dimwitted valet.
Celia tossed a bag of chips in her cart. Not that she begrudged him. She didn’t! She understood, teenagers were moody. Taking care of him was a pleasure, she reminded herself daily. And on the days she wanted to smack him across the face with the vacuum-packed bag of special deli ham he had to have, she reminded herself that when he was a baby she couldn’t get enough of him. Handling his smooth, sweet-smelling, surprisingly springy little body had been a drug, then. The talcum way he smelled, the feel of his velvety skin, those pink creased knees, the orange fuzz on top of his spongy skull—it was easy to forget that taking care of him, then, had drenched her with pleasure that was almost sexual.
One day she’d look back on this and miss it, too, she told herself, steering her cart toward the cashier, bottles clinking.
Still, she’d thought motherhood would be more
fun
, somehow, more tender. Not so much like being a waitress. Sometimes, on weekends, she had to invent an errand and leave the house, if only for an hour, just to think, to get herself back. Simply driving, alone, was a vacation.
• • •
Privacy is a vacation.
This insight came to her in the liquor store parking lot, where she sat eating potato chips, with the engine running and the heater on high. She was collecting her thoughts, pretending to be waiting for someone in the store.
She’d bought three bottles of reasonably priced Shiraz but she shouldn’t even have spent that much, she knew. Lydia would have plenty, and they were on a budget, and politeness demanded that she bring only one. Still, her little crime felt good. Now she was taking her time before the next stop, enjoying the privacy of the mobile peace chamber that was the interior of her car. She’d been gone from work for only twenty minutes but her mind already had begun to clear and the four words seemed like a revelation that she wanted to hold on to.
Celia reached for one of the index cards she kept in the glove compartment and wrote it down—
privacy is a vacation—
then felt embarrassed and stuffed the card back, between the owner’s manual and a badly refolded map of Michigan. She wondered if she should consider how Peter would feel if he found it, if he’d feel hurt or insulted by this apparently hostile sentiment, if he came across it, say, while fumbling for a screwdriver to fix something that probably she had broken.
She began to wonder if maybe she’d written it because she
wanted
him to find it. It might be good for a change for him to encounter an idea like this, Celia thought. Then she wondered if that was passive-aggressive, although it was a moot point. Even if Peter did read the card, which was doubtful, it would never occur to him that this idea had anything to do with him. If he thought of it at all he would think of it as an abstract and arguable premise, one that had appeared there only coincidentally, in her car, in her handwriting, mildly interesting but unrelated to him or his life. Probably, he’d put the card back, neatly, where he’d found it, and then, noticing the mess she’d made, refold the map.
Celia stuffed another handful of chips in her mouth. It was disappointing somehow. How could men be so incurious? Celia wondered. Griffin was the same. Sometimes Celia thought she should combat it, this lack of interest they had in her inner life, be more assertive in her communications with them, but the thought always passed. Besides, she thought, in another burst of clarity, it was this very lack of curiosity that afforded her the little privacy she had.
• • •
Celia was driving from the strip mall where the liquor store was to the strip mall where the inexpensive grocery store was. She loved to drive. She turned on the radio, then turned it up, loud, to listen to music Peter hated.
She played the oldies station now when she was alone in the car and didn’t care who saw her singing, or crying, even.
Celia tossed a bag of chips in her cart. Not that she begrudged him. She didn’t! She understood, teenagers were moody. Taking care of him was a pleasure, she reminded herself daily. And on the days she wanted to smack him across the face with the vacuum-packed bag of special deli ham he had to have, she reminded herself that when he was a baby she couldn’t get enough of him. Handling his smooth, sweet-smelling, surprisingly springy little body had been a drug, then. The talcum way he smelled, the feel of his velvety skin, those pink creased knees, the orange fuzz on top of his spongy skull—it was easy to forget that taking care of him, then, had drenched her with pleasure that was almost sexual.
One day she’d look back on this and miss it, too, she told herself, steering her cart toward the cashier, bottles clinking.
Still, she’d thought motherhood would be more
fun
, somehow, more tender. Not so much like being a waitress. Sometimes, on weekends, she had to invent an errand and leave the house, if only for an hour, just to think, to get herself back. Simply driving, alone, was a vacation.
• • •
Privacy is a vacation.
This insight came to her in the liquor store parking lot, where she sat eating potato chips, with the engine running and the heater on high. She was collecting her thoughts, pretending to be waiting for someone in the store.
She’d bought three bottles of reasonably priced Shiraz but she shouldn’t even have spent that much, she knew. Lydia would have plenty, and they were on a budget, and politeness demanded that she bring only one. Still, her little crime felt good. Now she was taking her time before the next stop, enjoying the privacy of the mobile peace chamber that was the interior of her car. She’d been gone from work for only twenty minutes but her mind already had begun to clear and the four words seemed like a revelation that she wanted to hold on to.
Celia reached for one of the index cards she kept in the glove compartment and wrote it down—
privacy is a vacation—
then felt embarrassed and stuffed the card back, between the owner’s manual and a badly refolded map of Michigan. She wondered if she should consider how Peter would feel if he found it, if he’d feel hurt or insulted by this apparently hostile sentiment, if he came across it, say, while fumbling for a screwdriver to fix something that probably she had broken.
She began to wonder if maybe she’d written it because she
wanted
him to find it. It might be good for a change for him to encounter an idea like this, Celia thought. Then she wondered if that was passive-aggressive, although it was a moot point. Even if Peter did read the card, which was doubtful, it would never occur to him that this idea had anything to do with him. If he thought of it at all he would think of it as an abstract and arguable premise, one that had appeared there only coincidentally, in her car, in her handwriting, mildly interesting but unrelated to him or his life. Probably, he’d put the card back, neatly, where he’d found it, and then, noticing the mess she’d made, refold the map.
Celia stuffed another handful of chips in her mouth. It was disappointing somehow. How could men be so incurious? Celia wondered. Griffin was the same. Sometimes Celia thought she should combat it, this lack of interest they had in her inner life, be more assertive in her communications with them, but the thought always passed. Besides, she thought, in another burst of clarity, it was this very lack of curiosity that afforded her the little privacy she had.
• • •
Celia was driving from the strip mall where the liquor store was to the strip mall where the inexpensive grocery store was. She loved to drive. She turned on the radio, then turned it up, loud, to listen to music Peter hated.
She played the oldies station now when she was alone in the car and didn’t care who saw her singing, or crying, even.
Similar Books
