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By Root 847 0

have her own fantasies. She would never do anything, of course. But if she does—she might be forgiven. Only how would God feel about her taking a priest with her? Doesn’t that make it a much, much bigger sin? Also, she knows she will be disappointed in Father Andrew if he proves capable of being seduced. Not that she’s going to seduce him. She wonders how good the sex could even be if he has never had it before. All she has is her experience with Tim. Still, that pent-up energy should count for something, although it hadn’t worked that way for her and Tim in the early years. Yes, she sometimes felt things. Okay, orgasms. She had them, thank you very much. Eventually. But they fell short of what the world had led her to expect. Not Love, American Style fireworks, obviously, she’s not that silly, but something—transforming. Something worth all the fuss, not to mention the pregnancies, full-term and lost, those mounds of underwear on the hallway bench, the kitchen that’s never clean. Her husband’s anger, although she supposes that isn’t a direct consequence of sex, or even the lack of sex. She wonders if Tim has ever cheated on her. She wonders if she cares. Caring requires a lot of energy, and she’s pretty tired. Caring takes so much—she takes a breath and allows herself the curse word, if only in her head—so much goddamn effort.

By 5 P.M., the house looks almost as she had imagined it, although she doesn’t dare set the dining room table. That would provoke curiosity. They eat dinner in the kitchen, and Tim doesn’t even ask why. Tim never asks her anything. It is six-thirty by the time he stomps through the front door, knowing full well that they eat at six, but he says it’s important for him to go out for drinks with his coworkers. He doesn’t like the job at Tuerkes as much as he did at first, and Doris worries he won’t last long there. He trudges through the clean house, noticing nothing, although he had no problem seeing the mess when it was there and criticizing it for advantage. Tim sees only what is wrong and blames her for everything, even the things that are clearly his fault, like his dinner being cold tonight. Some things just don’t reheat well.

“Some things just don’t reheat well,” she tells him.

“I’m the head of this household,” he says. “Dinner should be ready when I’m ready.”

“The Pollacks have a microwave,” Sean says.

“They give you radiation poisoning,” Doris says, although she yearns for one. But it’s better to have a reason for not wanting the thing you want than to admit to yourself that you want something you can never have.

Over the next two hours, Tim and the boys undo much of what she has accomplished today, and Doris is reminded why she stopped trying to stay on top of the housework. Quietly, trying not to draw too much attention to her actions, she goes behind them and puts the house back to rights. She is dying to set the dining room table, to see if it will measure up to the picture in her mind. Her anticipation over the scene is almost as great as the event. Should she find flowers? It’s late in the season, there are only mums and asters, and they have never been to her liking.

“Do you smell that?” Tim asks, coming into the kitchen from the living room, where he has been watching Quincy, M.E. For a moment, she worries he has picked up the scent of vanilla and butter. She blushes like a thief, trying not to let her eyes drift to the cabinet where the wrapped pound cakes are hidden.

“What?”

“I don’t know. Something bad.”

She is almost startled into saying, My pound cakes do not smell bad, but then she notices what has caught Tim’s attention. She has been too wreathed in Comet and Pine-Sol to pick up the scent, but there is a bad smell like—

“I swear, if that pipe has backed up again, I will”—Tim throws open the door to the basement and clatters down the stairs. “What the fuck are you doing?”

The next thing Doris hears is Go-Go crying—horrible, unnatural cries—as his father yells and, judging from the scuffling sounds, tries to land blows on him.

“Tim!”

He has Go-Go by the wrist, his