I offered to give Dickie a list of things he can do as well. For example, he could put his underwear and dirty socks in the hamper instead of leaving them in the middle of the floor, and he could fix that little hole in the corner of the garage, so mice don’t get into the fallout shelter underneath and eat up all our supplies. But Dickie just laughed and told me I’m hilarious. The list of household chores is forme, not him.
“Your dad gave us this beautiful home on this brand-new cul-de-sac. Don’t you want to keep it nice?”
And then I felt guilty. Of course I want to keep a nice house. Of course I want to create a clean, comfortable home for Dickie to return to after work each day.
I guess I just didn’t realize how much work is involved in being a new bride with a husband and a house to care for.
But maybe all married couples go through a period of adjustment. I just need to figure out how Dickie likes things, and then it will be easier.
Sometimes he gets so mad when things aren’t the way he expects them to be, and I never know what might set him off. Like when I didn’t fold his undershirts the way he likes. He ranted and raved for ten minutes. It reminded me of Danny’s final letter from Viet Nam, where he talked about how the jungle was filled with hidden traps, how he had to watch every step when he went out on patrol.
But the rest of the time Dickie is so charming. To me, and everyone else too. Daddy thinks he hangs the moon.
Anyway, the whole gang had a nice little party for me on the sales floor over the lunch hour yesterday, and that was the end of my career at the dealership, where I’ve spent summers and weekends for as long as I can remember. I did a good job too. I’ve kept the books since I graduated from high school. I handled payroll. I even sold a car, once.
I guess they’ll survive without me. But the mimeograph machine and my old Selectric might not make it. That new girl they hired to replace me doesn’t seem very bright.
But maybe being bright doesn’t matter as much as people think.
Danny was the smartest mechanic in the garage, and he died in Viet Nam because he couldn’t afford to go to college and got drafted instead.
And I’m a math whiz. Valedictorian of my class at good old SMA. And look where I ended up. Right here in the kitchen, just like my mother. Pregnant and making pot roast.
Pot roast is #9 on Dickie’s List of suggestions.
Chapter Seven
Piper
Piper got in her car after the PTA meeting and glanced at her dashboard. Nineteen minutes until pickup. Not enough time to go home. Not enough time to make a full run at Target or the grocery store.
It always seemed to work out this way. She felt like she spent entire days killing odd amounts of time.
Seventeen minutes to kill between the end of school and Olivia’s tap class. Twenty-three minutes to kill between voice lessons and the epic commute out to Caitlin’s Irish dance class. Thirteen minutes to kill between Bella’s ballet class andSpongeBobrehearsal.
Heaving a deep sigh, she put the car into gear and headed for the school pickup line.
She pulled in behind a gray minivan emblazoned with Minnesota Twins and Minnesota Vikings decals, a Hollin Terrace Elementary and Middle School bumper sticker (Where learning is fun!) plus an assortment of busy badges for a dizzying array of hockey, baseball, and soccer teams. They even had a bumper sticker advertising theirorthodontist.
She rolled her eyes. Did these people never think about security?
The rear of her car remained naked and unadorned. Political bumper stickers were an invitation for people on the opposite side of the ideological spectrum to cut you off in traffic. School and activitystickers told everyone who you were and where you were going. Why would anyone in their right mind do that?
“Because they have nothing to fear and nothing to hide.”
That’s what Trina, her federally mandated therapist, had said when she’d mentioned this particular form of vehicular insanity.
“Nice people support their school and their soccer league by giving them free advertising space on the back of their car,” Trina had explained.
But of course, Trina could afford to think this way, because Trina didn’t receive death threats from insane people on X.
Unlike Piper.
I have a special knife in my pocket right now. It’s one I plan to use when I skin you alive.
Her muscles clenched as the latest message he’d posted on X last week echoed through her mind.
I can’t wait to kill you slowly and watch you die. I’ll start by removing your clothes. Then your fingers. You will feel the same pain you’ve inflicted on me.
