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Authors: Jac Jemc
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time of it.”
We painted wine glasses that evening. Of course we did. I painted messages and tiny illustrations that had no value, had nothing to do with me, in fear that some form of my previous intention might leak out. I painted a glass with a primitive-looking golf ball and putter, with a message that read, “Golf is a good walk spoiled.”
My wife cast me a disparaging look. “You hate golf. Tell me you didn’t paint that for the irony. I’m so sick of irony.”
I didn’t respond. She painted a glass with a lacy looking pattern and then, on another, a gradated blend of color that evoked Rothko. I painted a glass with a set of small eyes in large eyeglasses, inscribed, “Free vision tests.”
On my final glass I painted two outlines of a square. One square met the circumference of the base at four points. The other I painted plainly on the side of the glass.
My wife’s last wineglass had on it a rather impressively intricate drawing of a spine, each vertebra indicated with the smallest stroke of her paintbrush. Next to the illustration she wrote the suffix “-less.” I eyed her, looking for clues as to its implications, and she smiled proudly.
I begged exhaustion and went to bed soon after, while my wife was still cleaning up the supplies.
It took only a few days before the need for escape passed. It was a hunger that lingered until the point when it could no longer be felt.
22.
M Y WIFE AND I AGREED to housesit for a distant cousin of mine.
It was a mansion on the north shore, but truly old, not one of those awkward new behemoths in a cul-de-sac development.
We were to stay in the house for a week. Their dogs needed daily feeding and we would water their plants and take in the mail.
One could say we were doing it as a favor to friends, but it was a great getaway for the two of us. We were lucky to go on one small vacation a year. The opportunity to housesit fell over my spring break. My wife took off a week from work. We packed suitcases, told our neighbors we would be away for a bit, and drove up to the house. Our eighth anniversary was coming up and we welcomed the escape from our everyday lives.
My cousin and his wife gave us free reign: “Eat what you want. Use whatever isn’t behind lock and key. Have people over. Clean up after yourselves when you’re done, and it’s fine by us.”
We were told to stay in the master bedroom. They’d already changed the sheets. It was a massive bed with curtains that shut it off from the rest of the room.
The master bath was, as we should have expected, larger than our entire apartment.
The kitchen was gourmet, and their cookbook selection was elite and extensive.
The living room was breakable-looking yet sturdily restored.
They had a library with a sliding ladder that ran along the bookshelves.
My wife said, “That was my dream. When I was a little girl? I dreamt of gliding along a wall of books.”
My wife said, “This is heaven!” She was not being over-dramatic or sarcastic.
The study, a separate room from the library, had a roll-top desk. I had read about roll-top desks when I was a kid and had imagined organizing an entire lifetime within those cubby-holes and drawers.
Once our hosts had given us a tour, had again told us to behave as we pleased, had shared with us the alarm codes and headed off to the airport, we roamed the house on our own.
We found the attic up a narrow, spiral staircase in the back of the house. The ceilings slanted along the interiors of the peaked roof. We tiptoed among steamer trunks and dress forms. We had no idea why our friends would own these items. They were the type of people that might buy this stuff because it was what should be in an old attic. We found a shoebox of old love letters. My wife became entranced. We spent the entire first afternoon and evening in that attic. We found old typewriters and phonographs. An old grandfather clock, in our first hour, startled us with proof that it was still
We painted wine glasses that evening. Of course we did. I painted messages and tiny illustrations that had no value, had nothing to do with me, in fear that some form of my previous intention might leak out. I painted a glass with a primitive-looking golf ball and putter, with a message that read, “Golf is a good walk spoiled.”
My wife cast me a disparaging look. “You hate golf. Tell me you didn’t paint that for the irony. I’m so sick of irony.”
I didn’t respond. She painted a glass with a lacy looking pattern and then, on another, a gradated blend of color that evoked Rothko. I painted a glass with a set of small eyes in large eyeglasses, inscribed, “Free vision tests.”
On my final glass I painted two outlines of a square. One square met the circumference of the base at four points. The other I painted plainly on the side of the glass.
My wife’s last wineglass had on it a rather impressively intricate drawing of a spine, each vertebra indicated with the smallest stroke of her paintbrush. Next to the illustration she wrote the suffix “-less.” I eyed her, looking for clues as to its implications, and she smiled proudly.
I begged exhaustion and went to bed soon after, while my wife was still cleaning up the supplies.
It took only a few days before the need for escape passed. It was a hunger that lingered until the point when it could no longer be felt.
22.
M Y WIFE AND I AGREED to housesit for a distant cousin of mine.
It was a mansion on the north shore, but truly old, not one of those awkward new behemoths in a cul-de-sac development.
We were to stay in the house for a week. Their dogs needed daily feeding and we would water their plants and take in the mail.
One could say we were doing it as a favor to friends, but it was a great getaway for the two of us. We were lucky to go on one small vacation a year. The opportunity to housesit fell over my spring break. My wife took off a week from work. We packed suitcases, told our neighbors we would be away for a bit, and drove up to the house. Our eighth anniversary was coming up and we welcomed the escape from our everyday lives.
My cousin and his wife gave us free reign: “Eat what you want. Use whatever isn’t behind lock and key. Have people over. Clean up after yourselves when you’re done, and it’s fine by us.”
We were told to stay in the master bedroom. They’d already changed the sheets. It was a massive bed with curtains that shut it off from the rest of the room.
The master bath was, as we should have expected, larger than our entire apartment.
The kitchen was gourmet, and their cookbook selection was elite and extensive.
The living room was breakable-looking yet sturdily restored.
They had a library with a sliding ladder that ran along the bookshelves.
My wife said, “That was my dream. When I was a little girl? I dreamt of gliding along a wall of books.”
My wife said, “This is heaven!” She was not being over-dramatic or sarcastic.
The study, a separate room from the library, had a roll-top desk. I had read about roll-top desks when I was a kid and had imagined organizing an entire lifetime within those cubby-holes and drawers.
Once our hosts had given us a tour, had again told us to behave as we pleased, had shared with us the alarm codes and headed off to the airport, we roamed the house on our own.
We found the attic up a narrow, spiral staircase in the back of the house. The ceilings slanted along the interiors of the peaked roof. We tiptoed among steamer trunks and dress forms. We had no idea why our friends would own these items. They were the type of people that might buy this stuff because it was what should be in an old attic. We found a shoebox of old love letters. My wife became entranced. We spent the entire first afternoon and evening in that attic. We found old typewriters and phonographs. An old grandfather clock, in our first hour, startled us with proof that it was still
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