Chapter 4 - Marie Would Have Seen It First
My wife never trusted Brenda.
That sounds unfair now because Marie only met her twice before cancer worsened.
Still.
After second dinner she said:
“That girl evaluates rooms.”
“What does that mean?”
“She looks at everything like she’s pricing it.”
“People do that.”
“You don’t.”
“I know what things cost.”
“No. You know what things are worth.”
I rolled my eyes.
Marie continued:
“Brian wants people impressed by him.”
“He’s successful.”
“I know.”
“And?”
“Brenda wants people impressed by what he owns.”
“They’re young.”
“Frank.”
“What?”
“Don’t confuse their ambition with need.”
Seven years later, lying in Jennifer’s guest room, I remembered every word.
Brian had needed help.
Brenda had wanted a house that looked like success.
I had paid for both.
At first, living together worked.
I moved in three weeks after closing.
My room overlooked backyard.
Private bathroom.
Small sitting area.
Brenda decorated it herself.
Gray walls.
Oak dresser.
A framed photograph of Marie.
I cried when I saw that.
She hugged me.
“We want you here.”
For six months, I believed her.
I cooked breakfast sometimes.
Mowed lawn.
Fixed loose cabinet hinges.
Watched football with Brian.
Paid mortgage from my checking account.
Brian transferred $2,400 on first of month.
Sometimes $2,800.
He called it “our share.”
I called it house contribution.
Taxes and insurance came through escrow.
Utilities mostly Brian.
Groceries split loosely.
No one kept score.
Then Brian’s career shifted.
He began working with wealthier clients.
Golf club dinners.
Fundraisers.
Brenda started a lifestyle account online.
Home décor.
Recipes.
“Modern Midwest living.”
Our house appeared constantly.
My room did not.
Neither did I.
At first normal.
Then she asked:
“When my friends come Thursday, could you maybe eat upstairs?”
“Why?”
“Girls’ night.”
“Sure.”
Then Brian hosted business dinner.
“Dad, maybe stay out until nine.”
I went to diner.
Then:
“Can you not fry bacon before Brenda’s brunch? Smell lingers.”
Then:
“Your work jackets need to go.”
“They’ve been clean seven years.”
“They still smell.”
I washed them again.
Brenda bought odor-control detergent.
Then special soap.
One morning Brian left bottle outside my bathroom.
“What’s this?”
“Brenda thinks maybe use twice a day.”
“For what?”
“She says there’s a smell.”
“What smell?”
He looked embarrassed.
“Plant.”
“I haven’t worked there in three years.”
“I know.”
“Do you smell it?”
He looked away.
That answer mattered more than yes.
He did not smell anything.
He wanted peace with Brenda.
I scrubbed anyway.
My skin cracked around elbows.
I bought lotion.
Said nothing.
Marie would have seen it.
Not because smarter.
Because she loved me without needing me to fit a picture.
Brian loved me too.
I believe that.
May you like
But he increasingly loved being seen as someone who had escaped where he came from.
And I smelled like where he came from.
