I vowed that when I got married and had children I’d make them do things for themselves. There’s nothing wrong with fetching something for someone—if you’re up already or whatever, but to expect someone to do everything for you...well, they abolished slavery over a century ago, you know.
Somehow all my good plans went awry. All of a sudden, it seems, I found myself getting your cup of coffee, then leaping up during a commercial to get another cup for you so you wouldn’t miss your show, and then the kids came along, and I was doing this and that for them when they were too little, and suddenly they were bigger kids and still demanding too much from me.
But when I got sick last week and was too tired to do anything for anyone, you all got so belligerent with me. What the hell did I think I was doing? Who did I think I was? And the unkindest cut of all: didn’t I love you all anymore? For God’s sakes, I was sick! I was puking up my guts half the night, running a fever, and all you did was peevishly demand to know why I hadn’t done the laundry. I could have shit the sheets, and you would have just stood there and complained about the smell and not lifted your hands to change them.
I was getting real worried and wanted to go to the doctor for some medicine, but you kept saying there wasn’t anything really wrong with me, that I was just being lazy. Lazy. Right. I think I almost died I was so sick. I was out of my head with fever most of the time.
I guess that’s when I began to see things a lot more clearly. Maybe the fever helped. I don’t know. I just know that I started to feel a lot different after I was back on my feet.
And you were still pouting, still whining that I didn’t love you or the kids.
Of course, I did, but you can love someone almost too much. You can’t smother them, can’t do everything for them; kids—and adults—have to do things on their own. It’s how they become real people.
I’m still tired, you know. This illness really took it out of me. Let me close my eyes for a while. I just want to rest them. That’s what my grandmother always said. We used to tease her about it.
There now. I’m closing them. I’m resting. I’m....
Oh, God, did I doze? Jeez, I guess so. It’s nearly two. Excuse me, while I yawn.
You know for a moment there it was almost like old times. You and me and a drowsy do-nothing type of afternoon. You remember how we use to lay on the bed upstairs, with just the whisper of a breeze coming in the window, stirring those gauzy curtains I’d picked up at the flea market? We would talk for a bit, then drift off to sleep, then wake up again, to finish our conversation, just like minutes hadn’t passed. That was fun.
There were fun times, you know. Don’t think I’ve forgotten them. I haven’t. And there are many more memories I cherish as well.
It’s just that there were so many more bad times, and in the past few years that’s all I’ve had—bad times with you and the kids.
Sorry, Randy. Yawned again. I think I’m going to go to bed early tonight. I’ve got a lot of errands to run tomorrow, and I want to get them done before it gets too hot.
Boy, I wish we had a swimming pool. It sure would be nice to strip and take a swim. The best time would be at night, though, feeling that cool water against my warm skin. Lying in the moonlight, then taking another dip.... We were always going to put in a pool, remember, but somehow we never got around to it. There was always something else for us to spend our money on. The truck, the boat, the cabin at the lake. All the things that you enjoyed. Few of the things that I like.
Well, I guess that’s water under the bridge, or something like that now, right?
Just where did all our hopes go to, hon? What happened to that eager young woman, that attentive man? When did we become the people we are today?
I don’t know. I really don’t.
Maybe it all began to change when the kids came.
Everything changes in a marriage, they say, when you have kids. I didn’t think it would. Not really. I certainly didn’t think our situation would get worse. But it did. The kids might as well have had just one parent for all the help you gave me. If they saw you at all in the first year I’d be real surprised. But boy, when we were out, you sure took all the credit, just like you’d carried them yourself for nine months.
You know, I just never realized how much you envied me. It wasn’t just for having the kids, but for a lot of other things. Things I couldn’t see before. And here you always told me I was the empty vessel, waiting to have something poured in it.
You were wrong. Dead wrong. You were empty.
And that’s all I’ve got to say on the matter. Maybe I’ll be in a better mood tomorrow. Maybe not.
I gotta go.
There. Locked the car doors. I’d crack the windows, Randy, but you understand...the smell and all. I don’t want someone just happening by and getting a whiff of that.
Oh, the air out here is so nice and fresh. It is going to be a scorcher. That sun is so blistering—I knew I should have worn a hat. Oh, well, it’s not that long a walk back to the house.
You know, when we first moved here, I wasn’t sure about living in the country, but you told me that it’d be a good thing. You said it was better that we didn’t have neighbors for miles and miles. Who wanted noisy Parkers coming over any old time?
Well, hon, I think you’re right. Yes, I’m willing to concede on that point. I like being out in the middle of nowhere, with not another soul around for miles and miles and miles.
And this old shed proved to be perfect. It’s nice and remote, and I can keep your car here. And here I wanted to tear down this crummy thing—I mean, it’s so ugly, being metal and all, but no, you said we could store things out here.
You were right.
Damn, that’s twice, Randy. I’ve gotta watch that.
You understand why I didn’t want to use my car—it’s up at the house, by the way. C’mon, you know why...stains. And I just had it thoroughly cleaned inside and out, you know. You were always so picky about your car—there couldn’t be a blade of grass or scrap of paper in it, or you’d pitch a fit. That’s why we always had to take the kids in my car; little children leave gummy fingerprints on everything, and barf, and just generally make messes, and you couldn’t have that in your precious automobile. And you were forever washing it; I’m surprised the paint didn’t come off from all the waxing and polishing you did.
You know, I think you paid more attention to your car than to your kids or me.
This must just drive you nuts.
Oh, now, c’mon, you can sob all you want and try to scream, but you know you aren’t going to be heard with that gag. It’s real secure, and so are those handcuffs and the rope. If you don’t struggle, you won’t get choked by the noose. See, it’s a slip knot. My brother was a Boy Scout, and he taught me all the knots when I was a kid; he said he never saw anyone learn so quickly. I just hope you don’t chafe yourself too raw. You might bleed all over that precious leather upholstery. Besides, as you always pointed out, there’s no one for miles and miles to hear you or the kids.
I’ll just give the old trunk a thump—ah, yes, they’re still conscious. Hush, you two, be a good boy and girl. Daddy doesn’t like noise, you know, and you really ought to try to be nicer to him now that you’re all having this quality time together.
I’ll be back tomorrow, Randy, regular as clockwork. I haven’t missed a day in the past week, have I, although I reckon it won’t be much longer. I hear it’s supposed to get up over a 100 again tomorrow, with no let up in the temperature at all through the weekend. All this heat...and