rise above all that.
In all fairness, that may be exactly what he intended to do by joining the Wayside Chapel of Congregated Patriarchs and Askew Values. And how he came, just these last few days, to do what he did, which in turn has driven Holly, more forcefully than usual it would seem, away.
“Well, Roscoe,” Heddi says, “good luck.”
He nods distractedly, already halfway into the cab of his half-ton Chevy truck. He spits gravel as he goes off down the driveway without a backward glance, the back of his head bar-coded by the gun rack and his Rush: Excellence in Broadcasting bumper sticker proudly dead-center of the tailgate.
Holly’s taste was never Heddi’s. That she’s been married to Roscoe for more than fifteen years is proof enough of that. And for added emphasis, there’s her house. While Heddi’s personal motto could be Aesthetics Uberalis , Holly’s would be Utility First .
Every square foot of floor, for example, is done in beige linoleum – even the living room. The only rug in the entire house is a little pink cuticle of fluff around the base of the toilet. And every square inch of this linoleum could serve as dinnerware, so spotless, so highly polished, so basically antiseptic does it appear to any scrutiny except electron microscopy.
Holly even does her housekeeping while they’re talking on the phone. Heddi will hear odd grunts and scratchings.
“What are you doing now?” she’ll ask.
“I’m on my hands and knees in the bathroom, scrubbing the crack between the toilet and the linoleum with a toothbrush,” Holly will say.
Heddi can see her there in her lime green sweat pants, her mop of frowsy red hair held out of her face by the headset that holds the phone so her hands are free to work, the antenna seeming to grow out of her left ear like a little antler.
Meanwhile, Heddi reclines on her seafoam green leather couch, propped up on the cushions she had made last year from mill ends of Scalamandré silk the color of a cold May ocean. The sun streams through French windows onto her antique Chinese rugs and the indigo glows in a kind of sexual incandescence from the stroking of the rays.
“That’s great, Hol,” Heddi will say.
So, now it’s a shock to walk into her living room and see what has happened. The floor is still spotless, stretching out before her like a highly waxed desert. The two recliners in turquoise vinyl are still at perfect 30-degree angles to the big-screen TV. The faux-bois Formica coffee table still holds this month’s issues of Field and Stream and Sunset at perfect right angles to the edges.
It’s to the windows that Heddi’s eyes leap in astonishment. There, just as Holly had told her through her tears yesterday, is the proof that her marriage has just taken a perfect 180-degree turn for the worse.
“You won’t believe it,” she gasps, snuffling. “He went to the pastor and the pastor agreed with him. They both think I’m possessed by an evil spirit...or maybe the Devil Himself. I’m not sure. So...so...” her voice fades into helpless weeping.
“So... what , Holly?” Heddi asks, trying to sound gentle and to urge her on at the same time.
Holly takes a deep breath. “So, the pastor blessed some oil for Roscoe. And then Roscoe came home and used the anointed oil to make crosses on every single window in the house!” Her voice rises to a pointy little squeak and then cascades into further weeping.
There is a considerable silence, while Heddi’s mind adjusts to accommodate this new input.
“Just how big are these crosses, Hol?” she finally asks, trying to encompass the magnitude of this event.
“They cover the whole damn window!” Holly shrieks. “Top to bottom! Side to side! Every one of them. And I just washed them all yesterday!”
There’s another long silence. “I see,” Heddi says, finally.
But it is clear to her now that she did not see.
“Well, Hol...maybe you can retaliate,” she says, trying to make light of it.
In all fairness, that may be exactly what he intended to do by joining the Wayside Chapel of Congregated Patriarchs and Askew Values. And how he came, just these last few days, to do what he did, which in turn has driven Holly, more forcefully than usual it would seem, away.
“Well, Roscoe,” Heddi says, “good luck.”
He nods distractedly, already halfway into the cab of his half-ton Chevy truck. He spits gravel as he goes off down the driveway without a backward glance, the back of his head bar-coded by the gun rack and his Rush: Excellence in Broadcasting bumper sticker proudly dead-center of the tailgate.
Holly’s taste was never Heddi’s. That she’s been married to Roscoe for more than fifteen years is proof enough of that. And for added emphasis, there’s her house. While Heddi’s personal motto could be Aesthetics Uberalis , Holly’s would be Utility First .
Every square foot of floor, for example, is done in beige linoleum – even the living room. The only rug in the entire house is a little pink cuticle of fluff around the base of the toilet. And every square inch of this linoleum could serve as dinnerware, so spotless, so highly polished, so basically antiseptic does it appear to any scrutiny except electron microscopy.
Holly even does her housekeeping while they’re talking on the phone. Heddi will hear odd grunts and scratchings.
“What are you doing now?” she’ll ask.
“I’m on my hands and knees in the bathroom, scrubbing the crack between the toilet and the linoleum with a toothbrush,” Holly will say.
Heddi can see her there in her lime green sweat pants, her mop of frowsy red hair held out of her face by the headset that holds the phone so her hands are free to work, the antenna seeming to grow out of her left ear like a little antler.
Meanwhile, Heddi reclines on her seafoam green leather couch, propped up on the cushions she had made last year from mill ends of Scalamandré silk the color of a cold May ocean. The sun streams through French windows onto her antique Chinese rugs and the indigo glows in a kind of sexual incandescence from the stroking of the rays.
“That’s great, Hol,” Heddi will say.
So, now it’s a shock to walk into her living room and see what has happened. The floor is still spotless, stretching out before her like a highly waxed desert. The two recliners in turquoise vinyl are still at perfect 30-degree angles to the big-screen TV. The faux-bois Formica coffee table still holds this month’s issues of Field and Stream and Sunset at perfect right angles to the edges.
It’s to the windows that Heddi’s eyes leap in astonishment. There, just as Holly had told her through her tears yesterday, is the proof that her marriage has just taken a perfect 180-degree turn for the worse.
“You won’t believe it,” she gasps, snuffling. “He went to the pastor and the pastor agreed with him. They both think I’m possessed by an evil spirit...or maybe the Devil Himself. I’m not sure. So...so...” her voice fades into helpless weeping.
“So... what , Holly?” Heddi asks, trying to sound gentle and to urge her on at the same time.
Holly takes a deep breath. “So, the pastor blessed some oil for Roscoe. And then Roscoe came home and used the anointed oil to make crosses on every single window in the house!” Her voice rises to a pointy little squeak and then cascades into further weeping.
There is a considerable silence, while Heddi’s mind adjusts to accommodate this new input.
“Just how big are these crosses, Hol?” she finally asks, trying to encompass the magnitude of this event.
“They cover the whole damn window!” Holly shrieks. “Top to bottom! Side to side! Every one of them. And I just washed them all yesterday!”
There’s another long silence. “I see,” Heddi says, finally.
But it is clear to her now that she did not see.
“Well, Hol...maybe you can retaliate,” she says, trying to make light of it.
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