~ S o c k s ~
When my husband started wearing socks other than his usual white tubes and plain black knits, I began to wonder. Then when the socks went from discrete patterns to pastel argyles, I stressed out.
“Honey,”I said at breakfast, glancing below the table. “What are those things?”
He pulled his chair away and wiggled his toes. “Why, they’re yellow socks with golf clubs on them.”
“But you don’t golf.”
He returned to the paper, languidly took a sip of coffee and said, “That’s true.”
As I went through the day, another thought cropped up, not only was he wearing the socks, but he was unabashedly entering a clothing store, pouring over the racks and making a conscious decision of which ones to buy. This coming from a man who rarely shopped was . . . well, disturbing. Then a sudden realization came over me – when a pattern changes (no pun intended), something had to be up. Another woman, was she buying them? I hadn’t seen any receipts.
“Honey,”I said the following morning (his feet d’jour now attired in, what appeared to be, some permutation of the confederate flag), “I’m not sure how practical these socks are.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what happens when you wash socks. Sooner or later one always gets lost. Before you know it, you’ll have a drawer full of orphaned socks. In the long run, the expense will add up.”
He gave a quick nod, then turned to read the nutritional information on the cereal box. “Wow,” he said. “This stuff’s filled with fiber.”
I told him this to see his reaction. Would he defend himself? Did cheating husbands defend themselves? I had no idea.
Twenty-four hours later, sporting a checkerboard design with irregularly placed chessmen, he picked up the conversation from the day before. “Socks are never really lost in the wash,” he said. “They’re just stuck to other things, inside a pant leg, tangled up in a towel. It’s no big deal.”
Of course I already knew that.
Later, after he left for work, I went into his sock drawer. I wasn’t sure what I’d find, maybe a love note. But it was worse than I’d thought. He had expanded the sock space to two full drawers. Not only that, but all the socks, both new and freshly washed, were rolled neatly into tight cylinders, not unlike a tray of pigs-in-the-blanket, a neat cornucopia of descending colors, patterns. When had he become so obsessed? Then another thought, more disturbing than the first, came to mind – was he exploring his feminine side? I slammed the drawers shut.
At dinner, I put my foot down. “Honey, I think this sock thing is getting out of hand. You need to see someone.”
He blinked and screwed up his face. “See someone? Like who?”
“A therapist.”
“Don’t think so,” he said. “By the way, these mashed potatoes are very tasty.”
After the evening news, I thumbed through the phone book. If he wasn’t going to see a therapist, I had to. My world was unraveling.
The doctor looked remarkably like Freud. He was an older man with a beard and horn-rimmed glasses. The leather couch groaned when I settled in. After a brief interview, he said with a hint of a German accent, “You know it’s not the socks. It’s never the socks. It’s life. It’s the never-knowing. Why do we exist? Is there a reason?”
“My,”I said, losing all hope. “Are you saying it’s futile?”
“In general, yes, life is futile. But, my dear, you are lucky.”
“I am?”
“In your case there may be an answer.” My breath caught.
“Really? What is it?”
He stood up and bellowed. “Face him, woman! Demand an explanation!”
“Yes, yes” I said, rising from my misery. It was so obvious. I then wrote a check for one hundred and fifty dollars.
The following morning, I made buckwheat pancakes, his favorite. I even warmed the syrup. His socks were pale blue with green hovering seahorses. “Honey,”I asked, “could you answer one simple question?”
He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “What is it?”
“Why do you have all these socks?”
He leaned back in the chair. “I thought you’d never ask.”
The answer! I was about to hear the answer! My heart pounded.
He then eyed me with a sinister glint. “Why, you ask?” he said reaching across the table.
“For the same reason you have all those shoes.”
Author’s Note:
I wrote “Socks” in two hours, from four in the morning until six, a personal record. The creative process – is it simply a function of the individual brain or something more, something greater? From a craft perspective, this story helped me hone my transition skills. For some reason seamlessly skipping time or moving from one scene to another has often confounded me. There are many tricks, sleights of pen. The more I practice, the easier it becomes. “Socks” features two relatively well-adjusted adults, a refreshing departure. Socks was first published in Zimmer-zine.
Thirst: A Collection of Short Fiction Page 10
