Swim, Butterfly Ch. 13

Tipping

November-ring in the holidays! I always look beneath the foundation make-up about my mother-in-law Maureen's eyes for a hint of purple or green or whatever colors a black eye really turns, but see nothing. How does Maureen stay under Poppop Larry's crazy, drunk thumb and remain seemingly unscathed and never physically abused, as far as I can tell? His eyes, always flinty if he's sober, and otherwise bleary; her eyes, always cloudy, mushy, like she was a shapeshifter without the guts to shift into any shape. I hate her for seeming such a stupid, mushy woman, but then I see a little of her in me. Takes one to know one, right? And be careful. We often become that which we hate. Like a bowl of mashed potatoes.

Between Larry's third and fourth beer, I excuse myself from the dining table to help clear the dishes and get the fuck away from Thanksgiving dinner. With a sink full of dishes to rinse, I can finally enjoy the holidays. I smile, remembering that morning in the tub with Jimmy, as I watch the soap suds rise with the water in the sink. The tiny bubbles tickle my fingertips, then envelope and drown those mashed potatoes and gravy and green bean bits.

Maureen hefts a stack of plates into the kitchen, shuffling along in her worn brown slippers, her lips smiling, her eyes vacant. I brace myself for a monologue about the chocolate cake and the apple pie in the refrigerator or recollections of Thanksgivings past. She places a stack of plates on the counter by the sink, taking care to avoid a clatter. She leans abnormally close to me and says, "I don't know why you're with him."

"Pardon?" I leave the water running, hoping no one in the adjacent dining room heard this see-saw statement, tipping either in my favor or in Pete's.

"I don't know why you're with Peter. You two have nothing in common. You don't talk to each other at the table, ever, or to anyone else. I don't think you even like each other, and now you're stuck."

She leaves my side. My arms feel like lead, but my mind's still fluid. Yeah, well, at least Pete's not a drunk. Bitch. She fetches another Schlitz for Larry and I wonder, is she in the sauce, too? A flask under the bathroom sink, maybe? Decanter of sherry in the laundry room? Jesus, sounds like me seven months ago.

I peer around the doorframe and watch Maureen pop open the beer for Larry. Come to think of it, I don't recall Larry asking or telling her to get him a beer. She just does it. A cool breeze blows across my shoulders. I shudder and shove my hands back into the hot, sudsy water.

***

Rudy and June claw at me to drag the dusty boxes of Christmas crap out of the crawlspace the moment we get home from Thanksgiving dinner. I'm actually glad for the distraction after Maureen's odd comment. It makes me wonder how accurately we see ourselves, and how much do we not see at all?

Pete mentions taking June to New York to see the Rockettes' Christmas Spectacular. I think that's a great idea, if he'll actually do it, and he better not tell June unless he's sure. Part of me feels a little jealous, but naturally not because I want to see the Rockettes.

My mind wanders around New York and Christmas and Jimmy while my hands unpack a box. My fingers clasp the soft, red velvety Santa hats and Christmas stockings, reminding me of the red blanket stowed deep in my bedroom closet. I didn't wash it before I stored it in a plastic bag. The slightest scent of Jimmy lingers on the blanket. Or maybe it's just my imagination.

Sometimes I spread the blanket out on the floor when I write to Jimmy. It's close to three months since I saw him in September, and I've become quite creative with my letters. Sometimes I would jot down a silly poem, or sketch a cartoon. It doesn't have to make sense, what I create and send to him. He'd write his own response to it, or tell me it made him laugh, or he simply wrote, 'What the hell was that?' I sent him fall leaves that June and I pressed; he replied, 'Are you leafing me?' I clipped and sent him an article about makeup tips for older women; he sent it back without comment. I created an intricately drawn Valentine, although it wasn't February; he sent me a new pair of men's black trouser socks filled with Lucky Charms. When I poured the leprechauns's sugary loot from the socks, a sparkle caught my eye-a pair of diamond stud earrings. Genuine diamonds? Afraid to find out. I had spent half an hour putting them on and taking them off and finally decided to leave them in my jewelry box for a while. I sent him an empty bowl and spoon with a thank you note inside that said, "Diamonds may be some girls' best friend, but you are mine."

The memory makes me smile as I blindly dig in the box until something sharp scrapes my knuckles. I tease the offending object out of the cluttered box-it's the cookie cutter of a woman in a bell-shaped dress.

I plunk down on my backside, grasping the sharp bitch, and wonder if Jimmy ever hooked up with that dark-haired woman from the train. It's none of my business, but sometimes when I look in the mirror, or walk past a store window, I think I'm going to see her reflection near mine. Shake the thought of her! All these older women, saying strange things to me or popping up in my mind uninvited. Are they trying to tell me something? Probably, but I just don't want to hear it.

***

Flour dust enchants the kitchen over the next few weeks as batches of sugar and gingerbread cookies roll out on the kitchen table, pass through the oven, slide into holly-printed cellophane bags, then disperse to holiday bake sales and teachers' gifts and a couple of small parties. Well, the cookies that don't disappear into our mouths first.

The house, decorated with paper Santas and snowmen, falls into dishevelment as I fall behind on laundry and my already paltry housecleaning. I hardly have time to think about Jimmy, as I jump into sweats in the morning, run a brush through my hair, get the kids off to school, then shop, wrap, shop some more, attend kids' Christmas stuff and so on. Also, I have to plan the trip to Virginia for Christmas with my parents, who retired there some years ago. Only Pete seems unchanged, moving through the holiday flurry displaying little range of emotion.

Despite the busy month, I do try to put things aside when Pete comes home. We sit and have a cup of half-caff and I listen to how his day went. In the past, he complained of feeling ignored over the holidays. I used to retort, 'Then do something with the kids!' He'd reply, 'I just worked all day, Caroline.' Rinse, repeat.

Some people don't want to be happy, and I remind myself that I don't have to be one of them. I will not push him this year. The less I push, the less cranky he is, and the less I'm inclined to hit the bottle. We haven't solved anything, but at least nothing's worse. I wish I could talk to Jimmy about it, in person over coffee and a rock-hard gingerbread man. I wish it were that easy.

One late evening with the kids in bed and Pete in front of the TV, I sit in the den, the desk lit warmly by the little lamp. I slide a piece of paper out of the printer, wishing I had an elegant set of writing paper and envelopes, which is hard to find anymore. I write 'Dear J', then, tapping the end of the pen on my lip, I cross out 'Dear J' and write,

Dear Pete,

I've never written you a letter. I've written many letters in my life, most of them recently, but none to you.

We've been married about ten years now. You are my husband. I am your wife. I am currently indebted to you for my identity, my income, even the neck on which I may hold my head up high, though I had all those things on my own when I was single.

In short, you are everything that has made me Mrs. Peter Donnelly. But I used to be someone else, and she's coming back. I ignored her for too long, and now I'm meeting her halfway. She's walking towards me through a mist. I can't see her face yet, but she's getting nearer. There's someone in the distance behind her. A vague shape, obscured in the same mist, hanging back, waiting.

Do you know where you are, Peter? Because I don't know where I am.

C.

Flopping the letter back and forth in my fingers, I ponder whether to burn it and decide that I like it. Maybe someday I'll send it to Jimmy, so for now, I hide the letter among the trinkets and other letters from Jimmy.

I really wish Pete would find himself. I don't want to spend the rest of my life as a houseplant, and I don't want that for Pete, either.