ONE
THE LITTLE TREE sat on a table by the window, strains of aluminum glittering and the red Christmas balls reflecting the room in concave miniature, particularly the shelf with her husband’s collection of nude figurines. Mary sat on the paisley carpet, her back against the velvet couch with the frizzy fringe, and above her head a blond Keane kid in a floppy cap, eyes like sticky buns. The baby gnawed on his new teething ring; his green holiday bib was already dark around the neck with drool. Her gift from her husband’s parents was raspberry-filled chocolates.
“Let’s see what kind of hideousness they came up with this year,” her husband said. Though Christmas was still several days away, they were opening the box from hisparents in Kansas. He took a present onto his lap, shredded the Santa wrapping and passed the paper to the baby who bicycled his legs frenetically. Opening the box he lifted the tissue paper to find a Hawaiian shirt with a print of flamingoes and hibiscus flowers. Mary watched him throw down the shirt, flick his lighter and tip his head sideways toward the flame to ignite the joint. His long hair fell down in a straight line as the fire underlit the side of his face. She tried to think of something to say, but with him everything was either Good, i.e., sexy, funny, cool, or Bad, i.e., emotionally painful, boring, a hassle. You either GOT IT or you didn’t GET IT. There was no reason to discuss. The baby dropped the wrapping paper and raised his tiny eyebrows when he saw the lighter’s flame. He was a sucker for anything that glittered.
Inhaling, her husband held the smoke down in his lungs, his features compressed and grayed. Aided by the joint, he produced a sequence of distancing actions: widened pupils, slowing of movement, elegant tendrils of smoke. She knew he was disappointed, though every year his parents’ presents were humiliating. Last year they sent a tight Speedo bathing suit and the year before thedreaded Christmas sweater. She watched him inhale again and hold the smoke down in his lungs. The radiators clanged and snow continued to rush past the window.
She took the baby onto her lap, lifted up her shirt and nursed while her husband crumpled the paper into tight little balls and loaded them into a plastic garbage bag. After a while the baby’s mouth slacked off her milky nipple and he fell asleep. She laid him in his bassinet and went into the bathroom, took off her socks, jeans and sweatshirt, and stood naked as she adjusted the shower nozzle and waited for the water to warm.
On the toilet tank her husband had created an altar: a plastic bust of Darth Vader, a Jesse Ventura doll and a ceramic unicorn. Steam rolled over the top of the shower curtain. An uninterrupted shower was rare; usually she had to lay the baby on pillows on the bathroom floor and pop her head out from behind the curtain so he wouldn’t cry. The inside of the porcelain tub was thoroughly spider-cracked and the shower curtain blotchy with mold. She shaved her grassy underarms and around her pubic hair. Pulling the blade along her leg, she knicked her ankle and a drop of blood fell and expandedin the water collected in the bottom of the tub. She dried herself and put on the thigh highs and teddy he’d bought her as an early Christmas present. Her stomach muscles were still loose and she had ten more pounds to lose. Her heart fluttered as she looked down at the lace against her thighs.
“Sexy girl,” he said as he got up to cue another record. He was making a party tape and another techno song began, indistinguishable from the first. His face was flushed and smiling but he still moved deliberately, as if recovering from a terrible fall. She was chilly in the outfit and in the raw overhead light her skin looked powdery and loose as a latex hospital glove. It’d been since before the baby was born, and she wanted to touch him. But more than that she needed something inside. There had been a girl in
THE LITTLE TREE sat on a table by the window, strains of aluminum glittering and the red Christmas balls reflecting the room in concave miniature, particularly the shelf with her husband’s collection of nude figurines. Mary sat on the paisley carpet, her back against the velvet couch with the frizzy fringe, and above her head a blond Keane kid in a floppy cap, eyes like sticky buns. The baby gnawed on his new teething ring; his green holiday bib was already dark around the neck with drool. Her gift from her husband’s parents was raspberry-filled chocolates.
“Let’s see what kind of hideousness they came up with this year,” her husband said. Though Christmas was still several days away, they were opening the box from hisparents in Kansas. He took a present onto his lap, shredded the Santa wrapping and passed the paper to the baby who bicycled his legs frenetically. Opening the box he lifted the tissue paper to find a Hawaiian shirt with a print of flamingoes and hibiscus flowers. Mary watched him throw down the shirt, flick his lighter and tip his head sideways toward the flame to ignite the joint. His long hair fell down in a straight line as the fire underlit the side of his face. She tried to think of something to say, but with him everything was either Good, i.e., sexy, funny, cool, or Bad, i.e., emotionally painful, boring, a hassle. You either GOT IT or you didn’t GET IT. There was no reason to discuss. The baby dropped the wrapping paper and raised his tiny eyebrows when he saw the lighter’s flame. He was a sucker for anything that glittered.
Inhaling, her husband held the smoke down in his lungs, his features compressed and grayed. Aided by the joint, he produced a sequence of distancing actions: widened pupils, slowing of movement, elegant tendrils of smoke. She knew he was disappointed, though every year his parents’ presents were humiliating. Last year they sent a tight Speedo bathing suit and the year before thedreaded Christmas sweater. She watched him inhale again and hold the smoke down in his lungs. The radiators clanged and snow continued to rush past the window.
She took the baby onto her lap, lifted up her shirt and nursed while her husband crumpled the paper into tight little balls and loaded them into a plastic garbage bag. After a while the baby’s mouth slacked off her milky nipple and he fell asleep. She laid him in his bassinet and went into the bathroom, took off her socks, jeans and sweatshirt, and stood naked as she adjusted the shower nozzle and waited for the water to warm.
On the toilet tank her husband had created an altar: a plastic bust of Darth Vader, a Jesse Ventura doll and a ceramic unicorn. Steam rolled over the top of the shower curtain. An uninterrupted shower was rare; usually she had to lay the baby on pillows on the bathroom floor and pop her head out from behind the curtain so he wouldn’t cry. The inside of the porcelain tub was thoroughly spider-cracked and the shower curtain blotchy with mold. She shaved her grassy underarms and around her pubic hair. Pulling the blade along her leg, she knicked her ankle and a drop of blood fell and expandedin the water collected in the bottom of the tub. She dried herself and put on the thigh highs and teddy he’d bought her as an early Christmas present. Her stomach muscles were still loose and she had ten more pounds to lose. Her heart fluttered as she looked down at the lace against her thighs.
“Sexy girl,” he said as he got up to cue another record. He was making a party tape and another techno song began, indistinguishable from the first. His face was flushed and smiling but he still moved deliberately, as if recovering from a terrible fall. She was chilly in the outfit and in the raw overhead light her skin looked powdery and loose as a latex hospital glove. It’d been since before the baby was born, and she wanted to touch him. But more than that she needed something inside. There had been a girl in
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