American Housewife
Read American Housewife Online
Authors: Helen Ellis
Eating the Cheshire Cat: A Novel
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Helen Ellis
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Doubleday, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Ltd., Toronto.
DOUBLEDAY
and the portrayal of an anchor with a dolphin are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
This page
constitutes an extension of this copyright page.
Cover design by John Fontana
Cover photograph © Andrew McLeod / Trunk Archive; floral print © Woodhouse / Shutterstock
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Ellis, Helen.
American housewife / Helen Ellis. — First edition.
pages ; cm
ISBN
978-0-385-54103-9 (hardcover)
ISBN
978-0-385-54104-6 (eBook)
I. Title.
PS3555.L5965A8 2016
813’.54—dc23
2015021779
eBook ISBN 9780385541046
v4.1_r1
ep
For Ann Napolitano and Hannah Tinti,
great writers and friends
And I’m giving you a longing look
Everyday, everyday, everyday I write the book
—ELVIS COSTELLO
I
nspired by Beyoncé, I stallion-walk to the toaster. I show my husband a burnt spot that looks like the island where we honeymooned, kiss him good-bye, and tell him what time to be home for our party.
I go to the grocery store and find that everyone else has gone to the grocery store and, as I maneuver my cart through Chips and Nuts traffic, I get grocery aisle rage. I see a lost child and assume it’s an angry ghost. Fearing cold and flu season, I fist-bump the credit card signature pad.
Back home, I get a sickening feeling and am relieved to find out it’s just my husband’s coat hung the wrong way in a closet. I break into a sweat when I find a Sharpie cap, but not the pen. I answer my phone and scream obscenities at an automated call. I worry the Butterball hotline ladies are lonely. I follow a cat on Twitter and click “view photo” when a caption reads: “#YUCK.” I regret clicking that photo. I weep because I am lucky enough to have a drawer just for glitter.
I shred cheese. I berate a pickle jar. I pump the salad spinner like a CPR dummy. I strangle defrosted spinach and soak things in brandy. I casserole. I pinwheel. I toothpick. I bacon. I iron a tablecloth and think about eating lint from the dryer, but then think better of that because I am sane. I rearrange furniture like a Neanderthal. I mayonnaise water rings. I level picture frames.
I take a break and drink Dr Pepper through a Twizzler. I watch ten minutes of my favorite movie on TV and lip-synch Molly Ringwald: “I
loathe
the bus.” I know every word.
Sixteen Candles
is my
Star Wars.
I hop in the shower and assure myself that behind every good woman is a little back fat. I cry because I don’t have the upper-arm strength to flatiron my hair. I mascara my gray roots. I smoke my eyes. I paint my lips. I drown my sorrows with Chanel No. 5.
At the party, I kiss my husband hello. I
loathe
guests who sneeze into the crooks of their elbows. I can’t be convinced winter white is a thing. I study long-married couples and decide that wives are like bras: sometimes the most matronly are the most supportive.
I feign interest in skiing, golf, politics, religion, owl collections, shell collections, charity benefits, school fund-raisers, green juice, the return of eighties step classes, the return of nineties grunge, a resurgence of bridge clubs, and Ping-Pong mania.
I say, “My breath is the Pinot Grigio-est.”
I say, “I am perfectly happy not being a Kennedy.”
I say, “I’d watch a show called
Ghost Hoarders.
Why is that not a show?”
I say, “You can take your want of a chocolate fountain and go straight to hell.”
I see everyone out and face the cold hard truth that no one will ever load my dishwasher right. I scroll through iPhone photos and see that if I delete pictures of myself with a double chin, I will erase all proof of my glorious life. I fix myself a hot chocolate because it is a gateway drug to reading. I think I couldn’t love my husband more, and then he vacuums all the glitter.
WAINSCOTING WAR
From: [email protected]
Subject: Thank you
Date: May 6, 2015 9:24 PM
Hi neighbor! Thank you for the welcome gift basket you left outside our apartment door. My husband and I don’t eat pineapples because my life coach has us on an all-protein diet, but we appreciate the gesture. We gave the pineapples to the super, who said he’d ask his wife to ask you for your recipe for pineapple-glazed ham. Apparently you make one every Easter that makes the elevator shaft smell like a barbeque.
WOW
!I’ve returned your basket to our shared mail table, which I believe is an antique toilet. Might I take this opportunity to discuss remodeling our common hallway? Here’s an idea: wainscoting!
From: [email protected]
Re: Thank you
Date: May 7, 2015 6:25 AM
Dear Ms. Chastain-Peters,
The former resident of your apartment, Mrs. Giles Everett Preston III, and I remodeled our common area two years ago. I am sure you recognize her name from her generous endowments to public television and the Feline Rescue Society. She was a woman of impeccable taste. She imported our vintage wallpaper from France and the art and antiques were from her Pennsylvania estate.
When she passed away on your kitchen floor, she willed me the contents of our hallway. Needless to say, I am sentimentally attached to these treasures, especially to my sewing machine table that you have mistaken for a commode.
Co-op rules dictate that residents of both apartments must contractually approve common area changes. In honor of my dear departed friend, I wish to keep the hallway in its current condition.
Sincerely,
Gail Montgomery
From: [email protected]
Re: Thank you
Date: May 7, 2015 11:12 PM
Hi Gail! Call me Angela! Let’s do away with the formalities and antiques that 100-year-old socialite widows like Mrs. Preston held so near and dear! Just because life-size oil paintings of Biblical slaughter are framed in gold doesn’t mean they’re in good taste. Our hallway looks like a room at the Met that makes schoolchildren cry.
As I’m sure you know, Mrs. Preston left every room of our apartment lined with wallpapers like the flocked purple damask in our shared hallway (along with
MOUNTAINS OF CAT HAIR
to which my husband is
DEATHLY ALLERGIC
). What you might not know is that wallpaper PEELS. I gave a corner above your door a tug so you can see how easily it comes off.Mrs. Preston had tacked every peeling high corner in our apartment with balled-up Scotch tape. As our realtor told us, it’s no wonder she fell off a stool and broke her neck.
Anyhoo, now all our walls are painted with what Benjamin Moore calls “New Beginnings” beige, and isn’t that name apropos of yours and my burgeoning relationship? I have a few pails of New Beginnings left over—so that will cut down on our shared remodeling cost—and my husband and I feel so strongly about wainscoting that we’re willing to pool our dual income from Smythe & Peters to foot that expense too. My life coach says that money can’t buy everything, but two lawyers in one family can convince people it can!
Case in point: when we modernize the design of our shared hallway, you can take Mrs. Preston’s art and antiques to enjoy in your own home! That vase could hold loose change. And while you’re at it, why not put the sewing machine table to use and spruce up your wardrobe? Forgive me for being less than tactful, but long gone are the days of
Dynasty
shoulder pads and madras plaid.Why don’t you come over for a drink and you can see the wainscoting we had installed in our apartment for yourself. With a glass of Chardonnay and a tour I’ll bet I can sway you! Shall we say tomorrow night after my husband and I get home from work around 7:00?
From: [email protected]
Re: Thank you
Date: May 8, 2015 9:25 AM
Dear Ms. Chastain-Peters,
Thank you for the invitation, but I must decline. I do not drink and I cannot be swayed. Moreover, in my home, 7:00 p.m. is feeding time. Along with the vase and paintings, which are indeed museum quality, I inherited Mrs. Preston’s foster cats. I myself am widowed twice and Wynken, Wolf Blitzer, Dodo, and Fred offer me great solace and companionship as long as I adhere to their feeding schedule.
It breaks my heart to hear what you have done with my dear friend’s showplace. Mrs. Preston had character and the only thing with less character than Chardonnay is wainscoting. Mrs. Preston always said that wainscoting is the first sign of new money and an interior designer’s most efficient way of inflating a bill.
Believe me (despite the financial benefits that come with sleeping with your boss and somehow getting that boss to break up his marriage to marry you), once you are widowed you will understand the value of saving a dollar. Imagine coming home from your husband’s funeral to find yourself forever alone, bereft, and pacing circles within your wainscoted room while clad in dungarees so tight I’m surprised your legs don’t ignite when they rub together. It is not a pretty picture, is it? It does not make my paintings of pyres and snake pits look so bad, does it?
Regarding your vandalism, I expect you to hire a professional contractor to repair the damage done to my wallpaper within the week. When I am satisfied that it has been restored to its original pristine condition, I will return your doorknob and number.
Sincerely,
Gail Montgomery
From: [email protected]
Re: Thank you
Date: May 8, 2015 9:45 AM
You stole our doorknob?
From: [email protected]
Subject: Noise disruption and further damage
Date: May 9, 2015 10:35 PM
Ms. Chastain-Peters:
I will not tolerate loud parties, the decibels of which are drifting out of your apartment and into our shared hallway at this very hour of 10:35 p.m. on a Thursday. Wainscoting is not soundproof and I am a woman who needs her eleven hours of sleep.
Moreover, your entertaining is disrupting the sleep schedule of Mrs. Preston’s foster cats. Believe me when I tell you that these are not animals you want to run into while you and your inebriated guests are spilling wine onto our shared carpet and you yourself are drawing a mustache on St. John the Baptist and what looks to be male genitalia next to the exquisitely tortured mouth of Joan of Arc.
If you think your defacement of Mrs. Preston’s paintings will make me take them down, you are mistaken. Mrs. Preston always said that you teach a dog not to make a mess by rubbing her nose in it. Or you get cats. You, madam, are no cat.
To quote your graffiti: Suck it.
Gail Montgomery
From: [email protected]
Re: Noise disruption and further damage
Date: May 9, 2015 10:59 PM
Fuck you.
From:
[email protected]Subject: News
Date: May 10, 2015 5:55 PM
Hi Gail! Me again! Guess what? Thanks to our last e-mail exchange, which was “randomly” monitored by my law firm, I’ve been suspended from practicing law due to my use of “unprofessional language” and “questionable personal conduct.”
Anyhoo, the good news is: I’ll be home much, much,
MUCH
more than usual and I will refocus
ALL
of my efforts into convincing you that a hallway renovation is not only wanted by my husband and myself, it is
WARRANTED
. My life coach says that it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission. So please forgive me for taking a shit on your sewing machine table.WAINSCOTING RULES!!!!!
From:
[email protected]Subject: Get those cats out of the hallway
Date: May 13, 2015 9:54 AM
Gail, what have you done? I cannot believe what I’m seeing through my peephole are cats. They are WAY too big to be cats. One of them has so much fur I can’t see its eyes. The brown one is
DROOLING!
They are sniffing my doorknob hole. I can feel their hot jungle breath on my bathrobe! If my husband comes home right now and survives his third heart attack from the shock, he will die from the cat hair! He is going to have to take the
SERVICE ELEVATOR!
How you’ve managed to keep those things from smothering you while you sleep is a miracle. It’s amazing that the city we live in allows “pets” that belong in a sideshow, but makes it illegal for me to have a switchblade. Well let me tell you something sister, you are living next door to a lawbreaker. Get those cats out of our hallway and then get to vacuuming every stray hair that has clung to your high-piled carpet and god-awful wallpaper, or I will slip my hand into my pantie dresser drawer and pull out the silk pouch that doesn’t hold potpourri. Tell me, which beast is your favorite? Wynken, Wolf Blitzer, Dodo, or Fred?Please excuse typos as this was sent from my iPad
From: [email protected]
Re: Get those cats out of the hallway
Date: May 13, 2015 10:09 AM
Dodo is the one that ate Mrs. Preston’s face.
From:
[email protected]Subject: Hallway remodeling
Date: May 14, 2015 3:34 PM
Well Gail, thanks to your cats it looks like a hallway restoration is finally in order. While you left your cats unattended in their “yard,” they clawed your paintings to shreds, clawed out huge chunks of wallpaper, clawed up the carpet, clawed up our shared mail table, and broke your vase into a hundred pieces. Perhaps they should be euthanized.
Anyhoo, for your perusal, I’ve attached photos of wainscoting from our apartment. Please notice the New Beginnings beige that I still think would be a lovely alternative to what now looks like a crime scene. On the bright side, your cats’ clawing uncovered beautiful hardwood floors, which I personally prefer to carpeting. Have I mentioned recessed lighting? My life coach says wall sconces glow like the souls of the damned. Plus, those twenty-watt candelabra bulbs are impossible to replace and screwing in anything stronger will risk an electrical fire.
Please do let me know when you put the cats down. Seeing what they did to the hallway, I fear for my personal safety.
From: [email protected]
Re: Hallway remodeling
Date: May 14, 2015 5:25 PM
Dear Ms. Chastain-Peters,
The Feline Rescue Society can attest to the fact that Mrs. Preston’s foster cats were declawed as a stipulation of their adoption. I have taken the liberty of copying your husband on this e-mail exchange so that he may understand the magnitude of your actions.
Gail Montgomery
From: [email protected]
Subject: My sympathies
Date: June 6, 2015 9:25 AM
Dear Angela,
I am sorry to hear from the super that you and your husband have separated. He told me that he has been forwarding your husband’s mail to a hotel, but was not sure what to do with yours as it was piling up on what remains of our mail table. He said he has not laid eyes on you in weeks. To protect your privacy, I told him that I would hold your mail while you are traveling.
The super asked if you had gone to “Europe” as so many wives in this building do when their husbands desert them. “Europe” means plastic surgery, rehab, or agoraphobia. The last of these options is the most troubling because if your finances are strained, by say extra housing, divorce lawyers, and a neighbor’s impending lawsuit, psychiatrists and psychological drugs are unaffordable. And from what I understand about life coaches, they don’t cheer on crazy ladies who don’t pay their bills.
Do you know what happens to a mentally unstable woman living alone in a two-bedroom apartment that could be sold in this housing boom for above market value? The co-op board gathers evidence that she is a danger to herself and evicts her.
Mrs. Preston always said if you are going to be a shut-in, find something to do. Mrs. Preston fostered cats. The woman who lived in your apartment before her ran a doll hospital. The woman before her wrote erotic novels under a man’s name. Mrs. Preston and her predecessors did not leave your apartment for decades. Already, you have been missing for seventeen days. Seventeen years is just around the corner.
And I know you are in there. I can hear you making a smoothie.
My suggestion is that you overcome your debilitating depression by restoring our hallway decor. Gluing my vase back together should be fun, like a jigsaw puzzle. Trolling the Internet for duplicate out-of-print wallpaper to rehang, a scavenger hunt. Reweaving the wicker lid of my sewing machine table, meditative. And mending the paintings might make you feel like an artist yourself.
As a compromise, I am willing to agree to hardwood floors. Refinishing them will give you even more to accomplish.
Recovery is all about baby steps, Angela. Step into our hallway, you can step into the world.
Gail
From: [email protected]
Subject: Kudos to you on the hallway clean up
Date: June 11, 2015 11:11 AM
Dear Angela,
I must admit that you have stripped the carpet and wallpaper better than any paid professional. There is not one dot of dried paste anywhere to be found, and believe me I checked with a magnifying glass and a flashlight. I assume that you have taken my antique sewing machine table, vase, and paintings into your apartment for repairs. You will need good strong sunlight for that and I will confess that in the past our hallway wall sconces have been a bit dim. But the current state is a safety hazard. Unlike Mrs. Preston’s foster cats, I cannot see in the dark. Please return the lightbulbs.
