Perspectives - Vol. 4, No. 3 - The WatcherJane Logan-Kuebler Updated: Aug 1st 1999 In short, the heat is oppressing. For a week, no breeze has made its way through the old two-story white house. In the living room, the heavy yellow drapes, drawn tightly against the early evening sun, hang limply above weathered windowsills. Tonight is the kind of night that makes ordinarily meek wives feel the blade of the kitchen knife and eye their husband's necks, Frannie reflects as she carefully wipes the legs of the kitchen table. "Frannie, bring me tea," hollers Mitch from his avocado-green La-Z-Boy. From the refrigerator she pulls a jar of sun tea. Two ice cubes, made with bottled water, chink into the glass before she fills it with the amber-colored liquid. Then she stirs in 1½ packets of Equal. She carries the glass to him, dutifully, with the required paper napkin folded into a tight triangle. She learned long ago that it's best to be told only once. "While you're here, switch the channel to ESPN," he says, grabbing the glass and napkin from her hand, sloshing the tea a bit as he does. Deftly she avoids the swift kick he aims toward her shin. Even he is too hot to put much effort into the strike. "I can't hear it! Turn it up... Not that much! What's wrong with you?" he says, glaring at her, his face impassive but the jaw telling all. "Quit messing around. I want to see this. "Shhhh. Now get out of the way." Through it all she's said nothing. Not made a sound. Dont argue with management. As Frannie makes her way back to the kitchen, she steps over their yellow Labrador stretched out under the dining room window. Max thumps his tail in acknowledgment, but won't lift his head off the moist carpet. If it's not the heat, it's the humidity, she thinks with a wry smile, briefly wondering who the heck thought of a saying so stupid. She wipes the last of the little black ants from the countertop, shakes the washcloth into the chipped porcelain of the sink, turns on the water and watches them fight the tide. She plays with the water - turning it on fast, then slow, then fast again. She watches the ants struggle against the current and eventually become sucked into the swirling whirl. What happens to them down there? she wonders, looking deep into the garbage disposal. Do they grasp the side and climb back up? Or do they drown in the leftovers that went before them? "Been there, done that," Frannie whispers quietly into the drain. But I'm drowning too, right here in the corner of his kitchen. Not that she cares much. It was nearly a month ago, Frannie figures, that she threw away her last link to sanity. Her weekly sessions with John were her lifeline; his attention and musings gave her a reason to keep trying. Even so, she canceled her next appointment and resolved to never reschedule. • • • • "What are all those pills for?" Mitch had asked one morning, three weeks ago. While she made their bed, he had emptied her bathroom drawer onto the counter, and lined up like soldiers the big white bottles with metal caps, and little brown bottles with white caps. Only it was Mitch who wanted to do battle. Feeling like Max when he doesnt want to play fetch, Frannie stepped cautiously into the bathroom and touched each bottle as she spoke. "This is my multi-vitamin, this is my extra calcium, this is my estrogen, this helps me sleep, and this gives me energy," she explained as vaguely as she could. She refused to use that word: Depression. Just something more for him to hold against me, she thought. Mitch tensed. "Jee-Zus! So just how much is this shit costing me each month?" he demanded, sweeping the bottles off the counter and scattering their contents. "You use my money for pills AND pay to see that guy, too?" He paused, took a breath and then looked at her thoughtfully, almost smiling if you dont count the eyes. "No more. I'm going to work, but Ill talk to you about this tonight. There's going to be some changes around here, with all this medicine and shrink bullshit. You can plan on it. And clean up this mess." After Mitch left, Frannie packed the remaining pills into a Tupperware, pushed the container deep under her side of the bed, and tossed the empties into the wastebasket (she knew Mitch would check). I hate you, she thought without knowing she thought it. I hate me. Then she crawled into a corner of her bedroom, pulled her knees up to her chest and slowly rocked on her butt -- forward and back, forward and back. This was her spot to rock; for twenty years this spot, this rocking, had soothed her. I need to talk with John. He doesnt like all my decisions, but he listens. He doesnt judge. I can live without the pills, but I cant give him up. When Frannie had first met John two years ago, she was nearly paralyzed with an inability to speak about herself. Oh yes, she could carry on conversations with her co-workers and students; she could develop lesson plans, present lectures, and pretend like everything was hunky-dory at home. But she never considered what was truly happening in her life. It was a battle, but John got her to focus her thoughts, even say them aloud, and speculate about her situation (Even though she warned him shed never change anything). Johns compassion strengthened Frannie, and she yearned to learn more, feel more and be more. She walked out of each session literally counting the hours until the next one. Yet, after the mornings pill spill, Frannie called Johns office and canceled her next appointment. "Ill call him to reschedule," she lied to the receptionist. That night, when she served Mitch a dinner "to die for," a menu she had obsessed over since noon when she finally quit rocking, she mentioned that she had pitched the pills and had no more sessions scheduled with John. "Youre right," she told Mitch. She spoke tentatively. "We dont need that stuff." Mitch was in no mood to have Frannie "blow smoke up his butt," as he would say, but her compliance triggered in him a feeling of freshness and energy. That night in bed he delighted in showing her "just whos boss." Please, John, call me. Just say, "Well Frannie, I havent heard from you in a while. How are things? Have you got time to talk?" I promise John, if you call, Ill make an appointment. I need to talk. I need your strength. I need your help. Oh, please, please call. It was tough going, that first week, with no session to look forward to. Whenever the telephone rang, she instantly checked her watch -- if it was right on the hour, she knew it would be John. Hed be between sessions, and wanted to "touch base" with her. "Hows Frannie?" hed ask. And she would reply, "Im ready. Im really leaving this time." Nada. The calls were from Mitch, checking that she was home. Please, John. Just call me. During the second week, (I need to talk with you, John. Dont give up on me so easily) Frannie found herself whimpering nearly silently as she folded laundry. Unnerved, she chastised herself, "You could call him..." Bam! Slam the lid on that idea. She marked time according to what she knew of his schedule: he usually began sessions at 10 a.m. and again at 2 p.m.; Tuesday and Thursday mornings he had group. He was probably home by 6:30 or 7:30 each night. She shut her eyes, imagined his office, him in his chair, and willed him to call. Dont you know how much I need to meet with you? Please call. Week No. 3 arrived, and Frannie knew John and his family had left town for time in the mountains. He had mentioned it some time ago, and she had written it, in code, on her calendar. Wont you call before you leave? Say, "Frannie, Im leaving town for a week. Lets set a time for you for when I get back." The silent telephone mocked her. With him out of town, she felt especially lost; adrift in a hopeless sea of heat and humidity. • • • • So intent is Frannie with her water play that she doesn't hear Mitch until he abruptly slams his hip into her, shoving her into the counter. She cracks her temple against the sharp corner of an upper cabinet. "What the hell are you doing?" Mitch snarls. He takes a step toward her and she instinctively raises her hand to protect her face. Almost immediately she feels her forehead cool as her fingers, unbidden, brush her blonde bangs skyward in a quest to predict where he will strike first. No, please. Not the face. John, call me! she shrieks inside her head. RRRRing. Mitch catches himself at the sound of the telephone. Again the look, something Frannie feels more than sees. Then he twists around and snatches the receiver off the hook. He takes a deep breath. "Hello, Siefert's," he answers in his office voice, turning his back to her. The long cork-screw cord twists away from the wall. Noiselessly, Frannie tries to work away from the cupboards, past him. Its John. Yes, Ill make an appointment. Let me talk to him. Mitch widens his stance and blocks her path. She stands quietly, head down. Once again, blonde bangs hide her blue eyes and the intelligence behind them. "Isn't that on the OTC?" asks Mitch, still on the telephone. He pulls the kinks out of the cord, then releases them back into their former curls, again and again. "You have to watch it. The SEC does, and pretty closely. Still, Ill arrange it for you if you want." As Frannie leans across the counter for a towel she hasn't yet folded, the rustle of her seersucker shorts attracts Mitch's attention. With a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, he tromps on top of her bare right foot. She slams her teeth together to stifle a scream. Then, gasping, she jerks her foot away. Ripping her forearm off the humid, sticky counter, she stands on one foot while gently kneading the other. Mitch returns to his conversation. "I can't get away right now, but it you want to fax it to me first thing in the morning, Ill get right on it. I can date it yesterday, today, tomorrow . Whatever you want." Whatever you want, she thinks, trying to quell the throbbing pain. What about whatever I want? But time passes. Much like the ever-so-common lackadaisical shove, her wants were pushed away (punched away?) long ago. At first she thought it was his way of needing her, but then - at first - it was a good kind of need. Now she knows, and she really does know, that he needs more. He needs an audience. He needs control. He needs power. He needs a victim. Heck, who better than a wife? The heat in the room is stifling. Backed into the corner, Frannie has a tough time catching her breath in a room that seemed to have plenty of air just a short time ago. Until death do us part. The words come from deep inside her head, a memory (a nightmare?) of long ago. Mitch hangs up the telephone. He turns away from her and stares fixedly at the twisting cord as it undulates gently against the wall. Shes seen that look a gazillion times before. Its like his mind flies away and leaves his body behind. The heat is oppressing. Pressing. As an outsider looks on, she sees herself eye the stainless steel spoon, the matching fork, and the steak knife that hasn't yet made the drain rack. From the outside looking in, she watches herself study Mitch's neck. Long, thin, tan from a daily round of golf, from weekly cocktails around clients' pools. She watches herself reach for the kitchen knife. She watches herself. Reference:
Logan-Kuebler, J. (1999). The Watcher. [Online]. Perspectives. [1999, August 15]. | 
