MATERIALIZING by Amanda Cushman

 

The neighbors are at it again. The third rummage sale in a month. I thought they would have run out of things to sell by now. But, when I look through their wide front window on my way home from work, the light inside reveals that there is still plenty of stuff. Phyllis knits and George smokes his pipe, and they laugh out the fullness of their life together. Maybe they just want to share their good fortune, I tell my husband, who has been complaining loudly about the sales. It’s late Saturday afternoon, and we happened to catch the same train home—he from the football game, and I from my yoga class.

      “Junk,” Brad responds. “Rubbish. This is exactly what I’m talking about, Nor. It symbolizes perfectly the materialism of our society. How long do you think these geezers have been collecting this crap? Does it serve any purpose? Is it making them any happier?

      I consider the couple. Phyllis is grinning as she tells another neighbor the story behind a silver tureen. George lovingly caresses a South American alligator figurine. “I guess not,” I reply. But maybe it represents happiness. I say this to myself because I don’t feel like arguing again today. My eye catches on a lovely Victorian stool that reminds me of my grandmother’s house where I used to spend my summers.

      Back inside our house, Brad scoffs as he crosses the cream carpet of our living room. His long legs eat up the space between the door and the small divan and wide, white couch. I pause, remembering that I love the modernism of the black and white cutting through the house. On the wall across from the couch, where a TV would normally be, hangs my contribution to the place: a painting of sharp lines interrupted by a large, red dot. I go to the kitchen to make drinks.

      As I hand Brad his bourbon, straight up, he stares at the red circle.

      “I think some of it was on our property,” he says. He takes a sip. I want the sound of ice clinking against the glass, but there is nothing. I have the same problem when I look for shadows in the semi-gloss paint of our walls. Nothing.  Just a smooth, flawless surface with nothing to catch the eye.

      “I’ll be right back,” I say.

      Brad grunts and takes another sip. Before I leave, I go to the closet that I used to try and make Brad clean, but which I now use to hide all the things I’d never let him know I need. Colorful scarves, a red dress, curved knick-knacks that once decorated my shelves, elephant idols from my year abroad in Cambodia, and a music collection I told Brad I’d gotten rid of when we married. Near the top of the pile, because it is the most useful, is a black purse. I have even taken it on dates with Brad, careful not to open it where he might notice the fuchsia lining inside.

      Outside, I hesitate on the property line. The back end of a rocking chair does hang over onto our lawn. Phyllis sees me and hobbles over.

      “Hello, dear,” she says. “I’m so pleased you’ve finally come over. George and I are moving to a smaller place, so we’ve got to get rid of most of our things. It’s not so bad, though. We get to share the joy we’ve experienced with others. Anything catch your eye?”

      “Yes, as a matter of fact.” I set my jaw. “That footstool.”

      “It’s lovely, isn’t it? George and I bought that on our honeymoon in England. We tried to convince one of our own children to take it, but they wouldn’t. Kids today.” She shakes her head. “But, a neighbor is the next best thing. We know you’ll take good care of it.” She pats my arm.

      As I head home, footstool in hand, I nudge the rocking chair just a little farther onto our property. When I get inside, I see that Brad is still sitting on the couch, staring at the wall, his drink nearly gone. Then I realize a piece of furniture will never fit in the closet, and I wonder if Brad would like to put his feet up.

 

Amanda Cushman has lived in such far-flung places as Saskatchewan and Schleswig-Holstein.  She currently resides in Boston, where she is completing her MA in Writing and Publishing at Emerson College. Beyond the obvious choices of reading and writing, her hobbies include making a mean cookie and playing Scrabble.  New England Fiction’s Meeting House published her work in January 2008.