House Proud

by Ellen Birkett Morris

2811 Grandin Boulevard could be mistaken for a historic home with its dignified brick exterior, solid white pillars, and eight perfect windows flanked by stern black shutters.

Mary Neal was tempted to add a brass plate to the front like on historic homes, though it would reveal that the house was built in 1980 not the 1880s, though no one had to know it was from a set of house plans offered by Southern Living Magazine, a mere replica of a grand old home.

Sometimes Mary Neal would sit in front of the house after going to the grocery and imagine what strangers driving by might think about the house. What do they do for a living? What must those big rooms feel like?

It was time for phase two, adding a circular driveway. The man was coming to talk about it today and Mary Neal hadn’t slept at all last night as she was dogged by anticipation. She busied herself trimming the hedges. When you had a house with a circular driveway, you’d made it. Parking steps from your front door was the ultimate luxury. It meant your lawn was big enough that paving part of it wouldn’t matter. Other people talked about fancy lighting or appliances that emerged from the counter with the push of a button or giant television screens, but Mary Neal knew it was what was on the outside of the house that mattered.

Her husband Arthur ribbed her, called her “house proud.” She thought of this as she trimmed the bushes with ever increasing zest, stopping just before the hedge went from a pleasing circular shape into something that could not be redeemed.

Mary Neal had looked up the term and was pleased to find that house proud was the name of a realty company and a furniture store and even a magazine of hip crafts for the modern homemaker, which, on second thought, might be taking the whole thing just a bit too far. She was proud of being house proud.

Mary Neal grew up in a Catholic neighborhood full of Marys—Mary Ella, Mary Jane, Mary Sue, Mary Lou and Mary Elizabeth. They had called themselves “the hail Marys” giggling at the boldness of comparing themselves to Mother Mary.

Other kids had trouble telling them apart. Mary Neal had to stand out some way. She had always taken care of herself and her things. Maybe that was her distinction. Mary Ella had buck teeth. Mary Lou was bossy. Mary Elizabeth had green eyes. Mary Sue was sloppy, and she was neat as a pin.

The guys in her high school called the Marys “the virgins” in a way that she knew wasn’t a compliment. There were rumors of a bet. When the handsome halfback named Bill asked her out, Mary Neal told herself that her neat clothing and shiny hair had paid off. He must like her. But he barely spoke to her after the game, drove right past the burger place where the team hung out and pulled over in a shadowy spot in the park. His mouth was on hers making a mess of her lipstick before she knew it.

The bet. She wouldn’t be the first Mary to succumb. She had her standards. Panic clawed at her, as his big hands pawed at her blouse. She slapped him away, so he didn’t pop the pearl buttons on her sweater. Still, he had stretched it out. It would never go back to its original shape. She told him if he didn’t bring her home, she’d tell everyone that he’d asked her to be his steady girlfriend.

When she got home that night her father asked her how the date went.

She kept her coat on so he wouldn’t see her misshapen sweater.

“Just great, Dad.”

“Good. He’s a good kid, comes from a good family.”

There were no more high school dates, and her father never asked about Bill again. It took her years to recognize that what he had done was wrong, a violation. When she thought about it her arms would wind tightly around her torso.

Love seemed messy and dangerous. She had been slow to date after that. There were a few encounters in college, but she never found that balance between safety and attraction.

So she went with safety. Arthur was an accountant with perfect grades who had spoken in even careful tones so slowly that sometimes she wondered if he had fallen asleep in mid- sentence. He waited until the fourth date to kiss her. But he was a kind man and made a good living. He was the reason they lived at 2811 Grandin Boulevard.

They had been married for 15 years. Arthur was wrapped up in his work. The world went on. Mary Neal had turned her attention inward. She redecorated the kitchen after 9-11. When the war in Afghanistan happened, she bought a heavy wooden table for the dining room. When the stock market took a dive, she went to the makeup counter and bought a whole new set of cosmetics.

There was comfort in painting her face each morning-foundation (now there was a strong word), blush, eye shadow, mascara. Everything brightened, made smooth. Her house was tidy too. The lawn was so pristine that it was featured in the local paper, twice. She’d left behind the chaos of high school and the world and woke each day to her own created universe.

She turned toward a rattling hum. A Phillips Pavers truck lurched to a halt in front of the house. The truck was old, maybe vintage, but covered in rust and dents. A sticker on the back read Parrothead. Mary Neal flinched at the sight of it. Was that something like a pothead? The driver, a bearded man, carried a clipboard. He joined her by the hedge.

“Mrs. Walker?”

“Yes.”

“I’m David Phillips.” The name sounded familiar. A few new wrinkles lined his face, and he had filled out, but his blue eyes held the same mischievous glint she remembered from her high school English class. He had been a jokester, a troublemaker, and though she hadn’t wanted to, she’d found herself thinking of him back then after she’d laid out her clothes for the next day of school and lay in bed trying to fall asleep. She’s had a secret crush on David Phillips back then. Mary Neal blushed.

“I think I know you,” he said, “Mary … ?”

“Mary Neal.” She’d forgive him this. There had been so many Marys.

“We were in class together. English class. You read a passage from Moby Dick with so much spark. It was so good I was tempted to read the book,” he said.

She’d expected him to be focused on the house and the grounds, maybe mention how grand the house was, but his gaze was focused solely on her. She felt outside of herself, like she was play acting.

“There’s a reason it’s a classic,” she said, deflecting his praise, as her heart lifted.

After a few minutes he said, “So you’re looking for a new driveway?”

She nodded.

“Something circular.” She gestured with the hedge trimmers, the blade nearly brushing his sleeve.

“Whoa there.” He reached out and gently took them from her hands and laid them in the grass. His fingers, calloused and warm, brushed hers. She felt his touch after, a phantom ache that brought her back to her high school days.

“Sketch it out.” He handed her the clipboard and pen. She drew a crude square for the house, another for the lawn. Should she include the hedges? Too hard. She looked at him and he winked at her. She had no idea what that meant. Was he flirting? Laughing at her? She hurriedly drew two half circles dissecting the lawn close to the door.

“Ah, traditional. I can do that. I’ll get some measurements and be back next week with some plans.”

As David paced along the grass counting off the feet, she picked up her trimmers and gave a few halfhearted whacks to the hedge. She took in his tight jeans, the fabric of his faded shirt stretched across his back as he walked. She hadn’t given this much attention to a living thing besides her plants in years. When he said goodbye, he raised his hand and waved at her with a grin. She grinned back and looked away, as if she’d been caught doing something wrong.

That afternoon she was restless. She browsed the bookshelves of her library and pulled out Moby Dick, trying to remember which passage she’d read in class. She paced as she read aloud to the bookshelves. She read slowly and carefully, but without an audience she couldn’t seem to muster any passion for the words.

“I saw an old classmate today,” she told Arthur over chicken cutlets and rice.

“Has she gotten fat?” Arthur asked. He was so proud she’d kept her figure.

“He has gotten older and grown a beard. He owns the paving company that’s doing the driveway. He remembered me from English class.”

“Did you remember him?”

“A bit,” she said.

“Should I be jealous?” Arthur laughed.

Mary Neal flinched.

“He came to see me about the driveway.”

“Our driveway is fine. Why do you want a circular drive? Showy waste of money if you ask me.”

She hadn’t asked permission and knew he’d be too busy with work to notice the driveway anyway. Besides Arthur liked anything that made him look successful. She knew this about him. He’d drove a Mercedes and bought her several pieces of large, ostentatious jewelry that he insisted she wear to the company Christmas party each year.

 

That evening Mary Neal was restless. She browsed through Moby Dick as if she were looking for some part of herself she had lost in the pages. She thought about David, his easy laugh breaking the solemnity of English class, what a welcome sound it had been.

It was stuffy in the living room. She opened a window hoping for the scent of flowers but all she had on the lawn were hearty evergreens that had no smell.

Finally, she picked up her knitting needles, her fingers working to the drone of the police procedural Arthur was watching. She’d lost interest in the parade of murdered women those shows featured long ago. Women on television with either dead or models or dead models. It was a comfort to her that she could never imagine Arthur being moved to harm her. He never got angry. He took out all his emotions on the golf course, whacking the ball with a surprising ferocity.

 

The oatmeal cookies weren’t really for David. Mary Neal baked once a week and she decided to do it earlier this week. If he liked them, it was nothing to do with her. She timed the bake so they would be warm when he arrived.

She offered him a tour and he nodded politely as she walked him through one well-appointed room after another. She showed him the upstairs bathroom with the heated title floor and sunken tub.

“Very nice.”

When they got to the bedroom, she couldn’t bring herself to open the door. It was so generic. It was beautiful, of course, but there were no knickknacks, no cherished items on display, not even a book on the nightstand, “We can skip this room. Nothing to see,” she said. He winked at her again and she gestured to the stairs and followed him down.

 

David unfurled the plans excitedly on the kitchen island. She anchored the corner with the plate of cookies after offering him one. He took a bite, his eyes widening with pleasure.

“Oatmeal raisin, my favorite.”

She resisted the urge to brush a particularly large crumb from his beard.

She half-listened as he talked through the details of finishing, grading, forming and laying the bricks for the driveway. If men had any idea how boring they were with their talk of buildings, square footage, numbers and ratios they would collapse in shame. She did like his voice though, the deep tones, the cadence.

“Mary Neal.”

“Huh?”

“What do you think?”

“I love it.”

The design was traditional with brick work to match the house and placement that would highlight the well-trimmed hedges. It was perfect. David clearly wasn’t a slacker anymore. He was looking at her. She looked down at the plans.

“It’s magnificent,” she said. Mary Neal looked up to see color rising to his cheeks.

 

David and his crew arrived each morning at nine and were gone by the time Arthur came home. Every morning Mary Neal set up a card table on the porch with snacks and lemonade. The plates were always empty by the end of the day. While the crew packed up David took her on a tour.

“First we had to level the ground … ” He went on as Mary Neal’s mind wandered back to high school. She had been in ninth grade, approaching the water fountain when David stepped up and pressed the button so she could drink. It was a small act but so kind. The water was so cold and his smile warm. She’d choked out a thank you and went to class full in the knowledge that they came from different social circles and girls like her weren’t right for guys like him.

Kindness and care often felt like love to her. There were times after a particularly good massage that she felt like she was in love with Sharon, her massage therapist. She’d never really thought about being with a woman, but those hands. Later she read in a magazine that her feelings came from the chemicals released by the massage.

“So, the bricks are going down in a herringbone pattern. Very classy, to match your grand house.” There was no trace of mocking in his voice.

She looked down at the bricks, so tightly packed and tidy, and knew she was just like them, locked in, rigid. The truth of it startled her. Order had always been her friend. She had gotten through life unscathed by the usual drama, each day unfolding neatly one after the other, brick by brick. So many days just like the one before.

She swayed, mesmerized by the bricks. David grabbed her arm. “Do you need to sit down?” Mary Neal nodded. He walked her back to the house, sat her in a chair and poured her a glass of lemonade.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Just a little overtired.”

He took the chair next to her. “Drink up. It will help.” She flashed on the memory of the water fountain again.

She gripped cool surface of the glass and resisted the urge to bring it to her forehead.

“Tell me about yourself. What do you do when you aren’t working?” She asked.

“I have a boat. I go fishing with the guys. Sometimes I take off and go down to Bell Harbor for the weekend. There is something about the water and the sky, especially at sunset.

What about you?”

“Nothing, really,” she said, feeling empty. She sipped the water.

“Book club, bridge, volunteering at the senior center on Wednesdays.” Her list sounded impressive but even those outings had become routine.

“All good things,” said David.

“Nothing adventurous. Nothing new.”

“Soon you’ll have a new driveway,” he said, patting her lightly on the arm.

 

Later, over evening coffee. Mary Neal asked Arthur if she could read to him. He set the television remote down and sat back against the couch. Mary Neal stood facing away from him, steadying her hand as she grasped the leather-bound copy of Moby Dick.

“Why upon your first voyage as a passenger, did you yourself feel such a mystical vibration, when first told that you and your ship were now out of sight of land? Why did the old Persians hold the sea holy? Why did the Greeks give it a separate deity, and own brother of Jove? Surely all this is not without meaning.”

A ship out of sight of land. That must be what David felt when sailing. An expansive world.

“And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned.” Was it possible to get trapped in our image of ourselves? To pledge fidelity to that idea and adhere to it until one became a caricature?

She went on. “But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.”

Mary Neal thought first of Bell Harbor and David in his boat, his image on the water. Where could she find her key? Outside the streets spread beyond her own, pushing toward cities that unrolled one after another until they reached the sea, an endless horizon of water.

She was here, that girl she had always been, who longed to fit in, even as she dreamed of endless oceans, even as she made herself small.

When Arthur turned on the television without comment, she went outside and looked at the house. Its face was empty now, just a collection of wood, brick and windows. The driveway was nearly finished, a road to nowhere. She went to the garage and got the hedge clippers. She whacked at the hedges until they were stubs. She’d put in hydrangeas, blue ones, the color of the ocean.

 

Ellen Birkett Morris is the author of Beware the Tall Grass: A Novel, selected by Lan Samantha Chang for the Donald L. Jordan Award for Literary Excellence. She is also the author of Lost Girls: Short Stories, winner of the Pencraft Award, and of Abide and Surrender, poetry chapbooks. Her fiction has appeared in Shenandoah, Antioch Review, Saturday Evening Post and South Carolina Review, among other journals. Morris is a recipient of an Al Smith Fellowship for her fiction from the Kentucky Arts Council. She lives and works in Louisville, Kentucky.