like to blow up. Where have you been? Don’t you know we live in a target zone?”
“Jeez Louise! I
work
in the shipyard.”
Lorena rolls her eyes. “Well, it wouldn’t matter if you worked at Chicken in a Bucket if the H-bomb hits. It would scoop out a crater from here to Richmond.” She doesn’t know that, but it sounds terrifying enough to warrant Delia’s horrified gaze.
“Jeez Lo
-uise!”
says Delia.
* * *
THE ROOM IS dark except for the first faint glow of early morning that seeps around the edge of the window shade. Lorena tucks her head farther under the covers. She feels herself rise a little as Pete’s weight shifts. Now he’s sitting up. Now he’s up and out, she can tell because the bed feels lighter.
She burrows into the nest she’s made of sheets and blankets, flannel nightgown scrunched high around her waist. She waits until she can hear the bathroom door shut, the flush, the knocking of the pipes as the shower shudders to life. She ducks back under the covers. Warm and dark, musky odor of bodies, sweat, stale sex. She pulls her pillow in after her and curls her body around it.
She thinks of Binky’s lips. How she tingled when she touched that pink and tender surface, how they felt like the skin that forms over chocolate pudding after it’s cooled. She mentally runs her fingers once again over his Cream of Wheat scar, follows it down his back, lower, lower …
Oops. Pete’s out of the bathroom. He plunks himself on the bed, jarring her. Flicks the light on his side of the bed, tips the tiny pleated lampshade to a rakish angle, examines the frayed toe of one sock with a probing finger before he pulls it on. “My mother darned socks,” he says.
Lorena doesn’t answer. His mother darned socks. His mother scrubbed clothes on a washboard. His mother canned tomatoes and nearly wiped out his family with botulism. Her image shadows Lorena at every domestic turn. Last Sunday she came for dinner and hovered at Lorena’s shoulder while she fixed apple pandowdy for dessert. His mother had a stake in its preparation since it, as well as her biscuit recipe, was handed by her to Lorena with great ceremony after the wedding.
“Slice those apples
thin,
dearie,” his mother had admonished in her Pall Mall-rattled voice. “Pete doesn’t like them thick and chewy, and that crust should be crunchy, you know he’s picky about his crust.”
When Pete’s mother did that, Lorena’s mind transported herselfright out of the kitchen, straight to the hall closet. She saw herself rummage through winter coats and mildewed umbrellas and bowling shoes; saw herself pull out Pete’s mail-order Red Ryder BB gun, load it with pellets, turn with the gun heavy under her armpit. She saw herself point it at her mother-in-law and shoot her right between those bullfrog eyes.
“What’s for lunch?” Pete’s asking. Lorena pops her frilly-capped head out of the covers.
“It’s in the Frigidaire.” Why does he always ask? She’s been packing his lunch bucket the night before for the past twelve years, same thing, never changes: two bologna sandwiches on white, heavy mayo; big dill pickle, bag of chips, piece of fruit, slab of cake, thermos of black coffee left over from breakfast.
He makes the coffee, thick and sludgy, she makes it too weak for him. He’s already down the stairs, calling, “Coupla eggs sunny-side, and gimme some bacon to go with that.” She hears him rummaging around in the cabinets, banging doors, clanging pots. She crawls out from under the covers and stares at the ceiling. Shoves the mound of blankets and sheets away from her. She is not, never was, never will be, chipper in the morning, and she starts her day as she always does: loathing the fact that he is.
She shuffles into the bathroom, pulls her nightgown up around her waist, sits on the cold seat, yawns. She’s up, and to prove it, she looks into the mirror. Yep. Her eyes are open. She must be up.
She digs her arms
“Jeez Louise! I
work
in the shipyard.”
Lorena rolls her eyes. “Well, it wouldn’t matter if you worked at Chicken in a Bucket if the H-bomb hits. It would scoop out a crater from here to Richmond.” She doesn’t know that, but it sounds terrifying enough to warrant Delia’s horrified gaze.
“Jeez Lo
-uise!”
says Delia.
* * *
THE ROOM IS dark except for the first faint glow of early morning that seeps around the edge of the window shade. Lorena tucks her head farther under the covers. She feels herself rise a little as Pete’s weight shifts. Now he’s sitting up. Now he’s up and out, she can tell because the bed feels lighter.
She burrows into the nest she’s made of sheets and blankets, flannel nightgown scrunched high around her waist. She waits until she can hear the bathroom door shut, the flush, the knocking of the pipes as the shower shudders to life. She ducks back under the covers. Warm and dark, musky odor of bodies, sweat, stale sex. She pulls her pillow in after her and curls her body around it.
She thinks of Binky’s lips. How she tingled when she touched that pink and tender surface, how they felt like the skin that forms over chocolate pudding after it’s cooled. She mentally runs her fingers once again over his Cream of Wheat scar, follows it down his back, lower, lower …
Oops. Pete’s out of the bathroom. He plunks himself on the bed, jarring her. Flicks the light on his side of the bed, tips the tiny pleated lampshade to a rakish angle, examines the frayed toe of one sock with a probing finger before he pulls it on. “My mother darned socks,” he says.
Lorena doesn’t answer. His mother darned socks. His mother scrubbed clothes on a washboard. His mother canned tomatoes and nearly wiped out his family with botulism. Her image shadows Lorena at every domestic turn. Last Sunday she came for dinner and hovered at Lorena’s shoulder while she fixed apple pandowdy for dessert. His mother had a stake in its preparation since it, as well as her biscuit recipe, was handed by her to Lorena with great ceremony after the wedding.
“Slice those apples
thin,
dearie,” his mother had admonished in her Pall Mall-rattled voice. “Pete doesn’t like them thick and chewy, and that crust should be crunchy, you know he’s picky about his crust.”
When Pete’s mother did that, Lorena’s mind transported herselfright out of the kitchen, straight to the hall closet. She saw herself rummage through winter coats and mildewed umbrellas and bowling shoes; saw herself pull out Pete’s mail-order Red Ryder BB gun, load it with pellets, turn with the gun heavy under her armpit. She saw herself point it at her mother-in-law and shoot her right between those bullfrog eyes.
“What’s for lunch?” Pete’s asking. Lorena pops her frilly-capped head out of the covers.
“It’s in the Frigidaire.” Why does he always ask? She’s been packing his lunch bucket the night before for the past twelve years, same thing, never changes: two bologna sandwiches on white, heavy mayo; big dill pickle, bag of chips, piece of fruit, slab of cake, thermos of black coffee left over from breakfast.
He makes the coffee, thick and sludgy, she makes it too weak for him. He’s already down the stairs, calling, “Coupla eggs sunny-side, and gimme some bacon to go with that.” She hears him rummaging around in the cabinets, banging doors, clanging pots. She crawls out from under the covers and stares at the ceiling. Shoves the mound of blankets and sheets away from her. She is not, never was, never will be, chipper in the morning, and she starts her day as she always does: loathing the fact that he is.
She shuffles into the bathroom, pulls her nightgown up around her waist, sits on the cold seat, yawns. She’s up, and to prove it, she looks into the mirror. Yep. Her eyes are open. She must be up.
She digs her arms
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