by Celia Laskey
“Not really, why?”
“A girl at work gave me a recipe for vegetable lasagna, so I made it the other night. We all sit down and Doug takes a bite and makes this face. Then he starts taking apart the lasagna with his fork, layer by layer, asking where the meat is. When I tell him there is none, he looks at me like I might as well have put arsenic in the food.”
“Men and their meat.” I shake my head.
“So you know what I did?” Pammy smiles impishly. “I took a can of beef dog food out of the cupboard, opened it up, and dumped it on his plate.”
My hand flies to my open mouth. So much for Ephesians 5:22: “Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands as you do to the Lord.” When I’m mad at Jeff, my rebellions are so invisible I pray God won’t see them: I’ll overcook his piece of chicken breast, use his loofah to scrub my feet in the shower, or leave his clean laundry in the washing machine overnight before drying it so it smells ever so slightly of mildew. But I would never tell even Pammy about these small acts of resentment—the struggles of a relationship aren’t meant to be shared. “What did Doug do?” I ask her.
“Oh, you know,” she says, waving her French-manicured nails in the air. “Looked at me like he was gonna throw me across the room, then got in his truck and peeled out of the driveway. When he came back later that night, he made sure to leave two Arby’s bags sitting on the kitchen counter.”
“Wow,” I say. “All because of some vegetables.”
Pammy lowers her voice. “I swear, Christine, sometimes—”
I reach over and place my hand on hers, stopping her before she says something too true. “I know,” I say. “Sometimes I feel like I’m at the end of my rope, but then I just remind myself that I shouldn’t fight to be right. Reconciliation is the true victory.” The other day I made a wallpaper quote of that sentiment, over a close-up photo of a man and a woman holding hands, the woman’s slender fingers positioned so you can see her engagement ring stacked on top of her diamond wedding band. When I posted it to my Righteous Wife Facebook page it got 176 likes, one of my best-performing pieces of content.
Pammy rolls her eyes. “Do you always practice what you preach?”
“I try.”
She sighs. “Don’t you get tired of it?”
* * *
• • •
AT HOME, I put some chicken in the Crock-Pot and put the kids in front of The Little Mermaid with popsicles. Then I sit down at the computer to write my daily blog post for Media WatchMoms. Today’s topic is the Viagra commercial that came on last night at seven p.m., while the whole family was watching the Chiefs game. I title it “No Touchdown for Prime-Time Viagra Commercial.” I’m not one to toot my own horn, but I’m kind of known for my clever headlines. After I finish, I re-post the article to the Media WatchMoms Facebook page and instantly get one like and one love. My last piece, about the inappropriate sexual innuendos in a Dove chocolate ad, got almost three hundred likes.
Pammy says I have a way with words, and that if I devoted more time to Righteous Wife and found a way to integrate my Media WatchMoms angle, it could become a full-time job. After a while, she said, brands might pay to advertise on my site, and it could lead to things like TV or radio appearances or even a book deal. I mentioned it to Jeff once, the idea of turning my blog into a real business, but he just laughed and asked if I went to school for writing or knew anything at all about running a company. I’m sure he’s right—I should get my head out of the clouds, stop daydreaming about something that’ll probably never come true. But sometimes when I’m alone in the bathroom, I still like to practice my smile in the mirror for the book jacket photo—just for fun, mind you.
I scroll through my Facebook timeline, liking a photo of my friend Sarah’s baby wearing oversized sunglasses, a Pinterest recipe for Oreo pie, and an article titled “Justin Timberlake and Jessica Biel Share Family Values.” My old high school friend Gina Townsend has updated her profile picture to a full-body shot of herself in a skimpy, sparkly dress. According to Facebook, she got divorced a few months ago. So much for holy vows.
I click on her profile. There are photos of her on a rooftop drinking a margarita and laughing; her at a museum posing in front of some kind of abstract sculpture; her at a concert making the rock ’n’ roll hand symbol, sticking her pointer finger and her pinkie up in the air. It’s hard to believe we’re the same age—thirty-two is a little old to be running around footloose and fancy-free, isn’t it? After a divorce, she should be trying to get right with God, but instead it looks like she’s having the time of her life. Doesn’t she want kids? I remember how in high school we used to sit up at night planning our future children’s names and what color we’d paint their rooms. How lucky I am that everything went just as planned: Claire and Carson, pink begonia and willow springs green.
I search through the pictures on my phone and find one from the previous weekend, when we were all out to lunch at the diner after church. Claire and Carson were eating tomato soup and grilled cheese, their mouths stained goofy red, and Jeff had his arm around me in a loving embrace. My upper arm looks a bit wider than I’d like, but at least I had gotten my hair freshly highlighted the day before, and my makeup looks nice. I post the picture with the caption “Family life. ☺ It doesn’t get any better than this!” A few minutes after we took the photo, Claire spilled her bowl of soup and it got all over Carson’s comic book and my white dress. I yelled a little bit, like I tend to do when I forget “the anger of man does not produce the righteousness of God,” but I was able to get the stain out with some OxiClean, so no harm, no foul.
The clock reads 5:58. I should get the rice pilaf and salad started, but if Jeff’s running late, then so will I. I go sit with the kids and watch the movie. It’s the part where Triton comes to Ariel’s grotto after he finds out she’s rescued Eric from drowning, disobeying his rules about mermaid and human contact. Ariel blurts out that she loves Eric, and that’s when Triton loses it. His face turns dark under the glow of his magic trident, and he destroys all her human artifacts. Her globe of the world, her candelabra, her stone statue of Eric, all smashed to bits. Afterward, he gives her a guilty, resigned look and squeezes his eyes shut as he turns to leave.
The scene reminds me of my mother. The littlest things could set her off: if I slouched, if there was still a wrinkle in my skirt after I ironed it, if I snuck a bite of mashed potatoes before we said grace. Once, after a particularly nasty blow-up about how I had set the table wrong, I asked her why she even had me, since she seemed to hate me so much. “Children are a gift of the Lord, the fruit of the womb is a reward,” she said in a sarcastic singsong voice, before adding darkly, “What they forgot is that fruit rots.”
When Jeff’s truck pulls into the driveway, I pop up off the couch to put the rice on and chop vegetables for a salad. The kitchen, with its west-facing, sun-filled windows, is like the seventh circle of hell. A rivulet of sweat snakes between my breasts. The front door opens and the kids squeal in excitement, their little feet drumrolling the floor as they run to jump in his arms. It must be nice to be the one who gets the welcome party. They babble to him about our day: I got a booboo, look at my new video game, did you know butterflies have thousands of eyes but they’re just clustered together so they look like one eye?
Jeff sets the kids down and walks into the kitchen, unbuttoning his blue dress shirt, which is stained with wide, dark circles around the armpits.
“October fricking seventh,” he says, tossing his shirt on a chair, then giving me a quick peck hello.
He smells like beer, and I tell myself not to comment on it; to at least try not to be the stereotypical nagging housewife, but then again, why should I stay quiet about things that bother me just because I don’t want to seem annoying? If he doesn’t want me to be a nag, he shouldn’t give me things to nag about. “You smell like beer,” I finally say, wrinkling my nose and turning back to the cu
tting board, chopping broccoli florets into halves and quarters.
“You know farmers,” he says. “They live for a beer at the end of the day, and once you’ve told them how to save their business, they’re grateful.” He opens up a bag of grated cheese from the counter and leans his head back, dropping a fingerful into his mouth. “How was your day?”
“I’m thinking about starting a petition against that Acceptance Across America billboard.”
Jeff opens up the snack cabinet, diving into a box of Wheat Thins. He takes another fingerful of cheese out of the bag and drops it on a cracker, then sandwiches another cracker on top. Shreds of orange cheese fall to the floor. “What billboard’s that?”
“Are you kidding? It’s a giant photo of lesbians, and it says equality has a bright future in Big Burr.” I hold a glass of ice water to my cheek. “You would’ve had to drive by it.”
He coughs up a piece of cracker. “Lesbians? I thought they were clothing models or something.”
“Exactly. They’re too pretty to be actual lesbians.”
“Well.” He opens the refrigerator. “Could be worse. It could be two men.”
“How is that any different?”
“It’s just . . . more gross.”
“So because it’s two women, you don’t care?”
He sighs. “Babe, I’m exhausted. I’m not gonna get all riled up about something that doesn’t affect me.” He takes a container of spinach dip out of the fridge and I swat it out of his hand. “Hey! I’m starving. If dinner was ready, I wouldn’t have to snack.”
* * *
• • •
IN THE MORNING, the heat still hasn’t broken, and the news says it’ll be at least three days until it does. After a strawberry-banana smoothie and a cold shower, I type up and print out a petition, making sure to leave plenty of spaces for signatures. Then I strap Claire into her stroller and remind Carson to put on his helmet before passing him his scooter. Having both of them with me will be a pain, but they’ll help my cause. Slowly, we make our way down Pine, the sidewalks shimmering in the heat. After just a block, every crevice on my body is slick with perspiration, even the creases of my eyelids.
As I approach Main Street, just the top of the billboard is visible, the roof of the neighboring building cutting off the picture below both women’s eyes. They gaze at each other like there’s nothing else in the world to see, like they’re standing in front of Stonehenge or the Mona Lisa but they’d rather just look at each other.
By noontime I have forty-nine signatures and a bladder full of lemonade. Claire is starting to writhe in her stroller, arching her back against the belt across her chest while emanating high-pitched whines, and Carson has resorted to chucking rocks at plants, but I want to get at least fifty signatures before the end of the day. There’s one house left to visit in the neighborhood—our across-the-street neighbors, the Ivingstons. I ring their doorbell. No answer. I ring it once more, and just as I’m about to give up, Linda comes to the door wearing a long black T-shirt that goes down to her knees, and moccasin slippers. She’s obviously not wearing a bra, her oblong breasts hanging in her shirt like small eggplants.
“Are you here for your casserole dish?” she says. “Let me go get it.” As she pads away, I peer past the open door into the living room, where all the shades are pulled down and piles of cards with pictures of flowers and setting suns teeter on the coffee table and overflow onto the floor.
She returns with my dish, a brown, crusty rim around the top. “Thanks, Linda, but that wasn’t why I stopped by.” I wish I had thought better of coming to her house, but I’m here now, and every signature counts. I force a smile and hand her the clipboard.
She reads the petition and laughs under her breath. “Can’t say I’ve noticed it.” She hands the clipboard back to me.
I pull my smile wider. “I know you haven’t been out much recently, which is completely understandable. But if you were, you’d definitely see it. It’s not the kind of thing we should have to look at every day.”
She smiles back and looks me dead in the eyes. “You know what, Christine? I couldn’t give a flying fuck about that billboard.”
Carson giggles. “She said a no-no word.”
Acid churns in my stomach. “I understand you’re grieving. But God needs us to protect the children who are still here from this kind of sin.”
She laughs and laughs. She puts her hand on the doorframe and leans over, catching her breath. “You know who else doesn’t give a flying fuck about that billboard?” she says, her eyes shimmering. “God.” Then she slams the door in my stunned face, waking up Claire, who starts screaming.
“Mommy,” says Carson, his face bright red and slick with sweat. “Can we go home now?”
* * *
• • •
SATURDAY NIGHTS ARE date night. There are really only two nice restaurants in town, Giovanni’s and Bistro 46, and at both places the food is nothing to write home about, but it gets us out of the house and gives me a night off from cooking. We went to Bistro 46 last week, so this week it’s back to Giovanni’s. As we walk to our table, we pass two young women sitting across from each other, one with dirty blond hair and a plain face and the other with curly black hair and dark features, clearly not from around here. I don’t think anything of them dining together until the one with dark features reaches over to wipe a crumb from the other woman’s mouth: a version of the billboard come to life. I can’t get a moment’s peace. They’re engaged in a lively conversation, talking a little too loudly and smacking the tabletop as they laugh. I would bet anything they’re from the task force. I ask to be seated near the window, across the room from them.
After Jeff and I order our usual—spaghetti and meatballs for Jeff, salmon and green beans for me—Jeff reaches across the table and holds my hand.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he says, like he says every Saturday night.
“And you look very handsome,” I say, reminding myself that he is handsome and wondering why I no longer think so. I look at him closely, trying to see him the way I did in the beginning, back when we were eighteen. He has kind brown eyes, even if they are a tad too close together, a strong nose, and full, long lips. I watch his lips as they move—he’s talking about work again—and I picture the very hungry caterpillar crawling across his face, eating one apple, two pears, three plums, four strawberries . . .
“So I told them, if they switch to an aboveground pivot system instead of the pipes, they’ll have way less flooding,” Jeff says.
What was it the very hungry caterpillar ate after the strawberries? It wasn’t so long ago I read the book to Claire every day. Was it some kind of citrus? Five grapefruits or five oranges? Or was it tangerines?
“And then aliens landed in the field and took us to their home planet,” Jeff says.
“What?”
“I might as well be talking gibberish, for as much as you care.” He takes a gulp of wine, lowers his glass, almost setting it on the table, then brings it back to his mouth, taking another gulp.
“I’m sorry. There’s just a lot on my mind.” On Righteous Wife, I recently posted twenty-five conversation starters to spice up date night—questions like “What are three qualities you love about me?” or “What’s your favorite activity to do together?” or “If we could go on another honeymoon and money was no object, where would you want to go?” But I don’t feel like asking them now. I imagine how Jeff would answer. For the three qualities he loves about me, he’d probably say I’m kind, I’m a good mother, and I’m devoted to my causes. I don’t think it’s all that true that I’m kind or a good mother—certainly not all the time—but that’s what every man says about his wife. And I think it actually annoys him how devoted I am to things like the billboard and Media WatchMoms. After all, devoted is just a synonym for stubborn, and no one likes a stubborn woman. He would probably say h
is favorite thing to do with me is to watch TV, even though he’s always shushing me as I criticize commercials and ask logistical questions about CSI. And he’d probably outright refuse to answer the honeymoon question. “But money is an object,” he’d say. “What’s the point of daydreaming about something unrealistic?” We went to the Florida Keys for our actual honeymoon because Jeff had read in some travel magazine that it looked just like the Caribbean but without all the expense or inconvenience of traveling outside of the U.S. Never mind that I thought it would have been nice to leave the country, since we never had. Still haven’t. Italy-themed paintings line the walls of the restaurant: cliffy seaside towns, bright pink flowers spilling over pastel buildings along a cobblestone street. I wonder if it looks like that in person, so charming and picturesque. One of my friends who went to Rome said it was actually quite dirty.
Jeff blows air out of his nose and rolls his eyes. He grabs a roll out of the bread basket and stuffs half of it in his mouth.
My chest tightens. I know I should leave it alone and try my best to act interested in what he says for the rest of the night. “What?” I say instead, crossing my arms. “What do you want to say?”
“Nothing.” A wad of half-chewed bread sits in his open mouth. He shakes his head and smiles meanly.
“Say it.” Heat crawls up my neck, and I know he must see the red splotches forming there, a dead giveaway that I’m upset.
He swallows the bread in his mouth and washes it down with another glug of wine. “I provide for the family and give you everything you ask for. What could possibly be on your mind all the damn time?”
“I’d like to see you spend one full day with them by yourself,” I say. “You’d go crazy.”
He laughs. “And what would you do if I stayed home with the kids? How would you provide for an entire household? I don’t think a blog would cut it.”