Peanut Butter-Covered Outlets
by KJ Hannah Greenberg

 

 

Rudford died. The wee hedgie had last been seen scuttling to his box, which remained located behind the refrigerator. After a fortnight, the smell enveloping the kitchen made Chet gag. Addison never cared about smells and Terrance could barely crawl to the baby gate separating the living room from the food prep area.

 

Dorothy, who retched every time that she passed that threshold, stopped asking her husband to prepare her sup, to clean the dishes, to feed the dog and the hedgehog, or to mop the floor. Instead, she asked him to move their refrigerator away from the wall.

 

Chet obeyed and then screamed. Their beloved furze-pig was being cannibalized by cockroaches.

 

Their vet disposed of the rotted body. He had to be reminded, however, to stop the automatic charge for Rudford’s renewable prescription.

 

 

 

 

Addison again redecorated an outlet cover. She smeared the slots with peanut butter and then chimed, “Mom-meee!”

 

“Shhh! Phone rule. Go on, April. No other statute? No other test of ownership? Wow!

Mail the forms? An investment counselor? Wow! Not like when we signed our wills or closed on our house. Wow! How 'bout dinner on me at Pemberton Chinese? Scratch that. Chinese makes me puke. Wow! We're millionaires. Millionaires! Wow! Mexican? No, not that; that smell, too, makes me puke. Wow! Millionaires! Rain check? Thanks. Wow!”

 

Dorothy gentle placed the receiver on its rest. She put her nose between her knees and waited for her internal clouds to clear. “Kids! We're rich!”

 

“Mommm-mee! I can't hold Mr. Henry any more.”

 

Dorothy walked weakly into the living room. Addison was half-hugging, half-strangling their cat. She waved a peanut butter-covered hand at her mother before returning it to Mr. Henry’s throat.

 

Dorothy lifted Addison away from the cat, which then dashed into the kitchen and out the window.

 

“Where's Terrance?”

 

“Crawled away.”

 

Bypassing an opened baby gate, Terrance had crawled to Withersmith’s food bowls. He was squeezing the soft chow and, intermittently, splashing the water.

 

Dorothy bathed both children. After washing their hair, removing Terrance from the tub, wrapping him in a towel, then placing him on the bathmat, she sat on the closed toilet and watched Addison dunk small, yellow, rubber ducks into the sudsy water. Straightway, Dorothy leaned over the sink and retched.

 

 

 

 

The electrician had charged only for his time. Furthermore, that blessed man had merely laughed twice at the cause of the problem and had just asked once for jelly to go with the peanut butter.

 

The phone rang. Dorothy ignored it. Terrance started crying. She ignored him. Mr. Henry began pawing Dorothy's earring box off her dresser. She did not ignore the cat but tossed him over the bedroom’s baby gate. She shut her bedroom door and began pulling additional, boxed maternity clothes from her closet.

 

Dorothy laid out three corduroy jumpers. Those expensive garments had been the backbone of her working wardrobe when she had been pregnant with Addison. After birthing Terrance, Addison had stained them withPlay dough, which the family dryer had baked in. Dorothy ran her hand over the colorful bumps in those fabrics. Most recently, she had had those pieces of clothing enlarged with pleats to accommodate her expanding, twin-related girth.

 

Suddenly, Dorothy raced to the bathroom. From the sink, she could identify the voice on the answering machine. “Chet, get the phone!”

 

Minutes later, the man, whom Dorothy had loved since their first meeting, appeared at their bathroom door. He held the portable phone with one shoulder, a laundry basket in the related hand, and Terrance in his other arm. Terrance hit Chet's free shoulder with his favorite teether, a piece of raw celery. “It’s Es,” said Chet before depositing the receiver on the sink’s surround and settling the laundry onto a sheet on their bedroom floor. Terrance had made the living room floor unsuitable for sorting and folding.

 

Esmerelda enunciated, “Hi Dot! I'm on the car phone, so you'll have to speak up. In fact, I have just two miles to go before I get to the studio.”

 

“Aha.” Dorothy replied while wiping vomit from her face.

 

“Whoa! No problem; the traffic light was pink. Wait a sec. Great! They’re chasing someone else. I never did get used to L.A. drivers. Did Mom call?”

 

“No. Not more than usual. And before you ask, we didn't fight. Next?”

 

“Fran un-resigned. Oh-oh, missed my exit. Hold on.” Static spoke for Esmerelda across three thousand miles.

 

“Sis? You there?”

 

“Yeah. Just turned around. Maybe I should’ve let Dennis drive. It's just that I have so little private time.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“Would you believe Katrina wants a raise, too?”

 

“So?”

 

Addison pushed over the bedroom baby gate and then appeared at the ensuite bathroom’s door. She threw one of her ballet shoes at Dorothy.

 

Dorothy caught the footwear midarc. Sighing, she reflected on how Addison was getting habituated to staying up late to finagle time with her parents. No wonder the kid was irritable—her emotional basket must be close to empty. No wonder she was sniffly—her immune system must be shot.

 

The now and again lawyer exhaled, tasting stomach acid. No wonder she, herself, was cranky. She, too, was lacking essentials. Whereas kids need bedtimes, spouses needed snuggles. Dorothy made a mental note to train Addison to a nap schedule and to use daylight hours for time with Chet. She weighed whether snuggles were a wish, a want, or a need and resolved that, no matter, Chet’s hybrid work schedule made fantasies into realities.

 

For instance, her husband’s wonderful timetable allowed them to continue their marriage counseling at sane hours and enabled Chet, when Nancy Lynn, their teenage neighbor, wasn’t available, to pick up Addison at ballet, tap, and painting classes.

 

Dorothy couldn’t understand why Chet complained about their arrangement or why he even spoke about returning full-time to his far away office. She only ran through their bedroom, the space where her dear one used a pulldown shelf for a desk, when she had to throw up. Terrance only crawled in when the gate wasn’t fully fastened. Addison only interrupted once or twice per hour. Withersmith might whine outside of the gate but was unable to scale it. As for Mr. Henry, he showed no interest in their bedroom as he had begun sleeping on the bathmat.

 

Dorothy shook her head to clear it. She experienced another wave of nausea.

 

Esmerelda prattled on. “... and after I do all of that for them, they want more money. Everyone thinks I have lots.”

 

“Who? Oh. Don't you?”

 

“Will you never understand? I pay the accountant, the nannies, the housekeeper, the house cleaner, the gardener...”

 

“Es, I have to get off...”

 

“... my manager, my agent, my personal trainer, my assistant...”

 

“Your gopher.”

 

“...my publicist, my stylist…”

 

“You're a small industry. I’m going to ralph, so I’m putting the phone down.”

 

“I'll be there in less than a block.”

 

“I hate your schedule.”

 

“I hate yours.”

 

“Love you, Sis!”

 

“Love you, too!”

 

Dorothy clicked the phone and bent back over the toilet.

 

Addison returned. She was half-carrying, half-dragging Terrance. “Poopy!”

 

Dorothy looked through the bathroom door to the bedroom. Chet was not at his post.

 

She wiped her face, cupped her hand to the faucet to drink a little water, and then smiled crookedly at Addison. Dorothy recalled her conversation with their family lawyer, the talk that conveyed the million dollars was legally theirs. “Addison, how ‘bout we go to that enchanting toy store?”

 

“Can we take Mr. Henry?”

 

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