opinion.”
He gave her an unpleasant look, his nostrils seeming to enlarge.“You aren’t still having him sit down to pee, are you? Man, that is really going to screw him up. You don’t want him thinking he’s a girl, wanting to play with dolls, crap like that.”
She reached down, grabbed the remote and shut the television off.
“Hey!”
Remote still in hand, she started up the stairs. She heard Jeff peel himself loose from the La-Z-Boy, curse, fumble around on the television console until he found the ON button. “Bring that back here,” he called. She knew he wouldn’t come up after her until the game was over.
Now that she had the remote, there was the problem of what to do with it, what follow-up was possible. She would have liked to make a speech, something full of wit and scorn, but she was too tired to stay awake that long and keep the fight going. In the end she put the thing under her side of the bed, changed into her pajamas, and wrapped herself in sleep.
Jeff was trying to wake her up without looking like he was trying. He turned on the light in the closet, sat heavily on the end of the bed, took off his shoes and threw them, clunk, into a corner. She said, “Whatsa?”
“Nice stunt. That was really childish of you.”
She couldn’t tell how long she’d been asleep. Her pillow was damp where her open mouth had been. “Huh,” she said. “Huh.”
“You turning into one of those crazy women? Nothing makes you happy?”
She didn’t answer. She heard him in the bathroom, then he got into bed next to her, tugging and rearranging the sheets. He turned off the lights and rolled from one side to the other. He spoke out of the darkness. “Just tell me what you did with the remote.”
“Flushed it down the toilet.”
“You did not.” He was exasperated. Some other tone in his voice also, as if he was afraid it was true, she might be capable of such a thing. And maybe she was. By now she was fully awake. Maybe there were ways by which crazy women got revenge for all the things that drove them crazy.
She said, “First I peed on it. Standing up.”
• • •
“Do you like Daddy’s car?”
“Daddy car!”
“Yes, Daddy has a big fat important car. Because Daddy is that kind of guy.”
Matthew, buckled into the car seat, was still able to reach the back-seat window with one hand, leaving a trail of smears. She was going to have to clean that up or else listen to Jeff carry on about it.
She didn’t drive his car that often and she was cautious about the way it handled. It was a Buick Electra as big as a boat, the interior all cream leather and burnished wood. The wheel glided beneath her hands, the brake and accelerator registered the slightest touch, like a kiss with the foot. The highway floated beneath you. She decided she could get used to driving this kind of car. You rode high, high up. You had all this taxable horsepower at your command. You could muscle your way through traffic, flatten pedestrians. “I am a big, big dog,” she said. “Who’s been driving my car?”
Matthew was asleep. Car rides always put him to sleep. He’d been drinking from his sippy cup—it had fallen onto the seat, she hoped it wouldn’t spill—and a bubble of milk formed between his lips, blew in and out as he breathed, then thinned and burst. It made her slightly queasy. As so much about the necessary work of child care did, the diaper stink and spit-up and rashes and other excreted crud. You couldn’t admit this to anyone, you couldn’t even think the thought to yourself. You didn’t read about it in any of the magazines. The magazines all had pictures of happy moms radiating baby bliss.
On the floor of the backseat was the loaf of pumpkin bread she’d made for Aunt Martha. It was from a box mix and wouldn’t impress Martha or anybody else, but she couldn’t show up empty-handed. Anyway, her mother would most likely be bringing a week’s worth of casseroles. It was what
He gave her an unpleasant look, his nostrils seeming to enlarge.“You aren’t still having him sit down to pee, are you? Man, that is really going to screw him up. You don’t want him thinking he’s a girl, wanting to play with dolls, crap like that.”
She reached down, grabbed the remote and shut the television off.
“Hey!”
Remote still in hand, she started up the stairs. She heard Jeff peel himself loose from the La-Z-Boy, curse, fumble around on the television console until he found the ON button. “Bring that back here,” he called. She knew he wouldn’t come up after her until the game was over.
Now that she had the remote, there was the problem of what to do with it, what follow-up was possible. She would have liked to make a speech, something full of wit and scorn, but she was too tired to stay awake that long and keep the fight going. In the end she put the thing under her side of the bed, changed into her pajamas, and wrapped herself in sleep.
Jeff was trying to wake her up without looking like he was trying. He turned on the light in the closet, sat heavily on the end of the bed, took off his shoes and threw them, clunk, into a corner. She said, “Whatsa?”
“Nice stunt. That was really childish of you.”
She couldn’t tell how long she’d been asleep. Her pillow was damp where her open mouth had been. “Huh,” she said. “Huh.”
“You turning into one of those crazy women? Nothing makes you happy?”
She didn’t answer. She heard him in the bathroom, then he got into bed next to her, tugging and rearranging the sheets. He turned off the lights and rolled from one side to the other. He spoke out of the darkness. “Just tell me what you did with the remote.”
“Flushed it down the toilet.”
“You did not.” He was exasperated. Some other tone in his voice also, as if he was afraid it was true, she might be capable of such a thing. And maybe she was. By now she was fully awake. Maybe there were ways by which crazy women got revenge for all the things that drove them crazy.
She said, “First I peed on it. Standing up.”
• • •
“Do you like Daddy’s car?”
“Daddy car!”
“Yes, Daddy has a big fat important car. Because Daddy is that kind of guy.”
Matthew, buckled into the car seat, was still able to reach the back-seat window with one hand, leaving a trail of smears. She was going to have to clean that up or else listen to Jeff carry on about it.
She didn’t drive his car that often and she was cautious about the way it handled. It was a Buick Electra as big as a boat, the interior all cream leather and burnished wood. The wheel glided beneath her hands, the brake and accelerator registered the slightest touch, like a kiss with the foot. The highway floated beneath you. She decided she could get used to driving this kind of car. You rode high, high up. You had all this taxable horsepower at your command. You could muscle your way through traffic, flatten pedestrians. “I am a big, big dog,” she said. “Who’s been driving my car?”
Matthew was asleep. Car rides always put him to sleep. He’d been drinking from his sippy cup—it had fallen onto the seat, she hoped it wouldn’t spill—and a bubble of milk formed between his lips, blew in and out as he breathed, then thinned and burst. It made her slightly queasy. As so much about the necessary work of child care did, the diaper stink and spit-up and rashes and other excreted crud. You couldn’t admit this to anyone, you couldn’t even think the thought to yourself. You didn’t read about it in any of the magazines. The magazines all had pictures of happy moms radiating baby bliss.
On the floor of the backseat was the loaf of pumpkin bread she’d made for Aunt Martha. It was from a box mix and wouldn’t impress Martha or anybody else, but she couldn’t show up empty-handed. Anyway, her mother would most likely be bringing a week’s worth of casseroles. It was what
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