by Celia Laskey
“I guess we’ll never know. Since you shot that idea down pretty quick.”
“Were you serious about that?”
I shrug. “My posts have been getting more likes and comments. A lot of women have built careers off of blogs that started with just a few followers. And I did take a creative writing class in college. My professor said I showed promise.”
“Please,” he says. “We both know why you went to college.” He looks down at the small oval of diamond on my ring finger.
Before he can see my face crumple, I stand up and walk to the bathroom, cloistering myself in a stall where I sit folding squares of toilet paper into tiny fans, willing myself not to cry. It’s true. I never intended to use my sociology degree. My mother said it was the perfect major, because it made you seem smart but nonthreatening. What would I have majored in if I had actually planned to pursue a career? Back then, it didn’t occur to me that I could choose something like writing or business. All I ever wanted was to be a wife and a mother. But do I actually enjoy spending every minute of every day with my kids? Does it float my boat to vacuum the house three times a week, to fold boxer shorts and tiny T-shirts, to scour the internet trying to find a dinner recipe I haven’t made before? Do I cherish talking to my husband every night when he gets home? I used to save up little things from my day to tell him—how the smell of a campfire reminded me of childhood vacations to my grandparents’ lake house, where we’d roast foil-wrapped potatoes in the fire; or that I read an article about how smelling an orange can reduce your stress by over seventy percent. Lately, though, there hasn’t seemed to be any point.
When we get home, we try to make up by making love. As Jeff moves above me, I repeat the verse from Matthew in my head, “Do not withhold forgiveness from your spouse.” I imagine pushing my anger out through my pores and shooting it into space. When we each turn off our bedside lamps, the image of the two women from the billboard pops into my head. I wonder if there’s such a thing as lesbian housewives. Some lesbians have kids, right? Using a stranger’s sperm. How is it even your kid at that point, really? I’d be afraid I’d end up with an ax murderer or something. I guess they could adopt, too, but then it’s the same problem—you have no idea what you’re getting. Regardless, some of them find a way to do it. I wonder how they decide who goes to work and who stays home to raise the kids. Or maybe one of them isn’t expected to stay home—maybe they both have jobs. Then how do they decide who cooks dinner? Who fixes the car and kills the spiders in the bathroom? Who has the final say on decisions? It’s all so unclear.
* * *
• • •
AT CHURCH THE NEXT MORNING, we all dab handkerchiefs to our damp faces, sweating through our Sunday best, as Pastor Jim reads from Ephesians 4:26–27: “‘In your anger do not sin; do not let the sun go down while you are still angry, and do not give the devil a foothold.’” Sometimes I swear Pastor Jim can see inside my mind, and tailors each sermon to what I most need to hear.
“Within the past week, how many of you have gone to bed angry?” Pastor Jim asks. “Let me see some hands.”
We all peer around the room sheepishly, our eyes lingering on banners that say things like OPEN THE EYES OF MY HEART, LORD, or SEE THE NEED, DO THE DEED. Our hands stay clasped in our laps.
“Come on,” says Pastor Jim. “We’re here to be honest before God.” Someone coughs. Then a man near the front lifts his arm. A few other guys follow suit. Then Jeff raises his hand, keeping his eyes forward. Is he thinking about last night? After we had sex, he didn’t seem angry anymore. He seemed positively unburdened, snoring away while I lay awake. I want to reach over and yank his arm down. Carson notices that Jeff’s hand is raised, so he raises his own hand, grinning like it’s a game.
Jeff grins back at him and whispers, “What are you angry about, champ?”
“I don’t want to be here,” Carson says, full-volume. “I never get to do what I want to do.”
“Shhhhh,” I hiss at them.
Jeff rolls his eyes at Carson, and Carson giggles.
None of the women in the room have raised their hands. “Ladies,” Pastor Jim says. “Do you really expect me to believe none of you were angry this past week? Denying it doesn’t do any good.”
“Heck, I’m angry right now!” yells a woman in the front row, shooting her hand up and wiggling her fingers like she’s trying to catch a prize. The woman next to her raises her hand, then the woman behind her. When almost everyone in the church has their hands in the air, I put mine up, too, holding it at shoulder level.
Pastor Jim chuckles. “Men, remember this the next time your wife says she isn’t angry.” He pauses to let the room laugh. “Okay, we’ve established we’re all angry. Now, what can we do about it? The first step is to identify what you’re really mad about. You know when you stub your toe on the edge of the couch, and you look at the couch like it’s to blame? We do that with our emotions, too. We think we’re mad about thing A, when we’re actually mad about thing B. Right now I want everyone to close their eyes and think about the number one thing in your life making you angry. Go ahead, I’ll give you a minute.”
I close my eyes. The number one thing? Options rotate through my mind like I’ve spun The Price Is Right wheel: Jeff, the kids, housework, the billboard. The kids, Jeff, the billboard, housework. The billboard, Jeff, the kids, housework. That feels like the right order.
“All right, does everyone have your answer?” Pastor Jim says. “How many of you said you were angry about, say, your bills?”
A few people raise their hands.
“I want you to ask yourself if it’s really about the bills. Or could it be fear that you’ll never have the financial comfort you dream of? Insecurity about a promotion you didn’t get? Anger is usually a secondary emotion that’s covering up the primary one, because the primary one is harder to deal with. It’s usually fear, or dissatisfaction, or insecurity, or sadness. Think about which emotion could be hiding behind the anger.”
I don’t always agree with Pastor Jim’s sermons. This one seems a little off base. Anger, the emotion you’re feeling, isn’t actually the emotion you’re feeling?
“Let’s take it back to the scripture,” Pastor Jim says. “In verse twenty-six when Paul says, ‘In your anger do not sin,’ what he really means is, ‘Watch out! You better find out what lies behind that anger before it leads you to sin.’”
* * *
• • •
AT THE TOWN COUNCIL MEETING the next evening, I patiently wait to present my petition. The air-conditioning is, of course, broken, and everyone fidgets in their seats, pulling their shirts forward and fanning their faces with pieces of paper. Some people audibly groan as the audience address section begins. Henry Plummer accuses his neighbor Bruce of moving the property lines between their houses, Martha Wagner is concerned about unfixed and unvaccinated cats in the neighborhood, and Cindi Webber wonders if someone could volunteer to landscape Linda and Richard Ivingston’s lawn, since they haven’t been up to it themselves. Finally, my turn comes.
I stand behind the podium, unfolding and refolding my printout of the petition. “My name is Christine Peterson. I’m a resident of 354 Pine Street and a member of Media WatchMoms.” The town council members blink at me resignedly. I clear my throat. “For those of you who are unaware, Acceptance Across America has put up a billboard above Barb’s Boutique, much to Barb’s chagrin.” One of the council members covers his mic and hacks into his hand, then takes a long drink out of a red Big Gulp cup. A cell phone in the audience plays the rumba. “It promotes homosexual relationships by showing two lesbians holding hands,” I go on. “Myself and a large number of other concerned Big Burr citizens ask that this billboard be removed immediately. It’s indecent and inappropriate for a town with family values like ours.”
There are a few shouts of “Amen!” and the audience claps loudly, which I’m thankful for. All
my neighbors who signed the petition and promised they’d be at the meeting haven’t shown up. The next time I see them, they’ll say things like “A migraine came on” or “Tim was running late from work and I couldn’t get a sitter.” They know I’ll take care of it while they do whatever they think is more important. The council members look at each other, waiting for someone to speak.
“Terry, do you want to respond?” one of the council members asks the mayor.
Terry wipes his forehead with a blue paisley handkerchief and clears his throat. “Christine, we always appreciate hearing from you, and you make salient points. But in this instance there’s nothing we can do.”
My neck goes hot. “Why not?”
“Because we already looked into filing a suit and a lawyer said no judge would rule in our favor. It’s free speech.”
“So you’ll let them take over our town because of free speech? Molehills do become mountains, you know. What’s next? A gay club? A brothel?” A bead of sweat crawls down my stomach, then another follows. “We elected you as mayor because you said you’d protect Big Burr from just this kind of filth.”
Terry pulls at his thick gray beard like he’s trying to remove it from his face. “Listen, I don’t like the damn billboard any more than you do. But legally, we’re backed into a corner.”
An intense wave of heat rushes from my feet to my head, and the room starts to spin. I close my eyes, and when I open them I’m on the floor, Terry pressing a wet paper towel to my forehead.
* * *
• • •
WHEN I GET HOME, Jeff is asleep on the couch, the game blaring on TV and a Pizza Hut box on the coffee table. Plates covered in orange-greased napkins and half-chewed crusts are scattered across the kitchen countertop. God never gives us more than we can bear, I say to myself while taking deep breaths. Pastor Jim would probably tell me I’m not really mad about the dirty kitchen, but that’s easy for him to say. I bet his wife picks up the kitchen while he sits in a quiet room writing his sermons.
I stand there for a minute, debating between yelling at Jeff or just picking up the mess myself. A third option presents itself: I pick up a plate and release it from my hands, waiting for the satisfying shatter as it hits the floor. Instead, it bounces against the linoleum and rolls a few inches on its side before hitting the cabinets.
A deep animal sound rises from my throat. I pick up the plate and try again, this time holding it high above my head and slamming it down. It just bounces higher and rolls farther. I vaguely remember the salesperson in Home Depot selling us on the “shatter-resistant” laminate flooring, and curse the fact that we didn’t opt for actual tile.
“Honey?” calls Jeff from the living room.
I stand there, wishing I could throw myself on the floor and feel my body break into a million pieces. I try to think of something, anything, that will give me that sense of release. A grating cheer comes from the living room. How many times in my life have I asked Jeff to turn down the TV? My eyes fall on a Giovanni’s matchbook on the countertop. I grab the matchbook and my keys off the hook, then storm out the front door, letting it slam behind me.
As I start the car, Jeff appears in the doorway. “Where are you going?” he yells, his voice muted by the rolled-up windows. As I back out of the driveway, he shrugs and closes the door. I blast the AC and turn the radio on. It’s story hour on my normal Christian radio station. The last thing I want to hear right now are platitudes about accepting things you can’t change and putting your trust in God. I hit the seek button until it lands on a rap station. I turn it up. The rapper sounds extremely angry, growl-yelling about losing his mind and acting a fool. The bass line vibrates through the car, making my thighs tingle. I turn it up even louder, until the speakers reach their limit, the pressure of the music filling up all the space in my brain.
I pull into the parking lot next to Barb’s Boutique and sit in the car until the song finishes, then pop the trunk and grab the red plastic can of gas we keep there in case of an emergency. The boutique is dark inside, the metal grates pulled over the front windows. Headlights approach from far off, illuminating the parallel yellow lines of the street. I press myself against the wall of the boutique until the car passes. For once, I’m grateful the town didn’t approve my petition to install higher-wattage bulbs in the streetlamps.
I turn on the flashlight of my phone and scan the building, looking for some kind of ladder or fire escape I can climb to reach the billboard. On the back wall, the beam of light illuminates a metal ladder extending up to the roof. A flake of rust falls off when I touch a rung. I press down, testing its stability, and the ladder holds. I place my phone in my mouth, the flashlight facing up, and grab the handle of the gas can with one hand and a rung with the other. Climbing a ladder one-handed is more complicated than it seems. I work in steps: right foot up, left foot up, then balance as I release my hand and reach for the next rung. Gas sloshes in the can as I shakily ascend. Specks of rust stick to my sweaty palms and spit accumulates in my mouth, coating my phone case and dripping onto my chin.
As I reach the roof, a wisp of breeze lifts the hair from the back of my neck. I set down the gas can and take a deep breath. Lights shine in the cornfield past Field Road: combine harvesters working through the night to mow down the corn. From far away, the unloader arms on the harvesters make them look like one-winged airplanes struggling to get off the ground. I wonder if I’ll ever take an airplane, where I’d go if I did. I shine my flashlight on the billboard. From close up, the women look like giants, their clasped hands even more sinister. I unscrew the cap from the gas can and hold the nozzle against the bottom corner of the billboard. The material is some kind of water-resistant vinyl, and the gas splashes onto the roof instead of soaking in. Then I notice the wooden support beams leaning from the top to the bottom on the back of the billboard.
I work methodically, soaking each beam in gas. Then I hold a match to the wood. As the flames surge to life, a puff of hot air hits me in the face, pushing me back. The yellow-orange tendrils crawl quickly, making the wood crackle and pop. I scramble down the ladder and run back to my car. I sit there for a minute, wanting to see the first flame eat through the image. A small black splotch appears on the bottom of the billboard, near the women’s feet. The picture begins to sag, pulling the women’s faces down into jowly frowns. Their eyes melt into their cheeks and their ears drift down the sides of their necks. They look like some kind of abstract monsters. They look incredibly, inexpressably sad.
As the blaze slowly crawls across the bottom of the billboard, the words of Jude 1:7 come to me: “Sodom and Gomorrah and the surrounding towns gave themselves up to sexual immorality and perversion. They serve as an example of those who suffer the punishment of eternal fire.”
I wait for the release I was sure I would feel. But anger still floods my muscles like a poison, straining to break through my skin. If this didn’t satisfy it, I don’t know what will. I watch the billboard for another minute, then turn the key in the ignition and drive home, the flames waving in my rearview mirror.
David
Arturo shuffles up the path to our house, arms trembling as he grips his walker. He’s so bent over that his legs and torso make a ninety-degree angle. He places each foot in front of him gingerly, like he’s inching through a minefield and each step might be his last. Miguel, Arturo’s son and my partner of thirty years, walks beside him, a beige suitcase in one hand, the other hovering above Arturo’s back. Durango, Arturo’s black Scottish terrier who is almost as old as Arturo, lifts his leg and lets out a trickle of urine onto the frozen grass. Christmas will be here in two weeks, and it still hasn’t snowed.
Watching Arturo’s approach feels like watching a bullet come at you in excruciating slo-mo. My lungs seize and constrict. A month ago, Arturo had a stroke and lay on his kitchen floor for two whole days before his neighbor, dropping off some lemon bars, discovered him. After that
, Miguel was firm: Arturo was coming to live with us. So we converted the office into a bedroom, installed a ramp to the front door, and kissed our freedom goodbye.
As they walk into the house, I contort my mouth into a smile. Arturo’s face has changed since the last time I saw him. The bags under his eyes must obstruct his downward vision, his lips have all but disappeared, and the tendons of his neck stand out like metal rods inserted to support his head.
“Hi, Arturo,” I say. “How was your trip?”
He looks through me. “Did you see the price of gas at the Shell down the street?” he says to Miguel, or me, or no one. He spits out a laugh. “They might as well put a gun to your head.”
“We don’t have much choice around here, Dad,” says Miguel. “Not much competition.”
“I guess no one has much choice around here. You drag me to this shithole town when I was fine back in New Mexico.” His brown eyes square on me. “See? David agrees with me. He doesn’t want me here, either.”
I blink. I have to do better if a half-senile eighty-two-year-old man can tell how badly I want him back in New Mexico.
“I think you’re just tired from the long drive,” says Miguel, steering Arturo down the hallway. “Let me show you your room.”
“You mean my cell?” he says. Durango follows them down the hallway, nails clicking on the hardwood floors.
I go into the kitchen and open a beer. Beyond the window over the sink, the barren limbs of our oak tree look like a bleeding ink splotch on the gray paper of the sky. Across the street, there’s a large wheat field that houses two grain silos, a defunct windmill that never spins, and an abandoned farmhouse with a caving-in roof. It could be an idyllic scene, but Arturo is right: Big Burr, Kansas, is a shithole.
Across the flat, sprawling fields, there’s a billboard for a jeweler that says SOMETIMES, IT’S OK TO THROW ROCKS AT GIRLS! Another one says EVOLUTION IS A FAIRY TALE FOR GROWN-UPS. Between the billboards are cattle feedlots that reek of manure and burned hair. Before moving here, when I pictured Kansas cows, they were scattered among green, wildflower-dotted fields, the calves at the feet of their mothers, a farmer in blue overalls lovingly slapping their haunches. The reality couldn’t have been more different: brown cows, covered in brown mud and their own brown feces, lined up without an inch of space between them at troughs filled with brown feed, the brown mushy ground stretching for miles.