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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3703 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Home Front Laurel K. Dodge When his wife’s in the house, he’s out— a dutiful spouse. Up and down, back and forth, he mows the lawn into a chessboard. All it needs now is a glowering queen. On his knees in the backyard he could be praying to god or ogling the young mom next door as he plants cucumbers, lettuce, tomatoes. She unbuttons her blouse and slips her newborn a nipple. He wants to be a good neighbor, mow her grass, pull her weeds, tend her tomatoes while her husband serves his country in Iraq. But his wife keeps him busy. He cleans out the gutters, sprays the foundation for ants, paints the front door, bangs a nail into the loose shutter, drags the garbage can to the curb. Back in the house, she shadows him like a ghost—you know how sheets cling to skin on sticky nights, how the cool side of the pillow never cools the heat of your head— as he moves room to room, plunges the toilet, rearranges the furniture—honey, put the loveseat here, she directs him. He stares into the fridge, longs for autumn, wishes for a cold beer. When they climb into bed after a long day, the mattress sinks, a leaky raft beneath their combined weight. He reaches for her out of habit. His hand on her breast, her legs barely spread. The privileges of marriage. Eight minutes later, she gives him her back, a wall he can’t break or scale. He watches the wall breathe until he’s lulled to sleep by the litany as Ted Koeppel reads off the names of the dead. |
