Upon Further Reflection, Maybe I Should Have Figured Out Sooner That My Neighbors Were Russian Spies

Yes, I am an FBI agent, but can you really blame a guy for wanting to leave work at work? Was it so wrong for me to crack open a cold one and shoot the breeze with my best friend, even though he sometimes swore under his breath in Russian and asked pointed questions about how things were going at the agency? I just thought he was kind of a weird guy, you know? Bit of an odd duck.

When I look back, yes, I suppose it’s strange that Philip and Elizabeth often got home at 4am. When I would be woken up by their car’s headlights as they pulled into their driveway, I’d think to myself, “These sure are the hardest working travel agents I’ve ever met!” And then I would fall back asleep.

Then there was that time when Sandra and I were having trouble in our marriage (who am I kidding, that was all the time!), and I showed up at Philip and Elizabeth’s house with a six-pack. As usual, Philip looked surprised and somewhat annoyed to see me, even though I’d rung his doorbell every night for the past few months. We opened our beers in his kitchen and started chatting.

“What investigations are you working on?” Philip asked right away. “Anything with Russia? Got any leads on any illegals?”

I guess maybe questions like this should have tipped me off, but honestly, I was flattered. I never told him anything, mind you. I take my job seriously, always have. I changed the subject.

“Oh, work is work,” I said. “Somehow those Russians always seem to have the upper hand. But what’s really got me down is Sandra. She thinks I’m having an affair with someone from work, and that’s just — I mean, I am, but it seems like something she should be able to get past.”

Philip nodded, looked me in the eye, and said, “I know what you mean. Elizabeth and I both sleep with lots of different people, and it can be really hard.”

I was stunned into silence. Philip and Elizabeth seemed so…white bread. I was the one with the cool, dangerous job. I was the one having an affair with a Russian quadruple agent. They were travel agents, for goodness sake.

“It’s fun,” Philip said, “don’t get me wrong, but sometimes it’s emotionally draining. Mostly because the people we sleep with are usually not that attractive. There’s this one woman, Martha, she’s pretty dowdy and clingy — “

I cut him off. “Hey, there’s a Martha who sounds exactly like that at my office!” This was why Philip and I were such good pals. We had so much in common!

Philip laughed uncomfortably. “There’s a Martha like that at every office, isn’t there? But anyways, I was going to say, have you and Sandra considered role play?”

I was stunned into silence again. “This guy is full of surprises,” I remember thinking, “what else is he hiding?”

“Come with me,” Philip said, and I followed him into his garage. No one else was home yet. If I had to guess where everyone was, I’d say Elizabeth and Paige were probably locked in some sort of icy standoff/power struggle, and Henry was making himself scarce. Love the kid, but he always seemed kind of superfluous. And I would know — I have a son like that too.

Anyways, there were all sorts of weird things in the garage that, now that I think about it, probably should have set off alarm bells. There was a lumpy, human-shaped object covered with a tarp over in one corner. There were weird red stains all over the ground. I remember thinking to myself, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that was blood.”

Then Philip opened this giant cabinet, and it was chock full of wigs — dozens of wigs, all colors and shapes and sizes.

“Take any one you want,” Philip said proudly. I reached for a blonde shoulder-length wig — it’s been a long time since I had that much hair. I had just put it on when the garage door opened.

Philip and I stood there, frozen, as a really angry-looking Elizabeth jumped out of the car. She stormed over to us and punched Philip square in the face. Just full-on socked him.

“You idiot!” She yelled. “What are you doing? I should have had you killed when I had the chance.”

Okay, yes, now that I think about it, maybe that was a little harsh, but like I tell my son Mark after he accuses me of forgetting he exists, no one’s perfect. That’s all I thought at the time — no one’s perfect.

Philip was rolling around on the ground, looking sad. Elizabeth turned to me, smiled with her mouth but not her eyes, and said, “Stan, I think you should go now.”

“Of course,” I said. “I completely understand. We still on for dinner this Sunday?”

And you know what? We were.

That’s the thing about the Jennings — they may have been Russian spies, but they were the most darn hospitable Russian spies I’ve ever met.