Katherine Frazier
Ever since we moved into the new house she didn't look at me the same way.
Perhaps it was because of our disparities in success. The new house was a result of my promotion; I became the youngest executive at Gray & Carson. Lorraine, however, had only produced one child after trying for five years. I would never have pointed out her failure, but she is a perceptive woman. She knows what she hasn't done.
The new house only exaggerated the issue. Perhaps it was a monument to my success; the tiny crib was inferior by comparison. Instead of welcoming me home from work she would only stare. Her eyes no longer gathered at the edges, instead the skin around them stayed smooth and motionless. After a few moments of that our evenings would carry on as usual. Lorraine would then deliver my scotch, serve the meatloaf, and tell me about her day while I read the paper.
Now, the Smithfield News & Record is perhaps not the most compelling piece of journalism, or the most accurate. For example: when Lorraine's sister died, in her obituary they listed her mother, Sophia, as her sister and Lorraine as her daughter. Preposterous. I, of course, called right away. I insisted they print a retraction. It was ridiculous how many calls I got with condolences about my mother-in-law who was, quite clearly, alive and well at the time. It bothered Lorraine as well, the blatant disregard for facts; the poor thing ran from the dining room table when I read the obituary to her.
The Record really botched it when her father was in the eight-car pile-up. They said he survived with minor injuries, which couldn't have been further from the truth; his obituary was in the same day's paper after all. Lorraine was so upset she burned the meatloaf.
It was, in fact, a bad year for Lorraine and the News & Record. When her mother passed the following December the paper listed her cause of death as anorexia rather than an aneurism. That was quite beyond a typographical error. I handled that problem without telling Lorraine of the mistake. I wanted to protect her delicate sensibilities. After all, she is a lover of facts, like me. I dare say I am all she has left.
Now, the day Lorraine changed, I came home at 6:30 after cards with Gregory, because it was Thursday. Also, because it was Thursday, I took off my grey jacket and hung it in the closet and slid my black loafers off beside the door.
I could hear her working in the kitchen and I called out, “Lucy, I'm home.” because it was Thursday and we watch repeats of I Love Lucy on Thursday nights.
I knew something was off when she did not welcome me home.
I became worried when I saw the table was not yet set.
I was truly concerned when she did not bustle around the corner with my scotch.
So I walked into the kitchen, ready to forgive. "Running a bit behind dear?"
When I saw her she was pulling the meatloaf out with one pink floral oven mitt on her right hand and one green plaid mitt on her left. She sat the pan on top of the stove, took off her oven mitts, and turned to me.
Her hair was up in a bun. She just looked at me without a word, letting her eyes slide down to my sock feet. I looked back a moment, waiting for an answer. Steam was rising off the meatloaf.
When it seemed clear she was not going to speak I went to the cabinet and poured my own scotch in a rocks glass with three ice cubes. When I finished Lorraine was the same as I had left her. The steam from the meatloaf was leaving water droplets on the cabinet above. I feared it would grow cold.
"Well I suppose you have work to do." I told her, "I'll check on the baby."
Though I normally do not check on the baby till after my cigar, I supposed it would give her time to finish up. No woman can be on time every day. The baby was dull and sleeping and when I returned Lorraine was pulling out my chair. Portions of meatloaf were properly distributed and water glasses were filled. Perfection.
Thursday's Smithfield News & Record was beside my plate and I read it, telling her about the mistakes and more interesting articles while she talked to me about her day. As usual.
My favorite story and perhaps the most vexing of the day concerned the unsanitary practices at a meat processing plant. I read it to Lorraine; it vexed her as well.
The Hillshire chicken processing plant received a failing grade from health inspectors on Wednesday. It was found that the chickens were not being cleaned properly. I had lunch with Jackie from down the street today. In addition, their sorting process was found to be faulty. You remember Jackie. She is the one who brought us that lovely cake when we moved in. Poultry waste and intestines were being packaged with the chicken breasts. She and Simon are separating. Company president, Archibald Sims, refused interview. However, employee Donald Watkins was available for comment. We went to the Olive Garden; I figured I'd splurge on her to cheer her up. When asked his opinion on the unsanitary practices Watkins said, "Well you're chicken tastes the same weather we clean it or not." That isn't the right "your" at all. She seemed to be taking it rather well. He wants y-o-u-r not y-o-u-apostrophe-r-e. What he wrote here isn't the possessive. And when we left she insisted on paying for me. Can you imagine that? You see the writer used the conjunction by mistake so he accidentally said, "You are chicken tastes the same." That makes no sense at all. It's a common enough mistake but you'd think the editor would have caught it.
After I told her all about the trouble with the Hillshire article, the baby began to cry. She wiped her mouth and ran upstairs to tend to it. I finished my meatloaf and Lorraine came back down and lit my cigar. I smoked while she washed the dishes.
Normally I would have checked on the baby, but as that was already done I went straight to the television. We watched the last half of an old Honeymooners episode and then we watched I Love Lucy. It was the episode where Lucy gets a job at the chocolate factory; mine and Lorraine's favorite.
The next day and the next our evenings commenced normally, with the exception of the staring.
On Tuesday I came home at seven because it was Tuesday and I have a drink with Gregory at O'Shanes after work on Tuesdays. As I walked up the drive I saw Jackie from down the street leaving my house. She smiled and told me that she had brought Lorraine some tomato sauce. Because it was Tuesday, when I entered I took off my brown jacket and loafers and Lorraine was there to take my jacket. She handed me a scotch, which was all wrong. I don't have a scotch at home Tuesdays because of the drink at O'Shanes with Gregory. I sipped it anyway, to be polite, and she stared again.
There were some tomato splatters on her apron and her hair was up in a bun. Her make-up was fresh and her lips a redder shade than usual. I simply looked back until the kitchen timer went off. Lorraine jumped and took out the meatloaf, which she served. A splotch of tomato sauce landed on the title of the human-interest story I told Lorraine about while she talked about her day.
A brown German shepherd was saved from euthanasia at the pound on Sunday. Fido belonged to the Saint Clare family who had lost him several months before. Jackie and I took Billy Junior to the park today. While Sarah, the teenage daughter of the family, walked the dog one afternoon Fido wriggled out of his collar and ran away. The family's search for the dog that day proved futile. Billy likes her a lot, you know. He doesn't cry at all when she holds him. The Saint Clare family posted flyers about town but received no responses. After several weeks they had given up on the dog. Jackie is already looking for a place to live once the divorce goes through. But the son, Donny, refused to give up on Fido. Every weekend he spent his allowance on bus rides to various pounds and animal shelters around the county. Still there was no sign of Fido anywhere. His parents insisted he stop looking. She is a little worried about living alone. She seemed so sad; I almost wanted to stay with her. Keep her company. This past Sunday Donny slipped out, despite his parents' wishes, to look for Fido one last time. He arrived at Smithfield's dog pound just an hour before the black German shepherd was scheduled to be put down. That was a silly idea wasn't it? Just a few paragraphs before they wrote that Fido was brown. Wasn't it? They need a better fact checker.
Despite the discrepancy both Lorraine and I were touched by Fido's story. When the baby cried Lorraine went to it and I finished my meatloaf. She lit my cigar and I lingered with the smoke as I read a few articles in the paper. The 49ers were expected to lose to the Panthers, except that they were spelled without the E. I disposed of the cigar and then I checked on the baby. It slept like an angel, hugging a teddy bear. I put a plush football in his crib and then Lorraine and I went to bed because it was Tuesday night. Lorraine, however, had a headache and wished to go straight to sleep, so I went downstairs to watch some television, but not before I kissed her good night and told her I loved her anyway. It was Tuesday after all.
The Monday of the third week of staring was even more unsettling. I came home at six because Monday is family day. I took off my blue jacket and black shoes and put them away. The baby was in his playpen in the middle of the living room floor. I kissed Lorraine on the cheek and then played with the baby. Lorraine stared at me; her eyes had tinges of red around their edges and her hands gripped the edge of her apron. Her hair was down.
I alternated between peek-a-boo and tickling the baby for fifteen minutes. Then I bounced the baby on my knee for a minute. I held the baby's hands and helped it walk around the room for at least five minutes and then I put the baby back in the playpen. I looked up to find she was staring in nearly the same way as before. Her apron was bunched up in her hands, her knuckles were pale. I cleared my throat and she blinked a little but did not move.
"Dear, I think it's time for my scotch."
Lorraine nodded slowly and then after a moment went and fetched my drink. I sipped it and watched the baby. Tiny sausage fingers gripped the padded bar across the top as he held himself upright. His brown eyes crinkled around the edges as his tongue-filled smile shone in my direction. They were Lorraine's eyes, not mine at all.
I sat down in my chair in the dining room as she brought out the meatloaf. She dropped it on the table and the ceramic platter cracked. A few ceramic triangles clinked against the table and tomato sauce seeped through the crack and created a pale red puddle. We both looked at it a moment then raised our eyes to each other. She didn't say anything. She simply looked back down and cut each of us a slice of meatloaf. Then she sat down.
The News & Record was missing.
"Where's my paper dear?"
"I don't know" She took a bite of meatloaf.
I couldn't eat. "I need to read it. Gregory told me about a story-"
"Do you love me William?"
I was out the door before I could answer. At the foot of the driveway was the Smithfield News & Record. Water droplets from the lawn sprinkler were scattered across the plastic wrapper.
I went back inside. My socks were damp and grass-stained. Lorraine did not look up. She carefully cut her meatloaf and chewed it. I sat down and read her the story Gregory had told me about while she talked about her day. Like normal. Perfect.
Jefferson Elementary School was victim to a grease fire that destroyed the entire cafeteria and several sixth grade classrooms. Jackie moved into her new apartment today. The fire began in the cafeteria kitchen when two kindergarten students strayed from their class and into the kitchen. In the confusion that ensued, hot grease was spilled onto the open burner of a gas stove. Billy and I visited her. She has a nice place, lovely really. The fire quickly spread through the kitchen and into the dining area. She kissed me. The panic of the school children caused an unorganized evacuation. Many of the younger children were trampled or blocked from the exits by the rush. It isn't the first time. Thomas Thurman, Alice Myers, and Saul Buster, the three children in the kitchen, were severely burned. I thought again about living with her. Seven other children suffered injury and one cafeteria worker, Sandra Fullman, died. It's a silly idea isn't it? Fullman received fatal burns while aiding Buster, Myers, and Thurman out of the flames. Tell me it's a silly idea. Didn't they say two children were in the kitchen? Please William. Leave it to the News & Record to botch the story of such a tragedy.
The baby began to cry. Lorraine stared at me. Her head was upright. Her eyes were clear. I cut myself a piece of meatloaf. Lorraine lifted the baby out of the playpen and carried it upstairs. I finished my dinner. I still heard crying. I went upstairs to check on the baby, to see if Lorraine needed help. The baby was sleeping soundly. I could still hear sobs from down the hall. I followed the noise to the bathroom door and listened to the echo against the tiles through the door. When the sound stopped a moment for some sniffles and wheezes I rapped my knuckles against the door. The sound of scrambling feet responded followed by the slow click of the lock.
It was past time for my cigar. So, because it was Monday, I set up Trivial Pursuit. I lit my cigar while I waited. I turned on the television and watched an old Odd Couple episode. She never came down.
A fly landed on the meatloaf.
After an episode of Dick VanDyke I went upstairs. Lorraine was in bed. I put on my green pajamas because it was Monday and leaned over to kiss her forehead. With a muffled sound from her mouth she rolled over, my lips grazed her hair instead. I carefully climbed into the bed and went to sleep.
Tuesday was unsuccessful again, despite Tylenol. Wednesday, movie night, was lonely.
Thursday I came home at 6:30 after losing at cards to Gregory. As I pulled into the driveway I saw the News & Record sitting at the edge of the yard. I brought it inside with me and, because it was Thursday, I hung up my grey jacket in the closet and placed my black shoes by the door.
I called out "Lucy, I'm home" because we watch I Love Lucy on Thursday nights. There was no answer.
I went into the kitchen and did not find her there. It was time for my scotch so I opened the cabinet and found the bottle of scotch empty. Instead I poured myself some water in a rocks glass with three ice cubes. The meatloaf was not on the table and the table was not set. Little puffs of black smoke slipped out of the oven door. I grabbed two green plaid oven mitts and used them to pull out a charred meatloaf.
I turned off the oven. I set the table and made a bologna sandwich. I read the Smithfield News & Record silently, to myself.
"The" was spelled "teh" on page 4c.
After I finished my sandwich I waited, but the baby did not cry.
I lit my cigar and puffed on it for a moment before I abandoned it. I went up the stairs to check on the baby who was not there. All that remained was a small stuffed football. Nothing cried.
I went downstairs and sat on the couch, finishing my cigar. When it was time, I turned on the television to watch a repeat of I Love Lucy.
The show was replaced that day by a made-for-television movie about Jacqueline Kennedy-Onasis.
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