c8

Marty got home from the shop at six, her arms full of groceries and Joe's uniform pants from the dry cleaner, her legs aching after a long day on her feet. She could hear Jason whacking around toys in his room, but all else was quiet. Joe might be lying down in the bedroom. There was a disturbing smell in the house; she wrinkled her nose. Then she put down her groceries and separated them, putting some in the refrigerator, some in the cupboards, leaving out the meat, potatoes and green beans. She flipped on the oven, sniffing again. She'd have to figure out that smell; they didn't have a dog.
She mixed up a meat loaf and put it on a baking sheet. She got the potatoes peeled and boiling, snipped the ends off the beans and put them in the vegetable steamer. Then she started picking up—dishes, toys, clothes, shoes, newspapers, pillows from the sofa. As she was putting things away, she found Joe in the room that passed for his office. The smell was stronger. It couldn't have gotten this bad, she thought. "I'm home," she said.
He turned away from the computer and grinned at her. "Hey, babe. First preseason game on tonight!"
"Joe, do you smell like shit?"
He sniffed at himself. "Me and Jase—we composted around the trees and flower beds. Fall's here. I washed my hands."
"Joe," she said earnestly, "you have to wash more than your hands. Shower before dinner. We shouldn't have to eat with that smell!"
"It's not that bad," he said, brushing her off. "There's a game starting in less than an hour…." He turned back to the computer.
"It won't take fifteen minutes," she informed him.
"Yeah, sure," he said.
"What are you doing?"
"Fantasy football—it starts in a couple of weeks. I'm boning up. I'm going to kill it this year."
She pursed her lips and left. She went and kissed her boy, gathered up dirty clothes—Joe's off the floor—and threw in a load of laundry. While dinner was finishing up, she ran the vacuum around the family room to suck up crumbs from bread and chips, dusted some of the wood, used glass cleaner to get the fingerprints off the patio doors, kitchen appliances and her bathroom fixtures. Joe was still at the computer. She put plates out on the table, transferred laundry. When dinner was ready, she called Jason and Joe. She was whipping the potatoes when Joe entered the kitchen, came up behind her as she worked, slipped his arms around her waist and nuzzled her neck with his scratchy beard. The smell was horrible! She wasn't sure she could eat dinner with him without getting sick. "You look real sexy tonight, babe," he said. "You have a good day?"
"Until I came home," she answered coolly.
"What?" he asked, backing up.
She turned around and faced him. "You haven't heard me the first hundred times, Joe. I don't think you'll hear me the next hundred. But I'll try once more. Your hygiene, Joe. You stink. You smell of compost and sweat. You need a shower before you sit down at the table with me."
He sniffed each armpit. "What are you talking about?"
She shook her head in disgust and put the food out while he stood there, staring at her as if she was out of her mind.
When the food was on the table, Joe got himself a TV tray, loaded up his plate and headed for the family room. He sat in front of his big screen. The game wasn't on yet. It was the pregame show, which he could have seen from the table—his place was strategically positioned. She didn't rag on him; he smelled of manure and sour grass clippings. The family room was a good place for him, though not nearly far enough away.
Jason wanted a tray, too, like Dad, but Marty made him stay at the table. She helped him with his meat loaf and beans—the mashed potatoes went fast. She glanced at her watch as the dryer buzzed that there were clothes ready to fold. Seven-twenty. And she thought, I can't do this. I just can't do this anymore. Work all day, clean and cook all night, lie next to a husband whose stench was so bad it was nauseating. It wasn't like coming home to no one; it was like coming home to a bigger problem than she'd have if she was single. The house had an aroma of meat loaf and compost; Joe sat on the couch, engrossed in his football and nothing domestic had been done all day long. He'd gotten off work this morning and Jason had been sent to his Grandma's till noon so Joe could get some sleep. The rest of the day had been dedicated to yard work, foraging for food, entertaining himself and getting all juiced up for football.
I hate my life, she thought. It shouldn't be like this. I don't have to have barrels of fun every day, but I have to live in a tolerably clean environment and share a bed with someone who doesn't smell like manure.
After dinner and dishes, while the dishwasher ran, she bathed Jason, read him a story and settled him into bed. When she got back to the kitchen, Joe's tray, complete with dirty dishes, sat on the counter, ready for her to clean it up. But the dishwasher was full. She rinsed them, left them in the sink and went to her room.
Since those breathless kisses with her old boyfriend, Marty had been determined to be a better wife. She'd kept up with the house and meals, tried very hard not to complain or nag, though she didn't do so well at that. Today had been long and hard—difficult clients, petty drama among some of the beauticians in the shop, a double booking that had her scrambling with no time for lunch. Her legs ached, her head throbbed, her hands were raw from chemicals. And she'd come home to that disgusting smell.
Here were her options: she could shower off the grime of the day, crawl into bed with one of her romances and a watchable rerun on the bedroom TV, or…or something else.
She showered, fixed her hair, applied her makeup and put on some of those new clothes she'd bought a few weeks ago—the low-slung pants, the tight shirt that showed off her cleavage and the high strappy heels. She sprayed on some perfume.
When she walked into the family room, Joe was nodding off in front of the game. This was so standard. He'd have a big meal, a couple of beers, maybe a couple of bourbons, get all cozy and comfortable in front of the set and by the third quarter he'd be asleep. He wouldn't shower or shave, wouldn't sit at the table with them. She couldn't watch the big TV because whether he was asleep or not, it was his. So this was a preseason game. Fall. Boating would go on hiatus and football would start. There would be a game every Monday, Thursday and Sunday night, and all day on the weekends. Joe was pretty senior at F.D.—he'd bid his schedule to be off for the games so he could either watch them at home wearing the smell du jour or go to the bar. This was going to be her life for the next several months until the Super Bowl—either alone with Jason while Joe worked or coming home to a mess, a smelly husband and an anger that was rising in her to unpredictable proportions.
She thought about leaving the house and just letting Joe wonder, but she couldn't do that. There had to be a transfer of responsibilities, so she wok