BARBARA AND FRANK
Jennifer J. Sowle
“Your feet smell like rotten fish.”
I open my eyes and look around the room. Barbara is sitting at the end of the couch.
“Did you say something?”
She raises her eyebrows, gets up and walks from the room.
I follow her into our bedroom. She’s sprawled on the bed.
“What’s wrong, baby?” My hand shakes as I squeeze her foot. “I love you.”
She turns her face to the wall.
“Barbara, I’ll change my socks.”
She doesn’t move.
“I’ll be in the living room when you’re ready to come out.”
I finish watching the news. The entertainment gossip show Barbara likes is starting. I creep to the door and turn on my sweetest voice. “Your show is on. Please come watch TV with me, baby. I put on clean socks.”
Nothing. She doesn’t open her eyes, doesn’t stir. Her breathing and the slight twitching of her face says she’s asleep. I’ll just let her be.
She’s still asleep later when I turn down my side of the bed. I ease the quilt away from the pillow so I won’t disturb her. I touch my hand to her back. She’s warm and snoring. I move in beside her and brush my hip against hers. She stirs. “Barbie, you awake?”
“Are you planning to sleep all day? Get up and fix my breakfast.”
My eyes snap open. She stands at the foot of the bed. “Morning, Barbara. Everything okay?”
She stares at me. Then turns and leaves. I hear the hall floorboards squeak, then her footfalls on the linoleum tile.
I pull on my pants and head to the kitchen. “Be with you in a minute, baby. Just making coffee.”
She paces back and forth as I fill the pot, spread the filter, put in two heaping scoops. “Hold on Barbie. I’m almost done.”
I kiss her goodbye, give her a long hug before I leave for work. “Be home about sixty thirty. See you then.” She leans into my neck and kisses me. But something feels different.
It’s morning rush hour and the El is full of commuters. I usually read the morning paper, but not today. Today I’m worried about what is happening at home. I can’t get her out of my mind—It’s unbelievable, really.
I’m early. But George is always earlier. I hear him in his cubicle, shuffling papers, sharpening his pencils for the day. Then his scratchy voice jumps the partition,
“Morning, Frank.”
“Morning.”
I lean into the opening of George’s office. “Coffee on?”
“Yes it is, Frank. Just like always.”
“How are you today, George?”
He glances up. “What’s that?”
“How is your morning going.”
“Same as always. Just getting organized for my day.”
“Ah, George . . . .”
“Yes.”
“I’m having a little problem . . . .” What am I thinking? After fifteen years in the cubicle next to George, all I know about him is that he grew up in Parkdale and went to Michigan State.
“Nothing,” I mutter.
I pour myself a cup of coffee. Weak as dishwater. Takes half a pot just to get a caffeine pick-me-up. Two pots to get me through the day. I pull out my ledger sheets. I smile to myself. I’m amazed at how Barbara takes such an interest in my work, sits through my stories of people who have run amuck or gone from rags to riches in the stock market.
And now this.
I take the 5:45 and arrive in Lincoln Park by six-thirty. It’s a five-minute walk to our apartment. We have our ritual. Barbara greets me at the door with a kiss, then we take a short evening walk.
It’s unusually balmy for September. We greet several neighbors sitting on their stoops, stop to chat with a couple of them. We walk to the park, then home.
After dinner, Barbara sits next to me on the couch. Before long, her head is in my lap. I put my arm around her. “Your favorite show, baby, Lawence Welk.” She’s been known to jump up during the show and dance around the room. She loves dancing, but she’s not very good at it.
After the show, Barbara gets a drink of water, and goes to bed. “Be right there, Barbie.” I want to catch the eleven o’clock news, check the weather for the weekend. If it’s warm enough, Barbara and I may get out to the beach.
Saturday morning we usually sleep in. I make coffee and bring it back to bed, read the paper.
I tiptoe to the kitchen. When I shuffle back with my coffee, she’s awake, lying there with her eyes open.
“You look peaceful,” I say between sips.
“Why don’t you just shut up for once,” she yells.
I drop my cup. It bounces on the bed, a huge tarry stain against the sheets.
Barbara leans away. “For Christ sakes. You clumsy oaf. You almost got me with that.”
I stare at her in disbelief. This time, she’s looking right at me.
“Barbara?”
“I can’t take it anymore, Frank. Six years of your bullshit. I can’t stomach you another minute. Boring. Boring. B-o- o- r-ing!”
“I . . .”
“I’m leaving.”
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t care if I end up in a shelter. All I know is I have to get out of here.”
“But I thought . . .”
“You thought? The truth is, Frank, if I didn’t need you to take care of me, I’d have spoken up much sooner. But now I’m so fed up I’m leaving anyway. I’ll need my papers from your desk.”
I shuffle through the bottom drawer. “Medical records too?”
“Of course. Now open the front door for me. I’m ready to go.”
“I don’t want you to leave. I love you.”
“Open the damn door, Frank or I swear I’ll bite you.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I couldn’t be more serious,” she growls.
At this point, I’m terrified. I open the door.
She crosses the threshold. “Oh.” She looks back at me. “Take my collar off. I’ll take my chances on the street.”
I reach down and squeeze the quick-release. Her tags jingle, then clank to the floor. I hear the clicking of her nails on the steps.
