cheeks and Elvis sideburns, under short, black hair. Because of all the exercising and showering, he always appears air-fluffed and squeakily scrubbed. He’s her age, but in the habit of peering all around him with a generous interest that makes him appear younger. A scar cuts a streak out of one of his eyebrows. His skin’s a warm bronze, deepened with outdoor activity. What are you? she’d asked one afternoon when they were drinking beers by the pool. I’m everything, he answered, frowning at the question. India and Africa by way of Trinidad, Belarus through upstate New York, Philippines out of Los Angeles, Sicily via the Bronx. What are you? Eh, she said. Canada, France. Jersey. Acadian. A bowl of snow.
He disappears into the trees after 3D. The odd thought comes to her that the curved edge of the lawn is the rim of an eye, the dark swimming pool is its center. An eye without a reflection, without—the word for the middle of the eye. Your own name, stupid, she thinks. She isn’t all awake. Idle makes idle, her mother would have said, and been right. Now that she hardly works, so many hours must glide over her to make a day. Once, when she was little, behind her mother’s back her old aunties gave her an orange plastic record player and a set of twelve-inch vinyl records, the abridged audio of several of Disney’s animated films. Every night she’d play one and fall asleep clutching the cardboard sleeve of the record— Cinderella , Snow White . All the same, a virtuous girl who sings a song. She never thought what happened after the end, the marriage. In the fairy tales there were two ways: off the wedding page to a blurry but total happiness, or left behind to rot into the ragged crone of the next story, her itchy heart ticktocking away in the dusty sharkbox of her chest. No, Iris doesn’t miss her years alone. But her life before George felt more vital in its loneliness than this kind of day. Why George fell in love with her she doesn’t know, though she doesn’t doubt him. Last week, they shared a grilled-cheese-and-tomato sandwich in the grass under the ash tree. George fell asleep with a magazine on his face and her hand on his chest. The dog woke them, late in the afternoon, nudging them with his nose. Even with this—happiness—when she doesn’t have any properties to show, there isn’t much to keep her from staying in bed, heavy as death.
The coffeemaker wheezes full. She gets a cup and returns to the window. By now, Victor and the dog will be in the meadow dotted with blue-eyed Marys. There’s the sound of the cicada and the sun tangled across her forearms resting on the table. Dragonflies skim the top of the pool—how is an hour gone already? 3D gallops out of the woods, the light on his red back and on Victor, lifting his sneakers high out of the grass. The tennis ball flies from Victor’s hand. 3D bursts forward, the stick dropping from his mouth. Next time she’ll go with them.
* * *
“You ready now?” Victor says, nodding toward the empty cup in the sink. 3D pants around and collapses on his mat, his legs caked in mud. He’s protecting something under his paws.
“He’s destroyed it. You’ll see.” Victor gently extracts 3D’s bounty. The stick, chewed to pulp.
When Iris asked around town, Victor’s was the first name given. All his services were praised: personal training, certified massage, dog walking, meal preparation, hairdressing, property maintenance. She hired him Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays for the first three services, as she likes the daily ritual of cooking and has no interest in hair. There’s already a gardener, a woman named Fay, who appeared the week they moved to Somner’s Rest, in a blue chambray button-down and red lipstick. Sent by CeCe, who’d said of Iris, “She isn’t a gardener, she’s a bartender!” Fay and her fleet of assistants had spread out over the lawn like a search-and-rescue team, installing minimalist, low-maintenance
He disappears into the trees after 3D. The odd thought comes to her that the curved edge of the lawn is the rim of an eye, the dark swimming pool is its center. An eye without a reflection, without—the word for the middle of the eye. Your own name, stupid, she thinks. She isn’t all awake. Idle makes idle, her mother would have said, and been right. Now that she hardly works, so many hours must glide over her to make a day. Once, when she was little, behind her mother’s back her old aunties gave her an orange plastic record player and a set of twelve-inch vinyl records, the abridged audio of several of Disney’s animated films. Every night she’d play one and fall asleep clutching the cardboard sleeve of the record— Cinderella , Snow White . All the same, a virtuous girl who sings a song. She never thought what happened after the end, the marriage. In the fairy tales there were two ways: off the wedding page to a blurry but total happiness, or left behind to rot into the ragged crone of the next story, her itchy heart ticktocking away in the dusty sharkbox of her chest. No, Iris doesn’t miss her years alone. But her life before George felt more vital in its loneliness than this kind of day. Why George fell in love with her she doesn’t know, though she doesn’t doubt him. Last week, they shared a grilled-cheese-and-tomato sandwich in the grass under the ash tree. George fell asleep with a magazine on his face and her hand on his chest. The dog woke them, late in the afternoon, nudging them with his nose. Even with this—happiness—when she doesn’t have any properties to show, there isn’t much to keep her from staying in bed, heavy as death.
The coffeemaker wheezes full. She gets a cup and returns to the window. By now, Victor and the dog will be in the meadow dotted with blue-eyed Marys. There’s the sound of the cicada and the sun tangled across her forearms resting on the table. Dragonflies skim the top of the pool—how is an hour gone already? 3D gallops out of the woods, the light on his red back and on Victor, lifting his sneakers high out of the grass. The tennis ball flies from Victor’s hand. 3D bursts forward, the stick dropping from his mouth. Next time she’ll go with them.
* * *
“You ready now?” Victor says, nodding toward the empty cup in the sink. 3D pants around and collapses on his mat, his legs caked in mud. He’s protecting something under his paws.
“He’s destroyed it. You’ll see.” Victor gently extracts 3D’s bounty. The stick, chewed to pulp.
When Iris asked around town, Victor’s was the first name given. All his services were praised: personal training, certified massage, dog walking, meal preparation, hairdressing, property maintenance. She hired him Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays for the first three services, as she likes the daily ritual of cooking and has no interest in hair. There’s already a gardener, a woman named Fay, who appeared the week they moved to Somner’s Rest, in a blue chambray button-down and red lipstick. Sent by CeCe, who’d said of Iris, “She isn’t a gardener, she’s a bartender!” Fay and her fleet of assistants had spread out over the lawn like a search-and-rescue team, installing minimalist, low-maintenance
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