the dolls. Ernestine is a black Raggedy Ann that I bought her in Jamaica and that some of our friends think is a voodoo doll. Bangor is a fragile, white thing, the closest in resemblance to Jessica herself. Rudy is a disorderly little boy who gets into trouble for no reason at all.
When it is just the two of them, Todd and Jessica get along fine. They like to make a mess in the kitchen, then soak in a leisurely bath. They like to curl up in pajamas and tell stories.
Domesticity bores me. It’s not that being Jessica’s mother or being married to Todd bores me. It’s the repetition of things. The making of beds, folding clothes. Dusting. Dust, my mother, the nurse, told me once as I watched her do the chores, is 80 percent human skin. I don’t like the details ofrunning the house. The things you forgot to get at the store, the missing socks, a bill you didn’t pay. The valentines have just come down when the Easter bunny goes up. I never have enough juicers in the house.
There’s always something going wrong, something that has to be repaired. I can never just sit and stare out at the oak tree, the way you can in a country inn or a bed-and-breakfast or even an interstate motel, where you can close the door when you leave and someone else will take care of what you’ve left behind.
I didn’t want to buy our house. It was Todd who said we should. He wanted a sound investment, something that was his. Never mind that we couldn’t afford anything. Todd said we should pioneer. We bought a handyman’s special in a neighborhood that was on the brink of some change that never occurred. We have friends who live in a twelve-room Victorian around the corner and they’ve been trying to get out for years. Despite the drive-by shootings at the bodega down the street, the “Rest in Peace, Joey” graffiti on the abandoned building on the corner, Todd has done wonders with what we have—knocking down walls, bringing in the light. He’s managed to put in new fixtures that look just like the old ones we took out.
Before we bought this house, I dreamed it was on a golf course and filled with flying fish. People kept shouting “fore” as fish splattered against the walls. I’m not sure why I dreamed about a golf course since I haven’t played in years, though it was the only thing, along with billiards, that my father ever really taught me. Not that I play either well or even like the game, but I can whack a ball down the fairway with a nice, smooth stroke. Even now, my father’s coachingremains emblazoned in my mind. Bend your knees, head down. Eyes on the ball.
When I told Todd I didn’t want to buy, he said, “Don’t be silly, Maggie, it’s just a house.” Todd can spend an entire weekend ripping out a bathroom, designing new shelves. I’ve never seen a man so happy stripping paint. Todd’s great invention is what he calls “invisible storage.” Cubbyholes, secret compartments, hidden drawers tucked under beds and tables. It is perfect, I suppose, for urban living, but I can never find the things I’ve put away.
I swore I’d never have a conversation with, let alone be married to, a man who said he wanted a propane gauge on his barbecue. We can talk endlessly about our adjustable mortgage and when to lock in. Once conversion meant to me a religious experience. Now it means thirty-years fixed.
Perhaps that is why I go on these junkets. Perhaps that is how I got here.
Actually, I had to go on this trip. That is, I had to get away. I had to get away because something is wrong and I can’t quite put my finger on it, though I’ve searched my house for clues. Clear indicators. A letter, a message, a bill from a hotel. Evidence of Todd’s betrayal. Proof that he is drifting away. I want something concrete, something I can sink my teeth into.
It’s not exactly that anything happened, but it feels as if something has. When I ask Todd about it, he says, “Maggie, it’s all in your head.” It’s true that our
When it is just the two of them, Todd and Jessica get along fine. They like to make a mess in the kitchen, then soak in a leisurely bath. They like to curl up in pajamas and tell stories.
Domesticity bores me. It’s not that being Jessica’s mother or being married to Todd bores me. It’s the repetition of things. The making of beds, folding clothes. Dusting. Dust, my mother, the nurse, told me once as I watched her do the chores, is 80 percent human skin. I don’t like the details ofrunning the house. The things you forgot to get at the store, the missing socks, a bill you didn’t pay. The valentines have just come down when the Easter bunny goes up. I never have enough juicers in the house.
There’s always something going wrong, something that has to be repaired. I can never just sit and stare out at the oak tree, the way you can in a country inn or a bed-and-breakfast or even an interstate motel, where you can close the door when you leave and someone else will take care of what you’ve left behind.
I didn’t want to buy our house. It was Todd who said we should. He wanted a sound investment, something that was his. Never mind that we couldn’t afford anything. Todd said we should pioneer. We bought a handyman’s special in a neighborhood that was on the brink of some change that never occurred. We have friends who live in a twelve-room Victorian around the corner and they’ve been trying to get out for years. Despite the drive-by shootings at the bodega down the street, the “Rest in Peace, Joey” graffiti on the abandoned building on the corner, Todd has done wonders with what we have—knocking down walls, bringing in the light. He’s managed to put in new fixtures that look just like the old ones we took out.
Before we bought this house, I dreamed it was on a golf course and filled with flying fish. People kept shouting “fore” as fish splattered against the walls. I’m not sure why I dreamed about a golf course since I haven’t played in years, though it was the only thing, along with billiards, that my father ever really taught me. Not that I play either well or even like the game, but I can whack a ball down the fairway with a nice, smooth stroke. Even now, my father’s coachingremains emblazoned in my mind. Bend your knees, head down. Eyes on the ball.
When I told Todd I didn’t want to buy, he said, “Don’t be silly, Maggie, it’s just a house.” Todd can spend an entire weekend ripping out a bathroom, designing new shelves. I’ve never seen a man so happy stripping paint. Todd’s great invention is what he calls “invisible storage.” Cubbyholes, secret compartments, hidden drawers tucked under beds and tables. It is perfect, I suppose, for urban living, but I can never find the things I’ve put away.
I swore I’d never have a conversation with, let alone be married to, a man who said he wanted a propane gauge on his barbecue. We can talk endlessly about our adjustable mortgage and when to lock in. Once conversion meant to me a religious experience. Now it means thirty-years fixed.
Perhaps that is why I go on these junkets. Perhaps that is how I got here.
Actually, I had to go on this trip. That is, I had to get away. I had to get away because something is wrong and I can’t quite put my finger on it, though I’ve searched my house for clues. Clear indicators. A letter, a message, a bill from a hotel. Evidence of Todd’s betrayal. Proof that he is drifting away. I want something concrete, something I can sink my teeth into.
It’s not exactly that anything happened, but it feels as if something has. When I ask Todd about it, he says, “Maggie, it’s all in your head.” It’s true that our
Similar Books
