I think that church needs a new minister. Where’s Alice? Is she all right?”
I had closed my eyes and leaned against the dresser. Howard’s other shoe dropped to the floor. I kept hearing the thunk, reverberating, growing louder and louder, until I had to clap my hands over my ears.
I stood at the kitchen window, watching Nellie coax the children into the yard with marshmallows. They weren’t going to give up the television without exacting a price, pound for pound. Nellie was having to increase the bribe. I went upstairs and lay on the bed. It was eight o’clock in the morning and the sun was shining right on my face and it hurt again, to breathe. It hurt to stand and it hurt to lie down, and it hurt to open my eyes to the light and it hurt to shut them and see. There was nothing to do but lie absolutely still and remember music, remember the steps. Howard banged the door and came in the kitchen to find, not the good wife sitting eating a bowl of cereal to insure regularity, but Nellie cooking eggs and another round of grocery-store bacon from pigs that had been fed antibiotics and stressed in cramped quarters.
“That smells good, Mom,” I heard him say. “Where’s Alice?”
Nellie was trying to be unobtrusive, trying so hard to be no more noticeable than the sensitive waiter who whisks away the plates and brings on the next course while the young people conduct their romance. There were indications of her presence everywhere. She had dug out shirts that had been stained for years and they were all soaking in mysterious solutions in the bathtub. She was making Howard’s favorite foods to fatten him up, including the fabulous Jell-O recipes which brought together the exotic and the ordinary. She had never thought to teach him to cook and without a mother or wife he would have been in danger of starvation. Nellie meant only to sustain, to clean, to help in my absence, but through the ceiling I could see her look, her shrug, eyes rolled heavenward in answer to the question, “Where’s Alice?” I heard Howard start up the stairs and then Nellie say, “Let her alone for a little while, Howie.” Howie. He was thirty-six years old. “Give her some time.”
Bless her heart, I thought, working up the energy to roll over and stretch my arms across the entire width of the bed. She hadn’t liked me atthe start, and I hadn’t grown on her at all over the years. “Bless your heart,” I said, out loud.
I slept until late afternoon and while I slept I made it a point to dream of my old life, years before. Nellie took the children to the park, the library, and the custard stand in Blackwell. She brought them home and prepared dinner while they sat two inches from the television, farther and farther from Dickens and Shakespeare as the minutes pressed on. Although Nellie had been married to a businessman, she was clearly born to be a farmwife. Dairy farmers need wives who like to cook bacon and make stupendous lunches with at least two starches: warm homemade bread and corn muffins; three vegetables: beans and stewed tomatoes and acorn squash; and slices of hickory-smoked ham glazed with brown sugar and pineapples; and cherry pie with whipped cream for dessert, and chocolates passed at the very end. Peanut butter and jelly were not enough for a man who was feeding the nation. Nellie wore a white lace apron she had brought from home that hung like strings of beads around her neck. Her gray hair was held in a bun by clear plastic hairpins. She was wearing support hose and white cushioned shoes that had been fashioned by a podiatrist. She could tend the dairy farmer, fix him his cocoa on the winter mornings when he came in from chores, kiss his forehead, and sit him down in the La-Z-Boy so he could listen to the weather radio. They could put me up in the attic where I could grow old in peace, shrieking only at night, like Rochester’s mad wife.
At suppertime I came downstairs. Howard was still out with, as we fondly
I had closed my eyes and leaned against the dresser. Howard’s other shoe dropped to the floor. I kept hearing the thunk, reverberating, growing louder and louder, until I had to clap my hands over my ears.
I stood at the kitchen window, watching Nellie coax the children into the yard with marshmallows. They weren’t going to give up the television without exacting a price, pound for pound. Nellie was having to increase the bribe. I went upstairs and lay on the bed. It was eight o’clock in the morning and the sun was shining right on my face and it hurt again, to breathe. It hurt to stand and it hurt to lie down, and it hurt to open my eyes to the light and it hurt to shut them and see. There was nothing to do but lie absolutely still and remember music, remember the steps. Howard banged the door and came in the kitchen to find, not the good wife sitting eating a bowl of cereal to insure regularity, but Nellie cooking eggs and another round of grocery-store bacon from pigs that had been fed antibiotics and stressed in cramped quarters.
“That smells good, Mom,” I heard him say. “Where’s Alice?”
Nellie was trying to be unobtrusive, trying so hard to be no more noticeable than the sensitive waiter who whisks away the plates and brings on the next course while the young people conduct their romance. There were indications of her presence everywhere. She had dug out shirts that had been stained for years and they were all soaking in mysterious solutions in the bathtub. She was making Howard’s favorite foods to fatten him up, including the fabulous Jell-O recipes which brought together the exotic and the ordinary. She had never thought to teach him to cook and without a mother or wife he would have been in danger of starvation. Nellie meant only to sustain, to clean, to help in my absence, but through the ceiling I could see her look, her shrug, eyes rolled heavenward in answer to the question, “Where’s Alice?” I heard Howard start up the stairs and then Nellie say, “Let her alone for a little while, Howie.” Howie. He was thirty-six years old. “Give her some time.”
Bless her heart, I thought, working up the energy to roll over and stretch my arms across the entire width of the bed. She hadn’t liked me atthe start, and I hadn’t grown on her at all over the years. “Bless your heart,” I said, out loud.
I slept until late afternoon and while I slept I made it a point to dream of my old life, years before. Nellie took the children to the park, the library, and the custard stand in Blackwell. She brought them home and prepared dinner while they sat two inches from the television, farther and farther from Dickens and Shakespeare as the minutes pressed on. Although Nellie had been married to a businessman, she was clearly born to be a farmwife. Dairy farmers need wives who like to cook bacon and make stupendous lunches with at least two starches: warm homemade bread and corn muffins; three vegetables: beans and stewed tomatoes and acorn squash; and slices of hickory-smoked ham glazed with brown sugar and pineapples; and cherry pie with whipped cream for dessert, and chocolates passed at the very end. Peanut butter and jelly were not enough for a man who was feeding the nation. Nellie wore a white lace apron she had brought from home that hung like strings of beads around her neck. Her gray hair was held in a bun by clear plastic hairpins. She was wearing support hose and white cushioned shoes that had been fashioned by a podiatrist. She could tend the dairy farmer, fix him his cocoa on the winter mornings when he came in from chores, kiss his forehead, and sit him down in the La-Z-Boy so he could listen to the weather radio. They could put me up in the attic where I could grow old in peace, shrieking only at night, like Rochester’s mad wife.
At suppertime I came downstairs. Howard was still out with, as we fondly
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