clean.
Another trip through the house for garbage. The wicker basket in the bathroom emptied every day and lined freshly with a paper bag. The same thing in the bedroom. And then the heftier amounts from the kitchen, the peelings and tins and coffee grounds: all carried out to the big plastic bags in the garage. Each week Harry would carry those bags out to the street and in the early hours of the next morning they would vanish, and there would be another of those moments when there was nothing dirty in the house.
This was several hours of work, no shirking. And there was a rhythm to it, something stately, like a minuet, a meditation. When it all was done, I allowed myself a cigarette, a coffee, and a salad. My days were dotted with small rewards; and then Harry, the large reward.
What did he do in his office every day that earned him fifteen, twenty, thirty thousand dollars a year? What was it that gave his job such value?
You couldn’t gauge my work that way. It wasn’t a matter of dollars that could be spent and touched, but of things that might flash by so quickly they could be missed if one weren’t watchful: a smile, a touch, a cup of coffee, and a moment to try a quiz in a magazine. A house and a name: Mrs. Harry Cormick.
It wasn’t joy I found in housework, but then, there would not be joy in many jobs. Even Harry, in love with his work, felt excitement, not joy. What I felt was—satisfaction, perhaps; duty fulfilled and a debt paid; goodness.
Those magazines with their quizzes and their stories, they underwent small alterations over the years. I began to see small cracks. Once, they spoke of how to keep a husband interested, and gave hints for dealing with household problems. Ways to do things right. More recently they have begun to speak of ways to juggle job and home. They have quick recipes and easy ways of doing housework, instead of thorough ways. I thought, things are being swept aside here. And where would it end? I foresaw chaos, a breaking down.
It seems strange, unfair, that having foreseen that, I should have become the target of chaos and catastrophe. I was so careful. I should have been the last, not the first.
I clipped recipes and glued them onto cards. I went through them, designing dinner, balancing textures and colours and favourites, ingredients and what we had on hand.
It was all organized, and I was comforted to know each step so well. By mid-afternoon a few things would be chopped and simmering, or at least ready to be dealt with. Ingredients would be lined up. I would know where I was going. A couple of times a week, I also baked: cookies, cupcakes, muffins, small things for us to nibble at in the evenings. None of this business of quick dashes of water todry packaged mixes, either. There’s no gift, no sign of caring in that, and I’m sure it must show in the taste.
There was a variety store three blocks away, and if we were low on bread or milk I walked over to get them. The other houses looked more or less like ours. It was a good neighbourhood, quiet and clean. The people were like Harry and me: middle class; professional men and wives, some of whom had jobs. Nothing loud or drastic ever happened, and we were all friendly enough. In the summers, people talked over back fences and shared leftover garden seeds. Sometimes we had barbecues together. In winter, out shovelling, there was a shared comradeship of heavy labour in the cold winds, and one came indoors a bit excited and brisk. When it stormed in the day, I shovelled the drive before Harry came home. Sometimes a neighbour with a snowblower, home early from work, would do it for me. In summer, a woman seeing me heading for the store or going out to pick tomatoes and lettuce for dinner might ask me over for a coffee. We would sit at a picnic table in the back yard and chat. The conversations were not intimate. It was partly, I think, because Harry and I did not have children. The others did. It was a big thing to talk
Another trip through the house for garbage. The wicker basket in the bathroom emptied every day and lined freshly with a paper bag. The same thing in the bedroom. And then the heftier amounts from the kitchen, the peelings and tins and coffee grounds: all carried out to the big plastic bags in the garage. Each week Harry would carry those bags out to the street and in the early hours of the next morning they would vanish, and there would be another of those moments when there was nothing dirty in the house.
This was several hours of work, no shirking. And there was a rhythm to it, something stately, like a minuet, a meditation. When it all was done, I allowed myself a cigarette, a coffee, and a salad. My days were dotted with small rewards; and then Harry, the large reward.
What did he do in his office every day that earned him fifteen, twenty, thirty thousand dollars a year? What was it that gave his job such value?
You couldn’t gauge my work that way. It wasn’t a matter of dollars that could be spent and touched, but of things that might flash by so quickly they could be missed if one weren’t watchful: a smile, a touch, a cup of coffee, and a moment to try a quiz in a magazine. A house and a name: Mrs. Harry Cormick.
It wasn’t joy I found in housework, but then, there would not be joy in many jobs. Even Harry, in love with his work, felt excitement, not joy. What I felt was—satisfaction, perhaps; duty fulfilled and a debt paid; goodness.
Those magazines with their quizzes and their stories, they underwent small alterations over the years. I began to see small cracks. Once, they spoke of how to keep a husband interested, and gave hints for dealing with household problems. Ways to do things right. More recently they have begun to speak of ways to juggle job and home. They have quick recipes and easy ways of doing housework, instead of thorough ways. I thought, things are being swept aside here. And where would it end? I foresaw chaos, a breaking down.
It seems strange, unfair, that having foreseen that, I should have become the target of chaos and catastrophe. I was so careful. I should have been the last, not the first.
I clipped recipes and glued them onto cards. I went through them, designing dinner, balancing textures and colours and favourites, ingredients and what we had on hand.
It was all organized, and I was comforted to know each step so well. By mid-afternoon a few things would be chopped and simmering, or at least ready to be dealt with. Ingredients would be lined up. I would know where I was going. A couple of times a week, I also baked: cookies, cupcakes, muffins, small things for us to nibble at in the evenings. None of this business of quick dashes of water todry packaged mixes, either. There’s no gift, no sign of caring in that, and I’m sure it must show in the taste.
There was a variety store three blocks away, and if we were low on bread or milk I walked over to get them. The other houses looked more or less like ours. It was a good neighbourhood, quiet and clean. The people were like Harry and me: middle class; professional men and wives, some of whom had jobs. Nothing loud or drastic ever happened, and we were all friendly enough. In the summers, people talked over back fences and shared leftover garden seeds. Sometimes we had barbecues together. In winter, out shovelling, there was a shared comradeship of heavy labour in the cold winds, and one came indoors a bit excited and brisk. When it stormed in the day, I shovelled the drive before Harry came home. Sometimes a neighbour with a snowblower, home early from work, would do it for me. In summer, a woman seeing me heading for the store or going out to pick tomatoes and lettuce for dinner might ask me over for a coffee. We would sit at a picnic table in the back yard and chat. The conversations were not intimate. It was partly, I think, because Harry and I did not have children. The others did. It was a big thing to talk
Similar Books
