pulled the bright red marriage certificate from my pocket and slapped it hard onto the chipped dining table. “The name is Frankie Hewitt. I am Gordon’s just-married wife,” I announced, my voice low and dangerous. “I’m stealing from you? No. You’re extorting my mother. Give it back.” I slammed her against the wall. “You take one more piece of thread, one more sugar cube, or one more apple from this house, and I will call your boss every single morning until you’re escorted off the property. I’ll make you the neighborhood pariah. Try me.” The air in the room solidified. Cecilia’s eyes were wide, her mouth open enough to swallow an egg. Donna Mae, accustomed to rolling over soft targets like Cecilia, had never encountered a rabid dog like me. Terrified, she wrenched herself free and looked at Cecilia with panicked, accusing eyes. “Cecilia! Look at her! She’s a criminal! Are you sure she’s not lying? Did Gordon really marry this lunatic who just assaulted me? I’m going to call the police!” Cecilia, who had been hiding behind me, finally found her voice, and it was a masterpiece of defiance. “Frankie… she’s not a bad person. She is Gordon’s wife. I consented.” With that official confirmation, I didn’t waste another second. I shoved the slack-jawed Donna Mae out the door. “Get out!” I spat, giving her a look that would curdle milk. “If I ever see you try to steal from this house again, I will break both your legs.” 2 Finally, silence. My mother-in-law was still leaning against the wall, visibly trembling. I helped her sit down, then took a long, hard look around this college professor's house. Honestly, a rat would cry walking through this place. The large living room had nothing but a broken-legged dining table and a few low stools. Half the curtains were missing, probably borrowed by a relative. “Gordon’s wife… are you hungry?” Cecilia shuffled out of the kitchen, carefully holding a bowl. It was a bowl of pale, yellow custard, with two rock-hard, burnt cornbread muffins next to it. I looked at the custard, then at Cecilia’s bone-thin frame. Was this woman Saint Mary in a past life? She was practically starving but still offering me the last bite of food. “Mom, I’m not hungry. You eat it.” I gently pushed the bowl back, then got straight to business. “Mom, Gordon asked me to find out: Who has borrowed our things?” The very-real-life Saint Cecilia’s eyes welled up again. She turned and came back with a huge stack of crumpled, stained papers. They were IOUs. Dozens of them for cash. Plus, the next-door neighbor, Ms. Thompson, had borrowed the sewing machine for her daughter’s school uniform. Mr.Wayne, who lived downstairs, had borrowed the bicycle for his commute. This wasn't borrowing; this was running the Hewitt home like a free community supply store. “Mom, you are the personification of 'If I don't go to hell, who will?'” I closed the pile of notes, trying to stifle a laugh that was half-amusement, half-rage. I stood up and cracked my knuckles. “Gordon told me before he left: As of today, I run this house.” I met her eye. “First thing tomorrow morning, we’re going collecting. What they took, they’ll cough up. What they ate, they’ll pay for.” The next morning, before the sun was fully up, I dressed in my shabbiest clothes, grabbed a borrowed bullhorn, and pulled my mother-in-law to the gate of the faculty complex. It was peak commuting time. People were streaming past. I planted myself in front of the gate, picked up the bullhorn, and started screaming. “Is that you, Mr. Thompson? Five years ago, you borrowed five hundred dollars from my mother-in-law, Cecilia Hewitt, to build a new extension on your cabin. Is the cabin comfortable? When are you going to repay the money?” “Ms. Davis! Oh, that’s a gorgeous ’74 Schwinn cruiser you’re riding! Your mother borrowed our family bike three years ago, saying you needed it for a short commute. You still haven’t bought your own? Are you holding onto it to pass down to your grandkids?” “Hey, hey, Professor Zhou, don't walk so fast! You said you desperately needed three hundred dollars last spring. My mother is practically begging for scraps! Is this how an esteemed academic behaves?” My rant turned every named person’s face black as a cast-iron skillet. My mother-in-law watched my performance, deeply impressed, but also terrified. Every time someone tried to object, she would chime in, her eyes swimming with tears: “Frankie is right.” “My daughter-in-law speaks the truth.” “Frankie is not wrong.” The commuters started pointing and whispering. “Isn’t that Professor Hewitt’s mother? She looks so distraught.” “I heard theWaynes owe them a lot. That’s disgusting.” “Five hundred dollars is a huge sum! They’re heartless.” We stood there, a synchronized tag-team of shame, blocking the gate, refusing to let anyone pass. Within two minutes, the families of the debtors started running out, hysterical. “Stop shouting! Stop shouting!” “Cecilia! What in God’s name are you doing?” “Cecilia! We can discuss this privately, can’t we?” “Gordon’s mother! Do you have to cause a scene this early? My face is ruined!” 3 My mother-in-law recoiled, about to apologize. I cut her off, waving the stack of IOUs in the air. “Save the drama! Honor is earned, not given! You owe us money, and you’re going to pay it!” “You pay today, or I’ll go to the university radio station and broadcast this tomorrow!” The debtors looked at the crowd of spectators, gritted their teeth, and rushed back inside, returning with wads of cash that they shoved into Cecilia’s hands. “Take it! Take it and go! You ruined my week!” I let them go one by one after the money was collected. Within ten minutes, we recovered the majority of the debts that had been outstanding for years. Back at home, Cecilia nervously clutched the cash. She was happy, but worried. “Gordon’s wife, are you sure this won’t hurt Gordon’s career? People talk…” I stopped what I was doing and looked her in the eye. “Mom, listen to me.” I spoke slowly and firmly. “If you don’t stand up, people will think you’re a fool, and that will hurt Gordon’s career. Who wants to study under a spineless professor who can’t even hold his own family together? If we’re strong, people will respect Gordon more, not less.” Cecilia was stunned. She nodded, deep in thought. I knew the iron was hot. It was time for the next lesson. The next day, I dragged her to the local market. For Cecilia, this was worse than a firing squad. She had never dared to haggle and would always accept the vendor’s most battered vegetables, offering a grateful smile. We approached the butcher's stall. The big, burly butcher saw Cecilia coming and didn’t even look up. He expertly sliced a chunk of gristle and straight-up fat—the kind you feed a dog, not a family—from the underside of his block and tossed it on the scale. “Two pounds. One dollar sixty.” Cecilia bit her lip and instinctively reached for her purse. I slapped her hand down, leaning in close, my voice a low, sinister whisper. “Mom, if you buy that piece of garbage meat, I will pull out every single one of those prized orchids your late husband left you and boil them into a broth.” Cecilia instantly stiffened. Those orchids were her most cherished link to her late husband. She guarded them fiercely. Her hand trembling, she finally looked up at the butcher. The butcher slammed his cleaver on the block. “You buying or not? Get a move on! There are people waiting!” I pinched the soft flesh on her waist behind her back. She closed her eyes, and in a voice that seemed to require every ounce of her strength, she finally yelled: “I… I won’t buy this one!” The butcher blinked. Cecilia opened her eyes, saw the crowd watching, and suddenly, she found a strange, hard resolve. “This meat is bad! It’s all fat and lymph nodes! How dare you try to sell this to people?” she demanded, surprisingly loud. “I asked for a lean cut, and I paid for a lean cut! I’m going to… to report you for fraudulent trading!” I stepped up instantly, my voice booming. “Everyone look! They just started letting people open their own businesses, and already they’re trying to rip off the elderly! Selling spoiled meat to a little old lady who can't speak up! Is this how you repay the community’s trust? If this meat makes someone sick, you’ll be liable!” The butcher panicked, cold sweat beading on his forehead. “Ma’am! Ma’am, please! It was a misunderstanding, a mistake!” He quickly tossed the bad meat into a waste bucket, then frantically cut a gorgeous, fresh piece of tenderloin, throwing in a piece of liver for good measure. “Here! Take this! The best cut! My apologies, take it!” Cecilia held the bright, red piece of tenderloin. As we walked out of the market, her hands were still shaking. I walked beside her, casually cracking sunflower seeds. “Well? Did refusing him kill you?” “Next time someone tries to hand you rotten vegetables, smear them on his face.” Cecilia looked at the meat in her hands, then turned to me, offering a stiff but genuine smile. “No… I understand.” Good, I thought. I need to get her out here to raise hell more often. The old lady has a surprisingly loud voice. We had two days of peace. Then, early one morning, the door was pounded on so hard the frame shook. “Cecilia Hewitt! Are you home? Open up!” I perked up. Well, lookie here. More work. 4 I got dressed and came out just as my mother-in-law was being cornered at the door. This was a bigger circus than I expected. My mother-in-law’s sister-in-law, Lorraine, the greedy sister of Gordon's late father, had arrived with her entire family—seven people in total, with bags and suitcases. This time, they were after the house. Lorraine's oldest son, Troy, was getting married. And these moochers had set their sights on the Hewitt's three-bedroom faculty townhome. Lorraine swept into the living room, her eyes darting around like radar, immediately locking onto the sunny master bedroom. “This sunny room will be perfect for Troy’s honeymoon suite.” She plunked herself down on the sofa, acting like she owned the place. “Cecilia, Gordon is gone for three years. You’re all alone. It’s a waste for you to live in this huge place. That little storage room has good light; Gordon can partition the living room when he gets back.” My mother-in-law went pale, but thanks to my crash course, she managed to stutter out a weak protest. “Lorraine, this house was assigned to Gordon by the university…” “And? Isn’t he still family?” Lorraine’s eyes bulged, and she started spitting. “You’re the oldest sister, like a mother to him! How can you be so cruel? You’d really let your own nephew be a vagrant just to keep an empty room?” A huge, steaming pile of 'disrespecting the dead' was thrown at Cecilia. She instantly went silent, nervously rubbing the fabric of her apron. My cheap mother-in-law’s combat power was still a pathetic negative five. “What is all this shouting about?” Just then, Mr. Fitzwilliam, the Associate Dean from our complex, strutted in, hands clasped behind his back. “Ms. Hewitt, I must advise caution on issues of relative abuse and property hoarding. The Dean’s office specifically asked me to investigate this matter!” Lorraine exchanged a knowing glance with Fitzwilliam, then suddenly dropped to the floor and started wailing like a siren. “Sir! Please judge for us! The oldest brother’s family is bullying the younger brother’s family! I can’t live like this! My poor husband! Open your eyes! Your wife is abusing your brother’s family!” Neighbors, hearing the ruckus, started crowding the doorway, pointing and murmuring. Mr. Fitzwilliam stood by the door, radiating self-righteous authority. “Cecilia, I’m telling you, when relatives are in need, you help them. You’re well-off; you don’t need this extra room. Look how distraught you’ve made your sister-in-law!” Fitzwilliam dropped the official hammer, his eyes hard. “If this situation proves to be harassment, we will have to reconsider Professor Hewitt’s tenure track and promotion.” Cecilia’s resolve crumbled entirely. The future of her son—the one thing she lived for—was on the line. She rushed forward to grab Lorraine’s hand, pleading desperately. “I’ll give it to you! I’ll give you the room! Don’t ruin Gordon’s career!” Lorraine gave a cold, victorious smirk, then shoved Cecilia roughly to the floor. Troy, her lazy thug of a son, stepped up and prepared to kick Cecilia. “You old fool! If you’d just given it to us sooner!” As his foot came swinging down toward my mother-in-law, I suddenly erupted. I yanked Cecilia up and rushed, like a maniac, into the back room. A few seconds later, I sprinted back into the living room, holding a red, five-gallon Jerrycan of kerosene. I jumped onto the small stone coffee table in the center of the room, holding the can in one hand and a book of matches in the other. I screamed at the top of my lungs. “No one is leaving alive today!” My shout stunned everyone into silence. “Bullying a widow and her absent son is your idea of strength?” I yelled. “If you try to steal this house, I swear to God I will light this whole faculty complex on fire! I’ll go first!” I unscrewed the kerosene cap and pretended to pour it over my chest. “I want to see who dares to touch a single item that belongs to the Hewitt family today!”
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