The lights were out in the children’s bedrooms at the front of the house, and Lou felt an inexplicable relief.
“I’m home,” he called as he walked into the quiet house.
There was a faint sound of a breathless and rather hysterical woman calling out from the television room down the hallway. Ruth’s exercise DVD.
He loosened his tie and opened the top button of his shirt and kicked off his shoes, feeling the warmth of the underfloor heating soothe his feet through the marble as he walked to the hall table to sort through the mail. His mind slowly began to unwind, the conversations of various meetings and telephone calls from the day all beginning to slow. Though they were still there in his head, the voices seemed a little quieter now. Each time he took off a layer of his clothes—his overcoat flung over the chair, his suit jacket on the table, his tie onto the table but slithering to the floor—or emptied his pockets—his loose change here, his keys there—he felt the events of the day fall away.
“Hello,” he called again, louder this time, realizing that nobody—his wife—had come to greet him. Perhaps she was busy breathing to the count of four, as he could hear the exercise-DVD woman in the television room doing.
“ Sssh! ” he heard coming from the second level of the house, followed by the creak of floorboards as his wife made her way across the landing.
Being silenced bothered him. Throughout a day of nonstop talking, of clever words, of jargon, of persuasive and intelligent conversation—deal opening, deal development, deal closing—not one person at any point had told him to Sssh . That was the language of teachers and librarians. Not of adults in their own homes. He felt like he’d left the real world and entered a church. Only one minute after stepping through his front door, he felt irritated. That had been happening a lot lately.
“I’ve just put Bud down again. He’s not having a good night,” Ruth explained from the top of the stairs in a loud whisper. Lou also didn’t like this kind of speech. This whispering was for children in class or teenagers sneaking out of their homes.
The “Bud” she referred to was their one-year-old son Ross. This nickname came about after their five-year-old daughter Lucy overheard Lou affectionately call her new baby brother buddy or bud , and understood it to be his name. Despite their initial corrections, Lucy’s conviction remained and so, unfortunately for Ross, his nickname of Bud seemed to be sticking around.
“What’s new?” he mumbled while searching through the mail for something that didn’t resemble a bill. He opened a few and discarded them on the hall table. Pieces of ripped paper drifted onto the floor.
Ruth made her way downstairs, dressed in a velour tracksuit-cum-pajamas outfit—he couldn’t quite tell the difference between what she wore these days. Her long, chocolate-brown hair was tied back in a high ponytail,and she shuffled toward him in a pair of slippers—the noise grating on his ears.
“Hi.” She smiled, and for a moment the tired face dissolved, and there was a glimpse, a tiny flicker, of the woman he had married. Then, just as quickly, it disappeared again, leaving him to wonder if that part of her was there at all. Then she stepped up to kiss him on the lips.
“Good day?” she asked.
“Busy.”
“But good?”
The contents of a particular envelope took his interest. After a long moment he felt the intensity of her stare.
“Hmm?” He looked up.
“I just asked if you had a good day.”
“Yeah, and I said, ‘Busy.’”
“Yes, and I said, ‘But good?’ All your days are busy, but all your days aren’t good. I hope it was good,” she said in a strained voice.
“You don’t sound like you hope it was good,” he replied, eyes down, reading the rest of the letter.
“Well, I did the first time I asked,” she said evenly.
“Ruth, I’m reading my mail!”
“I can see that,” she
“I’m home,” he called as he walked into the quiet house.
There was a faint sound of a breathless and rather hysterical woman calling out from the television room down the hallway. Ruth’s exercise DVD.
He loosened his tie and opened the top button of his shirt and kicked off his shoes, feeling the warmth of the underfloor heating soothe his feet through the marble as he walked to the hall table to sort through the mail. His mind slowly began to unwind, the conversations of various meetings and telephone calls from the day all beginning to slow. Though they were still there in his head, the voices seemed a little quieter now. Each time he took off a layer of his clothes—his overcoat flung over the chair, his suit jacket on the table, his tie onto the table but slithering to the floor—or emptied his pockets—his loose change here, his keys there—he felt the events of the day fall away.
“Hello,” he called again, louder this time, realizing that nobody—his wife—had come to greet him. Perhaps she was busy breathing to the count of four, as he could hear the exercise-DVD woman in the television room doing.
“ Sssh! ” he heard coming from the second level of the house, followed by the creak of floorboards as his wife made her way across the landing.
Being silenced bothered him. Throughout a day of nonstop talking, of clever words, of jargon, of persuasive and intelligent conversation—deal opening, deal development, deal closing—not one person at any point had told him to Sssh . That was the language of teachers and librarians. Not of adults in their own homes. He felt like he’d left the real world and entered a church. Only one minute after stepping through his front door, he felt irritated. That had been happening a lot lately.
“I’ve just put Bud down again. He’s not having a good night,” Ruth explained from the top of the stairs in a loud whisper. Lou also didn’t like this kind of speech. This whispering was for children in class or teenagers sneaking out of their homes.
The “Bud” she referred to was their one-year-old son Ross. This nickname came about after their five-year-old daughter Lucy overheard Lou affectionately call her new baby brother buddy or bud , and understood it to be his name. Despite their initial corrections, Lucy’s conviction remained and so, unfortunately for Ross, his nickname of Bud seemed to be sticking around.
“What’s new?” he mumbled while searching through the mail for something that didn’t resemble a bill. He opened a few and discarded them on the hall table. Pieces of ripped paper drifted onto the floor.
Ruth made her way downstairs, dressed in a velour tracksuit-cum-pajamas outfit—he couldn’t quite tell the difference between what she wore these days. Her long, chocolate-brown hair was tied back in a high ponytail,and she shuffled toward him in a pair of slippers—the noise grating on his ears.
“Hi.” She smiled, and for a moment the tired face dissolved, and there was a glimpse, a tiny flicker, of the woman he had married. Then, just as quickly, it disappeared again, leaving him to wonder if that part of her was there at all. Then she stepped up to kiss him on the lips.
“Good day?” she asked.
“Busy.”
“But good?”
The contents of a particular envelope took his interest. After a long moment he felt the intensity of her stare.
“Hmm?” He looked up.
“I just asked if you had a good day.”
“Yeah, and I said, ‘Busy.’”
“Yes, and I said, ‘But good?’ All your days are busy, but all your days aren’t good. I hope it was good,” she said in a strained voice.
“You don’t sound like you hope it was good,” he replied, eyes down, reading the rest of the letter.
“Well, I did the first time I asked,” she said evenly.
“Ruth, I’m reading my mail!”
“I can see that,” she
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