A Day in the Life of a Housewife

 

Mrs. Davis’ favourite time of day is the early morning. Rested and refreshed, she’s ready to carry out her morning routine, which goes a little like this: the alarm clock goes off at 7 am sharp and after ringing for about 5 seconds, she reaches out of the bed and presses the button to mute the annoying device. Sometimes, if she’s feeling naughty, she’ll let the alarm ring for 10 or 15 seconds! She always gets the giggles seeing how long it will take Mr. Davis to groan and give her a light kick under the covers (unintentional, of course). But this is her charming way of punishing him for not giving her a radio clock as a Christmas present, even after she indicated, not very subtly, how wonderful it’d be to wake up to the silky voice of her favourite radio presenter, Mr. Evans.

 After getting out of bed, Mrs. Davis heads to the bathroom to brush her teeth, relieve herself (avoiding to aim straight in the water, Mr. Davis doesn’t need to hear the disgusting toilet sounds she produces) and undo the hair rollers. That’s usually when Mr. Davis needs to use the bathroom himself, so she rushes out and sits in front of her dressing table to fix her makeup. A common debate among the company of women is whether the male population ever notices the intricate work that goes into doing one’s makeup, the perfect lip line, blending the eyeshadow colours, curling the eyelashes. (That last part always scares Mrs. Davis, she’s had nightmares of the evil looking curler teasing, mocking, chasing her; the two normally empty circles filled with scarlet irises that stretch and stretch and stretch and) She always listens amazed at how desperate women are to get the attention that she gets so generously from her sweet Mr. Davis. A smile forms on her lips. Gosh, they’re so pale, where’s the lipstick she got from the mall last week? There’s no time for daydreaming, she’s already late for the next step of her morning routine.

Once makeup is done, the closet doors open. Outfit selection is crucial and careful inspection for creases is carried out. When she finds something that satisfies, a tea length dress in a lovely lilac colour which Mr. Davis will find absolutely adorable, she tiptoes down the stairs, as to not disturb her husband’s newspaper reading in the toilet. Mrs. Davis enters the kitchen and lets out a big sigh. A moment of stillness, of appreciation for this paradise where only she has control over. She has spent hours arranging even the tiniest item, picking all the details carefully, from the Maya blue of the cupboards to the fine selection of plates of various sizes imported straight from Morocco. And, of course, the embroidered curtains, semi sheer so she can observe the comings and goings of all her neighbours and other interesting persons.

Oh, how jealous she is of the precise fingers that created such a mesmerising piece of fabric! She raises her hands and stares at them, repulsed by the shortness of her fingers, the lack of delicacy, the veins that begin to show. The manicure attempts to cover their hideousness, but it’s still there. If she squints her eyes, she can still see the tiny marks from when knitting was almost an obsession, like a mysterious riddle that had to be solved. The pain was nothing to her, merely a detail registered in the back of her head. Mrs. Davis was determined to learn how to knit and she would be triumphant, regardless of how many pages of her instruction manual got blood stained. One evening, her husband came back from a long day at the office and found her sitting on the floor in the living room, crouching over her manuals, completely absorbed. The needles in her hands made a rattling sound and the skein of thread was tangled around her feet. Her white skirt had crimson patches, but she didn’t seem to notice. Mr. Davis shouted and shouted and shouted and eventually grabbed her by the shoulders giving her a powerful shake. It was enough to disrupt her concentration and make her look away from the needles. Her eyes were empty, no sign of recognition. Then, a hint of her senses returning, the dilated pupils went back to their normal size and she saw her beloved husband looking at her appalled, with thick drops of sweat covering his forehead. The image disturbed her. She cannot bear the thought of causing her husband distress. So, they both decided that it’d be for the best to abandon this hobby.

The wall clock chimes in the hallway. It’s 7:30 already and she hasn’t even started brewing the coffee! No need to panic, take a deep breath and start immediately. That’s right. She still has time till Mr. Davis comes downstairs and joins her in the kitchen, arm extended and palm open waiting for his mug. And don’t forget his breakfast, consisting of two slices of toast, heavily coated with butter, and two fried eggs on the side. Bacon would be the final ingredient, but a month ago, Mr. Davis’ uncle was admitted to the hospital due to a severe heart attack and ever since then, Mrs. Davis has been extremely worried about her husband’s health. He is quite partial to bacon, he could eat 5 or 10 strips in one sitting, so it would be best for it to be banned from their house altogether. As expected, this new rule hasn’t been taken well by Mr. Davis, but his wife is adamant about taking care of him and his arteries.

Moving frantically around, from the fridge, to the cupboard, to the stove, to the counter and to the table, she gets everything ready (always careful not to stain her dress). She reaches for the window handle and presses it down, to let some fresh air come in. The door opens and Mr. Davis comes in the kitchen, newspaper under his armpit. Appearances are everything in his line of work, he’s explained to his wife, and there is no mistake about the effort he puts in to look presentable: his tie is in a perfect knot, his dark hair slick, his shirt pressed (creases are for those who lack dignity and for the homeless). He sits on one of the counter’s stools and takes his coffee mug from Mrs. Davis’ hand. No time to check if it has cooled down. What if the coffee is burning hot and he burns his tongue and hates her for it? She holds her breath and waits for her husband to take his first sip, praying that his beautiful lips are safe from harm. Alas, all is well! Mr. Davis resumes his reading as always.

‘Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well?’ she asks and places the breakfast plate in front of him.

The deep sound that comes out of his mouth explains that his sleep was nothing out of the ordinary. Deciphering Mr. Davis’ sound vocabulary has taken a long time to achieve, but after many years of trial and error, she can translate with confidence his long list of grunts, sighs and groans, no matter the topic or context.

‘Make sure you finish your breakfast, you have a long day ahead of you,’ she says and puts her hand over his. Warmth spreads all over her, slowly and steadily, and she lets herself get lost in it. It doesn’t last for long though, as Mr. Davis picks up a piece of toast from the plate and takes a big bite, breadcrumbs falling on the counter. Her fingers ache for his, but she scolds herself (it’s not that big of a deal, just let him eat his breakfast in peace, you wrinkled old hag).

‘You doing anything fun today?’ he murmurs, his eyes glued on the (wretched) newspaper. He must be reading a sports article, with tons of juicy details about last night’s game. Mrs. Davis doesn’t know much about sports, but what she does know is that there are always juicy details for Mr. Davis to read on the table, in the toilet, in the living room, practically everywhere.

‘Sure I am! I was thinking of baking a cake.’

That’s when he raises his head and takes a good look at her, as if he is expecting something catastrophic to happen right there and then. She gives him her widest smile, showing her carefully brushed teeth, and they stay like that for a few seconds; her smiling and him inspecting.

‘A cake? What do you wanna bake a cake for?’ he raises an eyebrow.

‘Well, it’s Christian’s birthday party tomorrow and I was thinking, you know, Sarah always has the best things to say about my baking, so the least I can do is provide the cake for the birthday boy, right?’ it’s a great idea, why can’t he see that...

 Sarah is the neighbour that lives across the street and over the past few months, she and Mrs. Davis have formed a very special bond. Last week, they even exchanged recipes for a cobb salad, after watching the same television program about celebrities and their favourite foods. And Christian, that little angel, is Sarah’s boy. Every time Mrs. Davis looks out the window and sees him playing, running, being so full of life and innocence, she can’t help but pray to be blessed with such an adorable child herself one day. Of course, she’s aware that praying alone won’t be enough for a son or a daughter to enter her life. But Mr. Davis has been so tired lately, working and worrying all the time, that she hasn’t had the chance to put her wish into action.

‘Did she actually ask you to bake that cake? There’s gonna be a lot of people there, they’ve probably ordered the cake already,’ Mr. Davis points out. She had a feeling he would say that, but she’s thought everything through.

‘Not exactly, but my cake will be just for the family, not the guests. A special treat to show how much I care about them,’ (what do you have to say now Mr. Smarty-pants?)

‘You’ve talked to them like three times the entire time we’ve lived here –’

‘Nonsense! Sarah and I talk all the time. And I see Christian riding his bike out on the street every morning-’ her shrill voice makes Mr. Davis cringe, so she shuts her mouth embarrassed.

‘Okay, okay, do whatever you want. You wanna bake a cake, bake a fucking cake,’ he gets up, chugs his coffee and reaches for his jacket on the back of the stool.

‘Let me help you with that, dear,’ she grabs the jacket and as gently as she can, she slips it on his broad shoulders.

‘I’m off to work, see you later.’

In the hope of getting her goodbye kiss, Mrs. Davis stands on her tiptoes and leans towards her husband. He looks... alarmed? No, no, why would he be alarmed? She must have caught him by surprise is all, she’s just imagining things again. There, he puts his arms around her and kisses her with his buttery lips. Mr. Davis’ radiating warmness has been her ultimate drug and she absorbs her dose greedily. This moment is too precious to end, so she keeps holding on to him, sliding a hand down his lower abdomen. She takes hold of his belt.

‘What are you doing?’ his voice isn’t raspy with desire, like in her fantasy, but confused.

Her hands twiddle with that goddamn belt, but anticipation makes it difficult to stop shaking. Before she can take it off him, he grabs her wrists and pushes her away in two quick moves. Her back finds the wall and she steadies herself, shock turning into frustration. They stay motionless and look at each other, without any sort of pretence left in them. For Mrs. Davis, the fantasy is ruined, but what makes her heart drop is the realisation that for Mr. Davis, the fantasy wasn’t there to begin with.

Mr. Davis approaches his wife with tentative steps. He puts a strand of hair behind her ear and he lingers, trying to find the right words to explain himself. There’s no need for words, silly, Mrs. Davis doesn’t mind. The only thing she wants is for him to be happy and she’ll do whatever she must to make it happen. She leans into his rough palm and offers a dazzling smile.

‘You’d better get going, you don’t wanna be late, dear.’

*

After Mr. Davis leaves the house, the enthusiasm of baking Christian’s birthday cake diminishes significantly and all the chores in the world don’t seem to help Mrs. Davis recover her cheerful disposition. No matter how hard she scrubs the bathtub or the sink or the countertops, how devotedly she attends to every detail of the house, she can’t get the image of a child, her own precious child, out of her head. But she promised Sarah she’d bake that cake and that’s what s she’s going to do; how can she let her dear friend down? Besides, it’ll be great practice for when Mr. Davis finally sees how complete their family will be with their own angel to celebrate birthdays with.

All the ingredients are placed on the table, waiting to be mixed in order to transform into the most delicious treat. Flour, sugar, baking powder, the essentials. Then, she brings the egg package closer. One egg, two eggs, three eggs (oh fuck). It slips through her fingers and falls on the floor, creating an ugly pattern of orange splashes. An urge takes over: to spread it all around the kitchen floor, to paint every surface, till there’s no other colour visible. Just an endless sea of this appalling, stinky –

What’s the matter with you? You’ll get yolk all over your beautiful dress and when Mr. Davis comes back he won’t want to be anywhere near you. Snap out of it.

Back to mixing! She will make the most spectacular cake, better than those cakes on the magazines, and her husband will be so proud to call her his wife, he’ll forget all the embarrassing things she’s done.

You know what will help. Just a drop.

Shit. Stir. Shit. Time to preheat the oven.

 A single drop won’t hurt you. On the contrary, it’ll help you calm your nerves.

The batter is ready to be poured in the baking tray, then right in the oven.

Make sure your head doesn’t go in it.

A chuckle escapes her lips. She isn’t that dumb. Besides, her haircut is very expensive and considering how hard Mr. Davis works every day to provide for her, it’d be an ungrateful gesture to ruin it. The least she can do is not let everything go to waste by stupidly allowing herself to surrender to the welcoming warmth of the oven. How absurd.

Unable to contain her excitement, Mrs. Davis manages to find the perfect spot to sit on the floor and look through the oven door glass. How majestic it is to observe the mixture transforming into a high and mighty cake, like the swan in that Ugly Duckling story she used to read when she was young. Mrs. Davis doesn’t want to miss a second of it. But something distracts her thoughts and the cake isn’t there anymore. Or maybe Mrs. Davis isn’t in the kitchen anymore. So she keeps gazing when the cake is about the right size, when the aroma turns into an alarming smell, even when smoke starts coming out of the oven. Mrs. Davis won’t move an inch. Her glassy eyes only flicker when the front door is thrust open. That’s when she realises there are people shouting in her front yard. Who would dare do that on someone else’s property?

Stumbling on her feet, her head starts spinning while trying to make sense of what is happening. There is a sharp pain on her right hand and the oven handle feels slippery when she grips it. A bottle smashed, glass and blood on the tiled floor. Someone puts their hands under her armpits and lifts her high high high up, she’s a bird flying in the sky, away from the flames swallowing her surroundings. The panicked look on her saviour’s face makes her laugh, she wants to tell him that there is nothing to worry about. It doesn’t matter whether the fire eats them whole. What matters is that Mr. Davis will soon be back home and that he will be proud of her irresistible creation. Sarah and the whole neighbourhood will join them and admire her perfect home and her perfect family. Almost perfect.

You’re lying to yourself. You know he’ll never want to have a baby with you. Look at you, look at the mess around you. The sight of you makes him sick. He’s just staying with you ‘cause he thinks you’ll kill yourself if he leaves.

That’s not true...

Of course it is. But that’s okay. There’s only one thing you really need anyway. Not a baby, not a distant husband and definitely not a fucking cake.

No, she promised she will never touch it again. Promises are important and they must be kept at all costs.

Too late for that, you had your chance. Like all the other times you promised to stay away from me, you failed. You crawled back, begging for more.

No, no no NO! She will not let it take over, not this time.

I’ll always find you. You can’t hide from me, my beautiful vessel.

Mascara-stained tears are falling from Mrs. Davis’ eyes, burning with shame and desperation. As her saviour carries her out of the house, she watches her perfect home crumble. Her haven turning into an ashy nightmare. Because of her. Because of the poison in her veins.

People gather around her. They pierce her ears with their voices, but there’s only one voice she wants to hear. When she finds it, a sob escapes her exhausted body and even though her vision is blurry and her head is ringing and her skin is hot, she goes to him. Mr Davis hugs her tightly, making everything and everyone disappear in an instant.

‘I’m so sorry.’

How many times has she said that to him? He can smell it on her, she knows it. Like she knows what’s going to happen next. The surrender brings a peaceful sense of release.

In the background, a boy on a bicycle crosses the street, not noticing the madness that’s happening. He has shoulder-length hair and bright green eyes that are lost in the clouds. There is frosting on the sides of his little mouth. She smiles at him. The boy looks at her and smiles back.