Day 3

It's much too soon for my escape. Although the allure of the
welcomed diversion continues to inhabit some small space in the back of
my mind, I feign off thoughts of the beloved freedom that awaits. There
are gifts to buy, clothes to launder, dinner to prepare (don't I need
to run to the grocery? no, wait, I'll make the chicken), and, of
course, those ubiquitous bills to pay. And the children. I can't forget
the children. Without even thinking, I'd volunteered to help out with
the imaginary trip to Germany my son's second grade class will be
taking today at noon (damnit, root beer, I forgot to buy the root
beer). Why is it that I feel so predictably compelled to help out at
such events, as if the teachers will be forever indebted to my selfless
fulfillment of motherly duties, as if all the other haughty mothers
will cease their wicked gossip upon my arrival and welcome me to the
classroom. I decide, or convince myself rather, that I do it and will
do it, for my son, because he will revere the gesture for weeks to
come.


I roll over and slide even deeper into the chill of the
white, bleach-scented sheets, cast a sleepy glance towards the
television just in time to see the anchor woman I've come to despise,
the way her top lip never moves when she speaks, the way her makeup
exaggerates the roundness of her glaring, imperious eyes which seem to
be glowering, mocking everyone else's squalid existence. The burden of
life is already beginning to make itself known, and it's barely past
eight in the morning.


At least the air conditioning is working. Much better than
the day before. Eighty-five degrees inside was too hot for anyone. I
imagine for a moment Hell, that it must, just simply must, be far
hotter than what I'd had to endure on the previous day. I clamber from
the respite of my bed and walk sleepily into the living room and grab a
cigarette. Who goes to Hell anyway? I half-heartedly light my cigarette
and sit down at the breakfast table, watching the smoke swirl away,
turn, and then pretend to come back towards me, only to disappear upon
its approach. I stare down at the placemat lying in loneliness on the
table in front of me, wondering if the woody strands were woven by
machine or hand. Machine. Everything's made by machine these days. No
one takes the time to carefully produce handmade artifacts, especially
ones whose purpose is merely catching the slop fallen off a careless
spoon.


At this moment, with the house completely lifeless and still,
the children off to school, my husband at work, the anchor woman
yapping, the newly repaired air conditioner miserably trying its best,
the smoke swirling, the placemat taunting me with remnants of last
week's dinner desperately clinging to its fibers, I know with abiding
certainty that I could, in fact, get in my car and drive straight off a
bridge into the tempting dreadfulness of the chasm of which the bridge
was built to bypass. Will the other mothers, the ones at the school,
the ones bleating on the sidelines of the soccer fields, the ones I
usually pass at the grocery on Saturday mornings, notice that I am no
longer present? Or will they simply carry on, criticizing the oversized
woman that dared wear those shorts in public, nitpicking every muscle
their child moved, whining about their husbands, or how the weather had
just completely flattened their hair? Laughing, but not out loud, I
vote hair.


Ignoring the pain of morning hunger roiling within my
stomach, I stand, perfectly smash out the cigarette, smashing,
smashing, until every last ember turns from orange to gray, turn and
grudgingly walk back to the bedroom. I'd rather smoke a hundred packs
of cigarettes than stay in the kitchen and force even one morsel into
myself. Besides, nothing sounds good. It never does. And even now I
don't understand the appeal of sizzling pig parts so early in the
morning, or ever for that matter. I stop for a moment and manage a
glance back towards the kitchen at the brown-black, clay pig statue
that is ironically sitting on the second shelf of the baking rack. He
looks quite implausible with his pet collar and cartoon-like smile,
which seem to be declaring his gladness that none of his cousins will
be uselessly devoured. I continue to the bedroom to complete - or start
- the arduous task of getting ready for the day that lay
ahead.


It isn't long before the phone rings, like clockwork. I let
it ring the maximum number of times possible before the machine picks
up while I decide whether I want to take his call. In just a fraction
of a second, two or three scenarios mess about my mind, possibilities
of what might ensue if I decide against it.


"Hello," I force out, trying to sound happy but knowing that
I rarely succeed.


"Hey, how are you. What are you doing?" he redundantly asks,
as if my answer will somehow be different than the day before, as if
something quite extraordinary will fall from my lips as I sit still in
my underwear gritting my teeth at the mere clatter of his voice. I
remember how funny it sounds to me, his voice, calm, seemingly sincere,
inquisitive, so?normal.


"Fine."


"What are you doing?"


"Nothing, I'm just?"(oh God think of something, think of
something to tell him, something productive I have planned for the day)
"?getting ready to start my day."


"Yeah, but what?"


Jesus-Fricking-Christ. "Um, let's see. I have to go to the
bank to make a deposit, I have to go to the grocery store, then I have
to go to Sean's party at school, then I have to pay bills. What do you
want for dinner tonight?" I try desperately to change the
subject.


"I don't care. Why do you have to go to the grocery
store?"


Why does it matter? "What do you mean 'why do you have to go
to the grocery store?' Why does anyone go?" I try hopelessly to not
sound sarcastic, but I know I have failed. I have given him exactly
what it takes to send him soaring, nothing more, nothing
less.


"Why do you have to be so secretive? Why are you always so
damned evasive?"


"I'm not. It's just that, well, what kind of question is
that? Who asks that? It's like you're checking up on me. No one really
cares about something so insignificant. I need to pick up a few
things." Great. I just made it worse. I've now accused him of accusing
me, at least that's how he'll see it. But I must admit that I have a
difficult time believing he actually cares about what items I need to
get, even though his line of questioning pretends to be telling another
story. Awful shame it is that he doesn't pay as much attention to
matters of greater magnitude, like how one must feel when at the
receiving end of his antics, his rages. I'd have more respect for him
if he'd just speak the truth, something less patronizing. Like, "Wow,
crappy day ahead of you," or "Spaghetti sounds good". But it's always
like this?.afterwards. When he has nothing left to say, nothing to say
in defense of his actions, it's almost as if he's trying too hard,
trying to seem genuinely interested in one final, futile attempt to
make up for everything. And absurd sentences come from his mouth. And
I, well, I know better. He'd be just as well off to ask how I planned
to get to the bank, by walking or flying? That would be, at least, less
ridiculous.