It’s Here . . .
Susan Martell Huebner’s novel, She Thought The Door Was Locked, is available through Amazon.
Meet Loosee Jeen and see how it all started…here’s an excerpt…
Loosee Jeen twirled pieces of her muddy blonde hair as she talked on the phone. She was forced to stand almost completely still, captive to the plastic box which was screwed into the wall of her apartment and the short cord reached only so far; every now and again, she had to stretch away from the receiver, holding it several inches from her ear, as she reached for the ashtray on the kitchen table. Since she didn’t allow herself to smoke in any room but the kitchen, she didn’t just grab the pack and keep it at her feet as she talked. As long as she flicked the dirty ashes in the ashtray in the kitchen, she wasn’t really breaking her rule. “No, really, Kelly. I agree. He can be a jerk first class. I know what you’re saying, and I’ll bet maybe even a felon to boot. We can check that out down at the courthouse sometime, next time you’re in Wisconsin. But he is so good-looking fine, and he does it good, really good—and that’s not no small thing, girlfriend. In any sense of the word,” she added, and giggled as she scratched the back of her leg along the rough plaster surface of the hallway wall. Her eyes fell on the plastic teakettle clock hanging above the stove, and, not at all worried about hurting her friend’s feelings, cut the phone call short. “Bye. Talk at ya later. My show is on,” she said and hung up.
She hoped Trinket stayed asleep long enough for her to finish watching her program and find out if true love is only a once-in-a-lifetime deal or if true love could be found with anyone willing to mutually offer it, something she hoped with her whole heart was the case. She was willing to work for what she wanted, mostly. She wished for a lot of things these days, and along with hoping Trinket wouldn’t wake up too soon, she hoped that the dryer wouldn’t conk out and trip the circuit breaker again. She hated going down to the basement to collect her clothes, only to find them damp (or even moldy, if she’d forgotten to check for a few days) when she was expecting a satisfying few minutes of folding clean, sweet-smelling laundry and anticipating putting clean undies on her butt and fresh pjs on her baby. Although she hated putting Trinket to bed in pajamas that smelled of urine, she couldn’t always motivate herself enough to keep his two sets of footed fleece pajamas clean. The child wet through his diaper almost every night–goddamn those cheap Pamper imitations– and she simply wasn’t up to washing every day. But the apartment was starting to get pretty cold at night and she couldn’t see placing him in bed in clothes that wouldn’t keep his feet and legs warm as he tossed his covers off during his sleep, so some nights, a warm, but pee-smelling baby was her choice over a possibly cold, shivering baby. Of course, he couldn’t sleep in her bed. There was no room for him, her and the sexy (maybe) felon.
During the long set of commercials that were playing before the psychic was going to tell the old woman on TV who really killed her son, Loosee Jeen made a run for the basement to gather a load of dry (please!) clothes. On her way stomping back up the stairs, she thought she heard a whine that sounded like Trinket’s and assumed he had woken up from his nap. She forced herself to climb quietly so that the boy might be coaxed into returning to deep sleep without disturbing her afternoon. Maybe it was just a little turn-over-in–his-sleep-bump-his-head on-the-wall whine, and he wouldn’t come fully awake.
She poked her head into his room. He wasn’t there.