Waltzing the Magpies: A Year in Australia

Man about the House

Man about the House ~ The last day in January Vicki left Perth for Hartford and weeks of cleaning her mother's house in New Jersey. The trip was long, over forty-six hours. Vicki's ordeal dropped from mind, however, as soon as her plane pushed into the clouds above Perth. Two decades ago Vicki banished me from the kitchen, my rattling ways with pots and pans jarring her. Similarly she jerked the vacuum from my hand, saying I banged the legs of chairs and sofas into scabs. The death of Vicki's mother, though, forced me back into the kitchen, thrusting soup, salad, and scrub brushes into my hands. Driving back from the airport, I wondered what sort of man about the house I'd be. I was fifty-nine, and vigor no longer rolled my eyelids up like shades every morning. For twenty years I had been true to pad and pencil. Now I would philander days, shopping, cooking, cleaning, and currying children's moods out of hot into mild. Eight weeks have passed, and I am wondrously content. Boxed domesticity is as exciting as the outback. Ofcourse Vicki's absence has caused changes. No one irons the children's school clothes. The sun presses shirts, and when I remove trousers from the line, they hang like stovepipes. Without Vicki meals are smaller but just as nourishing. Never do I cook more than one vegetable. Still more meals are vegetarian, consisting ofsalad and pasta. Not once during the past eight weeks have I snacked on anything other than fruit. A month and a half of sane eating cannot atone for five intemperate months. Nevertheless I have dropped two notches on my belt. Every night Vicki drank beer or wine with dinner. To be social I accompanied her. Wine has vanished from the table, and now I drink only orange or mango juice at dinner. Vicki's and my conversation often nagged shortcoming into rancor. As a result hours seemed raw and chaffed. Since no one is near with whom I can rub words into blisters, slights drain from mind. Consequently , days are sunnier, and the children are better companions, not just selfish teenagers. At Cottesloe once or twice I've noticed women sunning themselves , their bare breasts slowing me as if I were approaching a traffic light. Never do I stop. Chores hurry me on beyond yellow and red to the green aisle of a grocery. In truth instead ofhankering for fleshly moments, I pine for shops. I shop every day, driving along Kalgoorlie to Glyde then along Harvey to Mosman Park Shopping Center, the distance six-tenths of a kilometer. I drive in order to carry groceries home, somewhere between forty-five and seventy dollars' worth, all in white plastic bags. At the Center I sometimes buy meat at Pronto Cuisine, a butcher, and fruit and salad makings at Mosman Fresh. Many afternoons I walk to the Grove, a shopping center on Stirling Highway. If I go the short way, the entrance to the Grove is 1,334 steps from the front door of my house. Often I cross Stirling and go to Nature's Harvest on Napoleon Street, 218 steps from the Grove. Afterward I walk home the long way, along Leake to View then Johnston then Palmerston and Swan to my back door, 1,786 steps from Nature's Harvest. This last walk winds through Peppermint Grove. Edward never accompanies me. Sometimes Eliza comes with me. "Amble," I tell her. "Look like we live here. Only people who belong would dress as poorly as I do." Eliza is not old enough to understand that a Tshirt , butterflies ragged across the chest; baggy green shorts; sandals and athletic socks, tops rolled down ankles into sausages, constitute the dress of someone at ease in the world. "Someone so at home," I said last week, "that he can ignore fashion and wear what he wants." "And dress conversation in embarrassing adjectives and adverbs," Eliza said. "Babe, you know it," I said. j\1an about the House ~ 147 Sometimes in the Grove I buy an item or two at Woolworths, but usually I shop only at the Grove Market, a green grocer, or purchase meat from Grove Meats. Recently I have bought almost all my fruit from the Market. Four weeks ago I tried to purchase a container of strawberries. The owner is meticulously honest. "Don't...