4
Peter wished some moment of clarification might present itself: it was hard, by June, to keep silent about the changes in Irene, about the strain those changes were placing on the house over which she presided. But a man like Peter, in the absence of any immediate crisis, can’t feel sure about what might occasion such a moment. His wife was a different person from the one he’d known last summer, or even in early spring: that much was plain. But who, in the privacy and safety of his home, says something like “you’ve changed” to his wife? Actors in movies talk like that, not people.
She’d begun spending more time at church; but this was not a seismic change, and besides, she took Lisa along with her for Greta Handsaker to dote on in the church nursery. Her baby had grown much too big to just be set down and left alone on a nursery floor, but there were plenty of books to read there, and sometimes other children to play with; if Lisa found herself playing with younger children, she’d try to interest them in Drop a Dragon, a game she’d invented with her mother a little over a year ago. In this game, each player draws one unbroken line—of any color, following any arc, however long and squiggly—until a picture emerges, sometimes vague and evocative, sometimes clear as day. They’d called it Drop a Dragon because the drawing produced from its halting initial playthrough had looked a little like an undulating green dragon; in those days, Lisa, still trying out new ways to speak each day, sometimes appended consonants to words that ended in vowel sounds. “What will we call this picture?” Irene had said, holding it up. “Drop a dragon!” she’d said proudly, pointing. It was a story Peter and Irene liked to recount when they could. Everyone always smiled when they got to the punch line.
But Irene brought Bible study home now. Sometimes she read by candlelight before bed. It struck Peter as an odd affectation, the candle; you keep candles around for when the power goes out. She was probably saving the house a few pennies, though, so what was the harm? She did seem to sing a lot now, more than she ever had. It was a little strange. But she wasn’t loud or bizarre, just different. And so he kept his thoughts to himself.
She never preached to the family, and she seldom said much that seemed out of character. Occasionally Peter would make romantic advances at night; she almost always rejected these now, but he attributed this to her practical nature. He was still part-time at work, and there’d been no company-wide raise last year; more children were not in their plans. Of all the small differences only one occasion really stood out, and it was a secret he couldn’t tell.
She was in the kitchen washing dishes, her back to the living room, where Peter’d dozed off on the sofa. She was singing quietly to herself. As he rose from sleep, after who knew how long, he heard her, the song drifting in as through a light fog. He’d loved her voice the very first time he’d ever heard it, all the way back at Henry’s Drive-In; now he lay listening, motionless, trying to identify the hymn. He expected to find something familiar if he listened hard enough; but the key was minor, the tempo slow; and then the melody dropped away, but the song continued at the same pace and tempo, and he realized she’d been praying—chanting—either petitioning God directly under her breath, or reciting some formulaic prayer he didn’t recognize or couldn’t make out at this distance.
It had a lilt of its own; not, to Peter, a pleasant one. He didn’t know where it came from, and he didn’t want to follow it out to where it went. He drifted back into his nap, the way you sometimes fall asleep when there’s something on your mind you’d rather not think about. When he woke again, there was pot roast in the oven. You could hear the juices sizzling in the pan. The rich smell filled the house.
*
Lisa was chalking hopscotch squares on the driveway while her father pushed the lawn mower over the grass. He wore a white undershirt and his summer shorts, black checks over alternating gold and white squares. It was very hot outside, and though he’d kept the blades sharp and the mower oiled, the June grass was thick. Sweat ran into his eyes. He stopped near the driveway to wipe his brow with his hand.
Lisa looked up, hearing his heavy breathing. “Sharon’s daddy has a lawn mower that’s a car,” she said.
“I know he does,” said Peter. “It’s an antique. Her daddy let me take it for a spin once, back when he first bought it.” It was a John Deere Model 110. Everyone in Crescent had stopped by the Lumley place to see it when it was new.
“It sounds like an airplane,” said Lisa.
“Sure,” said Peter. “They call that ‘horsepower.’”
“Can we get one?” Lisa said. “It’s super fun. Sharon gets to ride it.”
“Can’t go wrong with a True Value,” said Peter, rattling the push mower by its handles.