Along the way to the ‘S’s she’d stopped now and then to look at a word—cynosure, destructionist, hydromancy, placebo, resistivity. The dictionary was like the estate list her mother had of what had been in her grandmother’s attic at the time of the reading of her will. So these are the things in grandmother’s attic, which we don’t use anymore, although once they had been important in our lives. These are things she had but which she doesn’t have anymore, her being dead, and which we don’t have, our having sold them. This is just a list of what used to be in that huge empty attic up there—this is all we have to remember them, and our grandmother, by.
That list had been no more substantial, really, than a list of the contents of her grandmother’s pantry might have been. And these are the things that she consumed along the way. This is just a list, mind you, for the pantry is now empty, our grandmother having eaten all these things over the course of her long lifetime, a time that has now ended and will not be, ever again.
On Martin’s television, young twenty-somethings lounged on inflated furniture in an indoor pool. She could tell by their body language that several different sorts of flirtations were occurring, seemingly at cross purposes. The volume was turned down so low she could make out a general pattern of tone, but no specific words. This had become Martin’s preferred mode of television watching: the volume turned down, brightness and contrast turned up. The lights in the television room were set to the lowest level of dim. The combination lent a yellowish pallor to his face, interrupted by lightning flashes of white. Simply watching his face she might have thought he was watching battlefield footage.
When Trish got into the ‘S’s, a letter that had never been her favorite, which she hated to use even in Scrabble, she remembered that this was a letter that had vaguely unsettled her even as a child, because it so resembled a snake.
Strange, adj. Foreign, the quality of being alien, not native.
She was somewhat surprised. Was that what the word really meant? She had expected some description of unease. Disquiet. Now that was a good word. Disquiet was the way she felt most of the time, in her house, in her life, in the marriage. Disquietude would be the noun. The place where she lived now.
Not native. That felt absolutely correct. Suddenly, unexpectedly, she had discovered she was not native to this place. The lands at the periphery of her vision, the island out the corner of the eye—that’s where she had come from.
The twenty-somethings were now in a bar somewhere. The camera work was jarring and aggressive, the colors bright, violent. Something about to happen, although she saw nothing evident on the screen. But she did not look away.
Once she’d arrived at the correct place, Trish had felt compelled to read the remainder of that dictionary page. It was like a rest stop on a long trip. Since you were already there, why not visit “the world’s largest prairie dog hole?”
Strange woman, apparently, was an archaic term for a prostitute. There were other meanings, of course. But did they all have some sort of sexual association buried in their etymologies? Weird sisters and harpies and sphinxes. Strangeness back to the beginnings of art and writing. Angie, who believed in astrology and evil spirits and the living Christ, and all manner of things Trish considered strange, said that it was men who made up the words and men who compiled the dictionaries, so it should be no wonder that women were associated with things strange and vaguely sinister.
She became aware of an insistent susurration in the room. She glanced over at Martin, whose breath whistled, as if he had fallen asleep with his eyes open. He fell asleep often these days: in front of his computer, sitting out on the porch. And this despite the fact that he was always in bed before she was. He used to complain about the resulting neck pain in the morning, although now he did not complain about anything, ever.
She did not think he was asleep. She could see his eyes flickering, his tongue darting between his lips. But he continued making that noise. As if he were having difficulty breathing. As if he were in pain.
Susurration. Like snakes gathered together to exchange the secrets of the world. Trish hadn’t realized that she even knew the word.
Martin sat motionless at the dinner table, his eyes two wet gray pebbles floating on yellowing jelly. Late afternoon spring sun afforded a relatively clear glimpse. He’d requested these earlier dinners, and eager to please him (did she imagine this would magically fix things?) she’d obliged. It hadn’t resulted in additional time together, however. He just had more time in the evenings to ruminate, to vegetate, to do exactly what, it now seemed, he did best: to stare unblinking at a life she wasn’t sure she understood anymore. They used to walk in the park, garden, sit in the sun, together, but not anymore. Martin was either too tired or too busy, but she honestly couldn’t figure out what he was being busy at.
His skin had a grayish, raw dough patina. The tiny cracks at the corners of his eyes appeared to have multiplied since the last time she’d noticed. She wasn’t sure, but his hair appeared to be visibly thinner. It was certainly grayer. There was also a puffiness about him, as if air was trapped in hidden pockets beneath the skin.
So people age. Headline news. She chided herself. If he wanted he could no doubt catalog a dozen similar changes in her face. But did he notice her enough to do so? He was still a handsome man—she needed to appreciate more what she had and not, as her grandmother used to say, “borrow trouble.”
“So,” she ventured. “You haven’t said anything about the ham.”
His eyes rolled towards her from somewhere behind his lids. “This isn’t ham.”
“Well, no. It’s what we always have. Turkey ham. It’s healthier.”
“It’s also pinker. Real ham doesn’t come this pink. I don’t believe so, at least. We haven’t had real ham in a very long time, I don’t believe.”
“If you want real ham, Martin, I’d be happy to fix you some real ham.”
“No, no. You said this is healthier.”
“Then what are you trying to say?”
“I’m not trying to say anything. I’m just saying that you asked me about the ham, but this isn’t ham. It’s turkey ham. But it’s perfectly fine for us to eat. It tastes just fine.”
A few years ago she would have been offended by the conversation. He was so hard to please. Now it seemed more likely that he was too easy to please, or that “pleased” hadn’t much meaning for him.
The remainder of their dinner conversation consisted of factual statements about the weather, the progress of the neighbor’s new patio, and a repeated recollection of Molly’s phone call from four days ago. She was pregnant, due in six or seven months. She lived across the country and they rarely saw her. They’d met her husband once, last Christmas. Martin had commented that the young man appeared to be stable, but that he needed a better haircut. She’d agreed. She’d actually said, “I agree,” even though she thought it was a ridiculous thing for him to say. It was the only comment he’d ever made about their son-in-law.
Later that evening Trish peered into the study where Martin was reading. She watched surreptitiously as he periodically turned the pages, tears tracing his cheeks with almost parallel trails. She left quickly so that he wouldn’t see her watching him.
Downstairs she cleaned the kitchen, although it was already spotless. She looked around for laundry to do. Towels were stacked neatly on shelves in the laundry room, sheets were in cabinets, and every bit of clothing except what they had on was tucked away cleaned and pressed in a drawer somewhere. Her rising anxiety was assuaged only when she took off all her clothes and slipped into a fresh clean robe, dropping the clothes into the washer and starting it. She would have just enough time to iron the small load before joining Martin in bed.