time for him to quit, and she vowed not to bring it up. A thick, heavy blanket of blue smoke assaulted her the moment she stepped into the garage. She wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“Eric?” She expected to see him there, sitting on the front step with a cigarette in hand, but he was not in his usual spot. “Eric, where are you?” She tried her best to keep her voice light and happy, but inside she was starting to panic. His car was there, so he hadn’t gone anywhere, as far as she could tell. Her nose followed the trail of smoke outside and around the corner of the house to the backyard. He was sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs with his back to the house, cigarette in one hand, a beer in the other.
She approached him slowly, wanting to choose her words carefully. “Here you are,” she said softly. “I wondered where you were.” She came around the side of him and stood next to his chair tentatively.
He took a long, slow drag on his cigarette and held the smoke in his lungs for what seemed like forever. He looked up at her and slowly let it out through pursed lips, aiming it away from her. The wind was blowing toward her, so most of the smoke settled on her anyway. She tried to remain pleasant.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean for it to get on you.”
“Oh well,” she started, “that’s okay.”
“You want some?” he pointed to the bottle of beer with his smoke.
“No thanks -- it’s a little early.” She glanced at her watch and saw that it was barely 11:00 a.m. This was new -- drinking before noon.
“You think? Well, I should have known that you wouldn’t approve.” He took a swallow and looked out into the yard at nothing.
“I didn’t say that,” Annie said, “I just know that if I have any, I won’t get a thing done today.” She decided not to point out that she had just gotten up not that long ago and that her stomach was still empty because of their argument. She had dodged the hangover bullet from the night before and didn’t want to tempt fate.
“It’s Saturday - what’s there to do?” He took another drag.
“Well, for one thing, the kitchen needs to be cleaned up.” Oops. She said it. It slipped out in spite of her intentions to be a good wife. Her stomach started to tie itself in a knot and she found a hangnail on her left hand thumb to pick at while she nervously waited for his response.
“That’s no big deal,” he said as he took another sip from his bottle.
“Well, it’s a mess,” said Annie.
“You better get going on it then,” he said, chuckling. “What are you waiting for?”
“I’m waiting for you to do it,” she said, injecting a small chuckle in her voice as she said it. Maybe if she kept the conversation “fun” he’d comply. She gave him a weak smile.
“You’re kidding me,” he said, still laughing a little bit.
“Actually I’m not. You said you’d clean it up.” Annie’s heart was pounding now, pumping adrenaline through her body. To keep her hands from shaking, she stopped picking at the hangnail and folded her arms in front of her.
“I did? As I recall, I was doing something for you.” He said the words as though he deserved a medal and took another swig of beer.
“It was great of you to make breakfast, but having to clean it up kind of cancels it out. All I asked for was some help.” It felt good to stand her ground for the second time that morning. She was surprised to see that it was easier this time. Practice must make perfect, she thought triumphantly. As good as it felt to stand up to him, she hated conflict and loathed every minute of this.
“Well, la-dee-da,” the words rode out on a blast of smoke as he slowly shook his head. She hated it when he did that. It made her feel like an idiot. “This isn’t about the dishes, is it?”
Annie thought for a second before she spoke. Of course this wasn’t about the dishes -- it was about his going with Kelly on the boat trip yesterday, it was about his not wanting to talk to her about Dillon, it was about everything else in the world but the dishes.
Annie kept telling herself that she shouldn’t hold any resentments against Eric. He had insisted that he’d take care of it, but when the mess sat untouched for hours, she found herself getting frustrated and angry all over again. She found him in front of the T.V. watching a baseball game.
“Who’s winning?” she asked calmly, pushing down her anger until it cooperated and sat still.
“No one – it’s tied,” he replied as he reached for a handful of potato chips.
“Oh.” She hesitated as she stood next to his recliner and then sat down on the couch adjacent to it. She scratched a small scab on her knee where there had been a mosquito bite. They sat in silence for a minute or two until she spoke again.
“I know you said you’d clean up the kitchen, but I just wondered when you were going to do it. It’s almost time to start making dinner.” She said it as pleasantly as she could although she wanted to chastise him for being so lazy. Her heart pounded; her anger had become a fist and was beating from the inside to be let out.
Eric sighed and rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “I said I’d do it ---” He let his voice drift off as his attention was drawn back to the television.
Annie seethed. Obviously he hadn’t heard her when she said that it was nearly time for dinner. Or he had heard her, but didn’t care. Either way, she was finding it difficult to breathe normally and she didn’t know what would happen if she opened her mouth and tried to speak. For all she knew, fire would come shooting out of her mouth and burn him along with his ugly gold velour recliner, to a charbroiled crisp. Even though she couldn’t think of one reason why that would have been a bad thing, she kept her mouth safely shut, hoping the fire within would extinguish itself quickly, without doing too much damage.
She stood up and started to leave the room and was already halfway down the hall when she heard him shout, “Besides, I won’t be home for dinner, so don’t worry about making anything for me.” The words stopped her dead in her tracks. She could hardly believe it. She stood in the hallway, paralyzed by indecision, disbelief and exhaustion.
The attempts she made in the two weeks since Dillon had died, to convey to Eric how his behavior was hurting her, had apparently been made in vain. It had caused her an unbelievable amount of stress to challenge him, to veer off her path of compliance that had become the norm in their marriage, and for what? What good had it done? It had done nothing but add more pain to a heart that was already carrying much more than it was prepared for. What was she supposed to do?
Without making a conscious decision, she found herself in the kitchen, amidst the dried on lumps of pancake batter and the thick, white bacon grease that coated the bottom half of the electric frying pan. Annie released some of her pent up anger by banging the pots and pans as loudly as she could, even though she knew it would irritate her husband. She scrubbed the dishes and the counter with more energy than she’d had in weeks, and found great satisfaction in making everything in the kitchen sparkle and shine. She felt cleansed as she eliminated any trace of Eric ever having made breakfast or of there having been any mess at all. For the moment it gave her peace; for the moment she could breathe a little easier, but deep inside an old familiar feeling began to gnaw at her soul. Annie was oblivious to it because for the time being she was engulfed in grief. She was doing anything and everything she could to maintain her sanity and so the feeling went unnoticed -- or at least ignored.
When the game was over, Eric showered and put on a pair of khaki Dockers and a long-sleeved white shirt. He brought his empty beer bottles and chip bowl to the kitchen and placed them on the counter. The clean, shiny freshness of the room grabbed his attention and he made a little whistle through his front teeth in approval.
“Hey Annie,” he called, “the kitchen looks awesome!” He listened for her to respond and when he didn’t hear anything, he called out again.