A small town girl makes good, marries well. Perhaps I should be grateful. I walk my children from the front door of our home to the end of the street to catch the bus every morning. I return to my pretty prison-my luxurious palace at the center of the cull-de-sac-and every day I hope to watch it burn to the ground. I’d prefer it were my soul watching the smoldering flames reduce this place into a blackened skeleton. My body would be inside charring and flaking along with the cerulean Ralph Lauren paint and every other worthless possession. I wouldn’t even scream.
I sit at my vanity for hours on end staring at my vacant reflection. The more I stare, the more I see my face stiffen and crack like air dried cake batter. This lifestyle has ruined me. The hours flit away like the excess powered blush I apply every morning. It floats in the air before descending to join the other unused, discharged particles on the floor; another day lay to waste. After my face is smoothed over, I grip firmly to the handle of my antique silver hairbrush, and smooth down the wild ends of my thin blonde hair. The brush, which now is beginning to tarnish, was a gift from my mother. It was one of the few gifts from her worth keeping. With it sadly came my mother’s preoccupation with image and order. Nothing no matter how tender the bruise or the depth of the charcoal grey eclipse around the eye was too great to be shrouded by blush or smoothed down by comb and brush.
My reflection is often visited by my house keeper’s. I despise her for reasons unknown to me and my therapist. She was my husband’s idea. He thought it would be best to have someone keep up with the housework after I proved to be useless following the birth of our second child. If I were still an intellectual, I’d ponder why it seems only women are fit to clean houses.
Sometimes I’ll leave my empty vodka glasses on the mahogany wood table in the living room and yell at her about the eminent water stains as a result of her negligence. She’s threatened to quit countless times, but my husband’s finesse and wallet have kept her scrubbing our toilets.
The phone rings. The ball of my feet slap against the wood floors as I walk with indifference to the source of the high pitched chiming. It’s my husband. I’ll surely need to put my pills in the blender after I hang up.
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Hello, how’s work?”
“The same way it was yesterday. Look, I found a letter from your brother. He invited us to his house for a Halloween party.”
He didn’t find the letter. It wasn’t lost. I threw it the trash can. “Well, you can find time to tell him we aren’t coming.”
“I think it would be good for the kids to spend time with their uncle and their cousins-“
“I’d rather not, Harold.”
“What happened with your brother was a long time ago, when are you going to let that go? Try forgiveness. Isn’t that what that therapist is for? I gotta go. I have a meeting in five minutes.”
I didn’t say good-bye. There wasn’t a need. My hand was still stinging from slamming the phone on the kitchen counter.
I expect one of the other housewives to come cheerfully knocking on my door. She’ll no doubt be buzzed from her Vicodin cocktail. This morning it’s Heather Cables, my most frequent visitor. She finds any reason she can to invade my house, and lure me into conversation about her husband and pretentious daughter. It’s not as if Heather wants my advice. She simple wants my ears, a mere sounding board as she verbalizes her neurosis. If I were sober, her words would no doubt drive me to tears, but instead I watch her lips move, and periodically I’ll listen to a few words before my mind sifts to other thoughts. Surely I can piece enough together to have a succinct summary of her chatter. Her daughter doesn’t love her is the basis of our discussion today. I suppose this is better than despising your children as I do. The sound of their voices pierces my ears until I feel I may go deaf, a welcomed loss of sense.
“Well what do you think, Karen? Maybe I should try to speak with Warren about it, but he’s so busy with work.”
I don’t think. I don’t care. Today my mind is tormented not with the sound of Heather’s nasal voice but a darker and more maniacal tone. I hear it constantly and it alerts me to run to my vanity. I can’t forget to take my medicine. I won’t excuse myself in front of Heather. None of the dewy-eyed wives know that I too fancy the small orange bottles with the generic and robotic print on the sterile white label. ‘Mitchell comma Karen’. It is the only calm I have. You better not tell anyone, you dirty little whore. I can hear my heart racing. I fidget with my silk chiffon so Heather will comment on its’ beauty and not my nervous manner. She does of course, before continuing her woes. I can feel my back thrusting against the rank hardwood floor instead of positioned rigidly on my floral divan. I could see the scattered nude magazines lying next to me and feel the crumpled papers digging into my back. I didn’t want to look at his face. It was strained and contorted from his twisted pleasure and fear of being discovered. You better not tell anyone, you dirty little whore. I wouldn’t tell. I wasn’t even there. My soul had taken flight and had only been a third party briefly to witness the first of many rapes I endured from my brother. He’s a police officer now.
I didn’t tell my husband about my childhood until after we married. He thought I needed to have a child; someone I could vicariously nurture and protect and devote what was left of my wilted life to entirely. You can’t resurrect the dead he’d often say after firing his employees. I knew though he often spoke of me.
I couldn’t confide in Heather about the musky metered breath I felt warming my face. She was too preoccupied with who designed my plate setting. Kate Spade. So I just remained quiet while my thoughts chewed their way through my brain like starved termites until Heather realized it would soon be time to pick up her daughter. I too would have to fetch my children, but not before I ran to my room holding my stomach and covering my mouth-mustn’t ruin the wood floors-kneeling down in prayer over my toilet. When I had composed myself, I crawled to my vanity and stood in front of it on my knees. I picked up my prescription bottle with such haste I failed to notice how light it felt. The top shot off from the pressure of my thumb and I looked down in disbelief at the powered residue inside of the empty bottle. I had forgotten to refill my prescription. There would be no time to run to the store, not with the children. No one will ever believe you. I can hear the school bus pulling up to the front of the street. I have to go get the children.
I held them both tightly after they bolted from the bus. I squeezed them in my arms the way they tried to hold me-when frightened-before they realized I had no desire to protect them.
“Hi, mommy! Look what I made for you.”
“Thank you, Lauren, it’s beautiful. Peter, give me your hand.”
I ushered the children in the house and had the maid fix them some sandwiches. I told them to go outside and play with their friends. I couldn’t stand for them to see me like this anymore. My hands trembled feverishly as I grabbed a handful of ice cubes from the freezer and transported them to an empty glass. I didn’t measure the appropriate amount of Vodka as I would usually. I poured continuously watching the cubes crack and float to the rim of the glass. You better not scream. I cradled my cheek in my hand. I could almost feel the hard slaps he inflicted on me to keep me quiet. I walked into the living room and sat down on my divan. I put my drink on the table on top of a coaster, and felt around under the divan for my cigarettes. Normally, I’d never smoke in the house. I’ll have to make sure to spray the house down thoroughly before the children come back. No one knows about this habit of mine, and little Lauren has terrible asthma; I can only suppose that’s my fault too. Karen, we’ve already touched on your Post Partum Depression. I want to address some of the other issues.
“I don’t want to talk anymore!” There was no one there. It was all in my mind. I tipped the glass to my lips followed by a long drag from my cigarette. I sunk back into the divan as the voices seemed to subside. I could feel the stiff cushion instead of the dusty and dank wood floor of my childhood home. You expressed some feelings of anger and betrayal at your husband’s reception last fall. I want to explore that.
The house was lovely that night. The air was crisp and cool and we set up heat lamps on the patio for the guests. We’d have Glazed Red Snapper with butternut squash and mixed vegetables for dinner followed by a choice of Crème Brulee or Mango Sorbet. My energy was exhausted by my vain attempts to keep up with my husband. I felt like I was in a high speed police chase trying to maintain his pace as he mingled with his colleagues. I lashed out at the maid to vent my frustration. All of the guests needed full glasses of champagne. I wouldn’t have been preoccupied with him if any of the neighbors had been invited. He said it would be a conflict of interest if any of them had attended. They were not as cultured or refined as us. He smoothed over his arrogant remarks by adding that I didn’t care for them-being the other housewives-anyway. It just would have been nice to have familiar faces about admiring the artwork, or remarking on the Swarvoski crystal center piece or inquiring about the designer of my dress. Yves Saint Laurent I’d reply with an artificial but content smile. My husband had left me alone and defenseless, and I was cornered at the fireplace by two ghostly pale women who looked as if they could smell a fresh kill from miles away.
“You must be Harold’s wife. I’m sure you’re excited about his success.”
“Yes, I am proud of him. Are you enjoying the party?”
“Oh yes. Your home is very- eclectic.”
“So Mrs. Mitchell, what do you do for a living?”
“Well, I actually don’t work.”
The look on their faces made my shoulders raise and tense like the head of a cobra. Instead of feeling like I was quick, agile, and ready to strike, I felt frozen as does the prey. Their silence and judgmental gaze made me feel like I was worthless. There was nothing I could say. The women had diverted their attention to someone behind me.
“I think I see Mrs. Graves. She just opened her private practice last month. Excuse us, Mrs. Mitchell.”
The last of the champagne was consumed and all sticky orange coated spoons and plates were washed and laid to dry and my side of the bed was shadowed while Harold’s bedside lamp kept me from my sleep. I rolled over to face him. He didn’t notice. He continued thumbing through the pages of his book.
“Tomorrow I’m going to start looking for a job.”
“What prompted this decision?” He asked, refusing to look me in the eye.
“I’ve felt this way for awhile now. I think it’s time for me to establish myself.”
“Karen.” His tone, the way he snatched off his glasses-like grabbing the arm of a misbehaving child-made me his inferior. “What makes you think you can handle the work force? You can’t even take care of this house. You-you can’t go one day without taking your meds.”
I looked away from him. He began to resemble my brother pressing himself down on me as I drifter even further from my mother’s watch. It was then I realized my place in both of these houses; unwillingly forced on my back. No one will ever believe you.
My glass is almost empty, and the voices persist. My cigarette continues to burn although I’m not smoking. That’s how life is. It continues on with or without you. The pages of the classifieds I circled and underlined had yellowed as if stained with coffee, and a year to the date of the reception found me yellowing as well. Yes, life does press on. I can’t decide which is the way for me. Which would you choose, Karen?
“Didn’t I just say I don’t know?!”
Would it be your choice to leave Harold and provide for the children and yourself without his money or would you stay married and remain discontent? Let’s face it that is the question at hand.
His money. That’s laughable. When I met him he was a bus boy at dingy blue collar diner. I’m surprised he didn’t attempt to write his high school diploma on a piece of notebook paper. I had everything when I met him and now I live like an indentured
servant to a pompous pusher. It’s not a question of staying or leaving. This is question of hatred, either of self for staying or from my children for leaving. I didn’t say these words. My tongue felt mealy and numb and the only audible sound I could make was a guttural, baritone wail. Well, there has to be something about your life you’d change.
Excuse me, I believe you and I spoke earlier.
Yes, Mrs. Mitchell.
Her frantic eyes darted over my shoulders, pleading for someone to save her from me.
The look you gave me when I said I didn’t work, what was the meaning behind it?
I don’t know that I gave you a certain look-
You did. My shoulders tensed again and I leaned forward in a sudden rush of confrontation.
Well, would you like me to apologize for this faux pas?
No. Just understand that I’m more than just Harold’s wife. None of you would be in my eclectic house tonight if I hadn’t drafted the business plan that got him started. How dare you treat me this way!
Karen, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.
Her eyes were the size of silver dollars as my hand gripped so easily over her mouth and chin. I mimicked her words. How mild and weak she sounded. How revolting. My grip tightened. You better not scream, I told her. No wonder my brother loved those words, simple as they were but so insolent. Her fall seemed orchestrated like the faints of newly healed cripples on televised holy shows. The chatter stopped, heads turned to see me. My look dared anyone to speak. I picked up my champagne glass with my rebuking hand and tilted my head back to take in the celebrating bubbles. I threw the glass into the fireplace and the fire blazed brighter accepting its’ offering. I walked into the dinning room, and jumped onto my table, replacing my Swarvoski center piece with my tense body. I stomped the right heel of my Christian Louboutin pumps on the table for more bewildered stares and cavernous jaws. With clenched fists at my side I began to scream.
I am more than these clothes, and this house! I have a name and isn’t Harold’s wife. It’s Karen fucking Mitchell and you’re here tonight because of me!
The calm I felt was surreal. It was like the end of a long search one that my pills could never provide. I could feel the roar of the fireplace rose my cheeks and warm my winter’s blood. I could be better now. Such a lovely home. I know. The smell of smoke was curious but not alarming as I drifted off to sleep, my cigarette still burning. I let it live. I wasn’t to be the one extinguishing it anyway. The children, thankfully they weren’t inside.
My soul rose from the ashes like a brilliant phoenix. I spread my lava-red and gold wings to infinity. The smoke folded and rounded under the force of my span. I was higher than my cull-de-sac and more beautiful and luminous than the moon. It felt like the day had never happened. It was like I wasn’t there.
