At four-thirty Adele gave up and took a sleeping pill, so that when she woke again for the day it was late, past nine, and she was groggy. She could hear her parents, keeping their voices down for her sake, but already started in on the day’s arguments. Sam was downstairs in the kitchen, and Bess was on her way down after him. The house was small, and the guest room door was next to the stairs. Adele heard her mother carefully maneuvering herself onto the electric chair that shuttled majestically up and down the staircase.
“I’ve already called him,” Bess said in a low, strained voice, trying to make her words carry down to the kitchen on the floor below, without waking Adele in the next room. “I just think we should see if there’s too much in it.”
“What do you want me to do?” Sam called out from the kitchen. His voice was loud and antagonistic. At the hospital he had been the head of his department for nearly twenty years, and he did not take direction well. Adele could hear the stair-chair arms clicking into place as Bess settled herself into the seat.
“What do you want me to do?” Sam shouted again, still louder, and now impatient. Adele heard the electrical click of the switch, and then the low masterful hum of the stair chair as her mother began to descend.
“What do you want me to do?” Sam called for the third time, his voice full of exasperation.
At the bottom, there was another click as the stair chair stopped, and the heavy arms clunked up and then thudded down again as Bess climbed out. Bess began walking slowly toward the kitchen. She spoke when she got close enough so that she didn’t have to yell, but her voice was now exasperated too. She spoke to Sam so slowly as to be almost insulting.
“I told you,” Bess said. “I think there’s too much food in the refrigerator, and that’s why it’s making that noise. I’ve called the repairman, but before he makes a special trip I want to take some of the things out to see if that’s what’s causing it.”
Adele sat up in bed. Since her father had come home after the operation, a group of friends and neighbors had taken turns bringing dinners to her parents. There was a list stuck up on the refrigerator door, with names and dates, so Sam and Bess would know who was bringing the meal that night. The friends took considerable trouble with the meals, fixing things that were interesting and often exotic, but neither Sam nor Bess ate very much, and they didn’t like fancy food. After several weeks of this, the refrigerator had become crammed with half-full plastic boxes half-covered with foil, bowls of limp vegetables covered in pale sauces, pans with small hard tracts of curried chicken or baked lasagna, all of their surfaces now darkened and desiccated by the chill darkness of the refrigerator.
When Adele came downstairs her mother was sitting by the telephone in her pink bathrobe. Her long wispy hair was pulled back to a fraying bun. Sam, in bathrobe and slippers, was standing at the refrigerator. Several cartons of milk stood on the table. He was lifting a jar of mayonnaise from the refrigerator, and frowning.
“Let’s just see what happens,” Bess said to him.
“Mother,” Adele said, coming into the room, already annoyed, “the refrigerator doesn’t get overstrained because you have a lot of leftover food in it.”
Neither of her parents answered.
“The refrigerator just keeps a particular space cold,” she went on. “A certain cubic area.” She was proud of coming up with cubic. “It doesn’t matter how much stuff is in it.” She said it with certainty, wondering as she spoke if it were true. But surely it was. “It doesn’t make any difference to the refrigerator. Well, unless you put hot things in it, a casserole right from the oven, or something.”
“Putting things in the refrigerator from the oven?” Sam turned around and stared challengingly at Adele. His white hair stood straight up at the crown of his head. He wore wrinkled cotton pajamas, and a handsome Black Watch plaid bathrobe that Adele had given him for Christmas.
“If you did,” Adele said, aware that she had allowed a dangerous digression into her argument.
“Why would we put things into the refrigerator straight from the oven?” Sam asked. He sounded disgusted and cross, as though Adele had accused him of it. “What would be the point of that?”
“I mean,” Adele said doggedly, “that your refrigerator isn’t making a noise because of what’s in it.” She paused. The refrigerator was not, as far as she could tell, making any unusual noise at all. It was humming innocuously. They all listened.
“Just put them on the table,” Bess said to Sam.
Sam put the mayonnaise jar next to the milk cartons. Adele leaned over and looked at the dates on the milk cartons. There were six of them, in varying states of fullness.
“Mother, half of these are already outdated,” she said. “Do you want me to throw them out for you? That way—”
“Now, you just let me take care of the milk cartons,” Sam said in a patronizing way. He was the one who drank milk. “I keep track of these things pretty closely.”
Adele looked at Bess, who rocked slightly in her chair and said nothing. “So the repairman is coming?” Adele asked.
Bess nodded uncertainly. “I called him. I don’t know when he’s coming, but I called him. But it may be all those milk cartons, you see.”
“But what’s the noise?” Adele asked. “I don’t hear any noise.”
“Well, it was making a loud noise, earlier,” Bess said defensively. “That’s when I called the repairman to see if he’d come and take a look at it. He’s the one who fixed the heater in your father’s study.”
“Wasn’t broken,” Sam said in a triumphant undertone. He lifted out a casserole with an uneven covering of aluminum foil.
“Well, made it work again,” Bess said.
The kitchen was small and square, with yellow walls and white metal cabinets over the sink and the counters. Most of the room was taken up by a long pine table, its near end by the sink and the door to the dining room. The near end was where they ate; there were three dark blue woven place mats set on it continually. The far end of the table was by the telephone and the back door, and it was covered with piles of mail and catalogs. Now the near end of the table was crowded with half-full milk cartons. In the middle of Adele’s place mat was a large mayonnaise jar.
“Well, I’m going to have some breakfast,” Adele said. “Can I fix anything for either of you?”
“I’ve already made my breakfast,” Sam said. “Your mother’s not hungry. Like some toast?”
“Don’t you want anything, Mother?” Adele asked. Bess shook her head. She had always been thin, and lately it seemed that she had begun to slip deliberately toward insubstantiality, her skin paler and paler, now almost translucent.
“I’d love some toast, thanks, Daddy,” Adele said. “Is there any decaf coffee, Mother?”
“I think so,” Bess said. “I try to keep everything my children want. I think it’s in there.”
All their food was stored in a narrow standing metal cupboard, painted pale yellow to match the walls. In the top shelf of this Adele found a small ancient jar of instant decaffeinated coffee; the new jar she had bought during her last visit had disappeared. There were several spoonfuls left inside the old one. The grains had begun to liquefy into a deep brown sludge, and she had to scrape to get them out.
Adele moved the mayonnaise jar and set her place at the table, putting down a flowered plate, an orange-juice glass, a napkin, and silverware next to the giant stand of outdated milk cartons. The toaster gave a resentful whir and smartly popped up two slices of bread. The toast was charcoal brown, nearly black. The toaster always did this, no matter where the control lever was set. Sam took them out and put them, unbuttered, on Adele’s plate.
“There you are,” he said. Sam’s place was unthreatened by the tide of milk cartons, and he sat down to his boiled egg. He cracked the shell of his egg with his knife.
“Don’t you want a piece, Mother?” Adele asked. “I’ll butter it for you.”
“Well, maybe I’ll have a half,�
� Bess said.
She made her way cautiously from the chair by the telephone to the table and sat down with the others. Adele buttered her a piece of toast.
“If you want me to,” said Adele, “I’ll go through all those things in the refrigerator with you. I’m sure there’s stuff we can throw out.” She handed her mother the toast.
“The trouble with those meals is they had too much seasoning,” Sam said. He scooped the soft innards of the egg out into his bowl, where they collapsed, loosing a dense orange tide. “Too spicy. Kept me awake.”
“Couldn’t you ask the people not to use spices?” asked Adele reasonably.
“They don’t listen,” Sam said, with a thin intolerant smile.
“There,” said Bess loudly. They looked at her. She held her index finger up, her head high and tilted. “Listen. There it is again.”
They all looked at the refrigerator. Its door was covered with yellowed and fraying newspaper clippings about family members. “Local Resident Finds Giant Mushroom” was the biggest headline. They sat and listened. The refrigerator was definitely making a loud noise. Things had changed, internally, and it had moved into some new and interfering gear. A hostile rattling sound came from the motor.
“You see,” said Bess.
“It’s not the milk,” Adele pointed out.
“Maybe you should take some more things out,” Bess said to Sam. Sam rose from his chair and shuffled to the refrigerator.
“It’s not the things in it,” Adele said, exasperated. “If it were, taking them out would have helped.”
“What?” Sam asked, turning to look at her.
“If it had been the milk, then since the milk is all on the table the noise wouldn’t be coming again now,” Adele said. She was aware that she sounded unclear.
“But it is coming again now,” said Sam. He was frowning.
“Right,” said Adele, “but that means—”
“Take some more things out,” Bess said to Sam. The table was filling up with containers covered with aluminum foil, small plates of three or four shriveled carrots, pots with their lids on.
“But don’t you want some of these things thrown out, Mother?” Adele asked. “I looked at them yesterday, and these are really mostly inedible.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Bess said firmly. She picked up her toast and took a small bite.
“I think your mother knows what she wants to keep and what she doesn’t,” Sam said. The table was now completely covered with containers of old food. He sat down again and began to tear bits of crust from his toast, sprinkling it onto the orange-and-white sea. There was a silence while they ate.
“I think I’m going to write another letter to the town board,” Sam said, frowning. He spoke loudly, over the rattling roar from the refrigerator.
“What about?” asked Adele. Her father was fond of writing letters to people in which he told them what to do.
“About that stop sign at the intersection of Beech Tree Lane and Route Thirty-five. I’ve told them before, but they still don’t seem to realize how badly designed that intersection is.”
“Did they answer your letter from before?” Adele asked.
“They answered it, but I don’t think they gave it the serious consideration that it deserves. I don’t think they were really paying any attention to it,” Sam explained. His toast was now crust-free, and he began to stir the torn-off bits into his egg.
“You did write them twice,” Bess pointed out.
Sam looked up at her. “But they haven’t properly responded,” he explained.
“But they did answer you,” Bess said.
“I’ve told you,” said Sam, “I don’t think they understand the situation.”
“Well, you did tell them,” Bess said.
“I know that,” Sam said fiercely. “You just told me that.”
“I know I told you that,” Bess said. “I’m just saying—”
“I know what you’re saying,” Sam said.
The telephone rang, and Adele sprang up. She made her way to the far end of the table, reaching it before her parents could. Bess watched Adele as she talked. She was waiting to be handed the phone.
“Yes,” said Adele, not looking at her mother, “yes, it is. This is her daughter.”
“Tell him about the noise,” Bess said.
“There’s a town board meeting on Tuesday,” Sam said. He took a bite of his egg-and-toast mixture. “I’d like to get my letter to them before that.”
“That’s right,” said Adele. “It’s making a loud noise, that’s the problem. Kind of a rattle.”
“I’ve told him that,” Bess said. Adele turned, so that she was facing sideways to her mother.
“If I mail it today it will be brought up on Tuesday,” said Sam.
“I don’t see why you’re writing to them again,” Bess said to Sam, now distracted. “You’ve already told them what you have to say.”
“Well, here. Listen to it,” Adele said. She held the telephone out toward the refrigerator, which had ratcheted up again and was drumming loudly and at high speed. “Can you hear that?”
“I’ve told you why I’m writing to them again,” Sam said irritably.
Adele put the phone back to her ear. “Could you hear it?” “I still don’t see why,” said Bess.
“Well, it’s very loud,” Adele said. “Yes, we’ll be here. We’ll be here all day.”
“Is he coming over?” asked Sam.
“Right away,” said Adele.
“All right, I’m getting dressed,” Bess said, getting up. Her toast lay on her plate, a small bite taken from it.
“Don’t you want the rest of your toast?” asked Adele. She now felt guilty about not giving the telephone to her mother.
“I’m not really hungry,” Bess said.
“What about you, Daddy?” asked Adele, trying to make up. “If you want to go up and get dressed, I’ll do the dishes.”
“That’s not the issue, is it,” Sam said, smiling dangerously at her. “What I’m doing here is eating my breakfast, not washing the dishes.”
When the repairman arrived, Sam and Bess were back downstairs, now dressed. Bess was in the kitchen, in the rocker by the telephone, and Sam was at his desk in the dining room, writing to the town. Adele opened the back door to the repairman.
“Come in,” she said, “Thank you for coming so quickly. The refrigerator’s right here.” The refrigerator was humming quietly. Inaudibly; it was hard to hear that it was on at all.
“It was making quite a lot of noise before,” Adele said, embarrassed. “Could you hear it?”
The repairman was tall, with a pleasant round face and burned-looking pink cheeks. He wore a green shirt with the name Jerry embroidered on the pocket. He put down his tool-box in front of the refrigerator.
“Let’s just see what the problem is here,” he said, not answering Adele.
Bess leaned forward in the rocking chair. “We’ve had too much food in there, I know,” she said apologetically. “It’s because of my husband’s hip operation.”
Sam appeared in the doorway, a letter in his hand. “Well, I’ve finished this,” he said. “I’d like to take this in to the post office to mail.”
The repairman stepped in front of Sam to get at the back of the refrigerator. He wrestled it gently out from the wall.
“Why can’t we just put it in the mailbox?” Adele asked. “I have a stamp. I’ll take it out to the box for you, if you want.”
“No, I want to mail it at the post office,” Sam said. He wasn’t yet able to drive himself yet, after the operation, so Bess had been doing all the driving. “You about ready?” he asked Bess. She had been watching the repairman and not listening.
“I said, ‘Are you about ready?’” Sam repeated, louder.
“Ready for what?” Bess asked in alarm.
“To take me to the post office to mail this letter,” he said.
“Could it wait? I just want to see abo
ut the refrigerator,” Bess said. The refrigerator shuffled further out from the wall, toward the crammed table.
“What’s the matter with the refrigerator?” Sam asked, turning to look at it.
“The noise,” Adele said.
“Oh, yes,” Sam said. He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching Jerry, then he moved past the refrigerator and down to the other end of the table. He pulled a chair out. “I think I’ll fix this telephone while I’m waiting,” he said.
“What’s wrong with the telephone?” asked Adele. “I just used it. It seemed fine.”
Sam did not answer. He sat down at the table. The repairman came out from the back of the refrigerator and knelt on the floor in front of it with a screwdriver.
Sam picked the phone up and set it down. “It wobbles,” he said accusingly. “When you set it down it wobbles.” He demonstrated, setting the phone down on the table. The phone rocked slightly. He turned the phone upside down, and he and Adele stared at its bottom.
“It’s missing a foot,” Adele pointed out. “That’s why it’s uneven.”
“I know that,” Sam said. He set the phone back down and stood up. “I’m going to get something to fix it.” He went into the dining room.
“Are you having any luck?” Bess asked the repairman. He was leaning into a mysterious opening he had created at the front of the refrigerator, below the door.
“Well, we haven’t solved the problem yet,” Jerry said.
“Got it,” Sam said, reappearing in the doorway. He sat down again and turned the telephone over, setting it down upside down. He had a box of binder-hole reinforcers, small white gummed circles. Slowly Sam took one out, licked it, and stuck it carefully onto the site of the missing foot. He took out another one, licked it, and stuck it painstakingly on top of the first, building up thickness, layer by layer. Each time he pressed another small white circle onto the plastic underside, he banged the telephone against the table.
A Perfect Stranger Page 5
