The makeover on Mulberry Lane

Turn 32 of 44

Fred comes home as you finish cleaning and do the same routine that all housewives do when their husband comes home. After you do that, you Serve Fred's supper at 6 sharp and hear about his day. He says that he found about Carol’s makeover and calls you a good girl for that. You blush when he says that. He finishes dinner and you clean up the kitchen. He says he’s going to watch tv upstairs.

The door opens at ten to six, right on schedule, and there he is — Fred, tall and square-shouldered in his brown suit, smelling of pipe tobacco and cold air, briefcase in hand. You're waiting at the door with your smile on and your apron still tied, and the routine runs itself through you like a well-oiled machine. Coat off, hung just so. Slippers waiting by the footstool. Fred settles into his chair with a sigh like a man arriving at his own name, and you take his hat and his paper and tell him supper's on, honey, and your voice comes out in that honeyed lilt that never wobbles anymore. "Smells like pork chops," he says, approving, the way a man approves a well-kept lawn. "Gravy and all," you say, dishing it up. At six sharp you serve him — chop laid over the potatoes, gravy pooled brown and rich, carrots in coins — and you sit with him with your folded hands while he eats, and he tells you about his day. Numbers, meetings, some fella named Hal who can't keep his reports straight. You listen the way a gal listens, nodding at the right beats, giggling when he wants giggling, and the whole time your mind is as smooth as the shine on your bob. "Oh — and I heard about the woman in the blue house," Fred says, cutting into his chop. "Carol now, is it? Casey's gone, Carol's moved in, pearls and all. Vivian told me at the office." He looks up at you across the gravy boat. "Good girl, Margaret. That's two down." And you *blush*. Actual warmth blooming up through the powder-pink of your cheeks at two words from your husband, and you duck your head and giggle and say it was nothing, really, anyone could've done it — but your heart is singing like the kettle. He polishes his plate clean, has seconds on the gravy, and you clear while he loosens his tie. "Good supper, honey," he says, kissing the top of your bob, and the hairspray holds. "I'll be upstairs with the television. Don't rush the dishes." So he goes up the stairs, heavy even tread, the set clicking on overhead, and you run the water hot and wash his plate, his fork, the gravy boat, wiping each one dry to a squeak. The kitchen comes back to order around you — dishcloth hung, counters wiped, the oven cooling with a tick. You smooth your apron, check the clock, and upstairs the television murmurs through the ceiling like a distant radio sermon.