Clean up in Aisle Five version 2

In the kitchen that Ikea built, Clara watches Frank chew. She has never noticed how aggressive he looks when he eats. He curls his fist around his fork and guards his plate with the other arm as if he expects her to swoop in and steal a blob of his mashed potatoes at any minute. She tries to catch his eye and turn the moment into an inside joke but his eyes are steadfastly fixed on his plate. She is amazed he doesn’t choke. He shovels food into his mouth with the speed and steadiness of an assembly line worker. She can hear his wet chewing which is only interrupted by noisy swallowing and short snorts, like a car engine turning over.
And to think, he is the one who doesn’t want to have a baby with her. Not that she’s broached the topic lately, but his sneer whenever a baby carriage approaches says it all. She should be the frightened one. She imagines that when the baby comes it will be just as hungry and aggressive. She pictures it sucking at her breast with the same slobbering snorts, the same disengaged hunger. It saddens her to see her breasts reduced to two feed sacks.
But, when she first met Frank, she loved him. She loved him more than anyone she had ever met, more than she thought possible. She had always been the type to poo poo romances and chick flicks but with Franks all the clichés had felt suddenly felt true. She thinks, or at least hopes, that it will be the same when she finally encounters this life growing inside of her.
She tries to remember how she felt about Frank way back at the beginning. She thinks about how they first met. It was a hot fall day and she had just dashed down to Cooper’s, the grocery store around the corner, to pick up a few items to make sandwiches. She was feeling too lazy to cook. She had also been too lazy to shower and was wearing the same sweatpants she’d worn for the past two days. The last item on her hastily made list was pickled eggplant, the secret ingredient to a killer sandwich. As she absentmindedly reached for the last jar on the shelf, scanning the list to make sure she had not forgotten anything important, a hand had brushed against hers. She had looked up only to be struck by the most intense green eyes surrounded by a mass of crinkly smile lines. She dropped the jar. The green eyes widened in surprise and then a set of perfectly straight and perfectly white teeth gleamed at her as the eyes owner laughed. Clara stared at the eyes and the mouth as a pool of oil and brine soaked into her running shoes. Green eyes laughed some more and pulled her to safety.
“Hi, I’m Frank” he said. “Clara” Clara managed to stutter. “Can I make a suggestion” Frank continued. Clara nodded. “There’s a little deli two blocks down. It serves an eggplant sandwich that’s to die for. Want to join me there?” “I’m not sure I’m quite ready to die for eggplant” Clara had replied. She was rewarded with another long flash of pearly whites. She was starting to think that maybe eggplant with Franks was worth dying for.
She really can’t remember the way he chewed that sandwich. She doesn’t even remember whether the sandwich was even very good. She only remembers that her own jaw ached from smiling so much and that they’d stayed at the match box sized deli until the old man behind the counter had gently shooed them out. Any nausea she felt was the result of giddiness, not disgust.
Clara gets up and brings her plate to the sink. She scrapes the rest of the spongy meatloaf, cold peas and lumpy potatoes into the garburator. Disturbed by its mechanical cries, Frank finally looks up.
-Not hungry?
-I guess not.
-The potatoes are really good hun. Did you do something different?
-Same potatoes as always.
Frank nods and goes back to his shoveling as Clara rinses the dishes. The clink of glasses and cutlery isn’t enough to mask Frank’s slobbery chewing.

Clara places her book on the floor and clicks off the bedside reading lamp. She feels safer in the dark. She clears her throat trying to find the right words to talk about the baby. She doesn’t want to ambush Frank but she also doesn’t want to see his face during the conversation, doesn’t want to have to fight for this life she isn’t even sure she wants. Just when she thinks she’s ready, Frank farts and turns over without a word. The fart crushes Clara’s resolve and she slides to the edge to avoid being hit with the smell when she turns on her side later. “Goodnight” she whispers. “Night” Frank grunts. Clara considers sliding in for a peck but she’s nervous about unleashing the stench she is sure is trapped beneath their floral quilt.
Clara tries to remember the last time they were intimate. Obviously they have been. There was the time, the big time, conception day, operation fertilization, but has there been anything in between? It’s been a while, probably since the last time she washed the sheets, which was at least three weeks ago. It’s probably time to wash them again. Maybe she should get it out of the way before laundry day.
She ignores the smell and curls against Frank’s back. He gets the hint and turns around. He kisses her neck and kneads her breasts for the prescribed two minutes. “You’re still so beautiful my darling” he whispers in her ear. She considers taking offense at the word still but decides it’s not worth it. She wonders how we will feel when her flesh is stretched and scarred from carrying this life. She wonders if she’ll be a mother who can drop the weight effortlessly. Probably not. She imagines she’ll be all loose and rolly, like a partially deflated balloon. Frank asks her if she’s ready. For a moment, lost in her own thoughts, she thinks he means for the baby, but then his fingers trail the waist band of her flannels and she is pulled back to the present. She nods. He pulls down both of their bottoms and rolls on top of her. She composes a mental grocery list. A few minutes later he asks if she’s finished. She nods yes because she’s even remembered dental floss.
He tries to curl up to her, wrapping himself around her like an octopus, but she pushes him off and inches to the edge. She is too old to sleep in the wet spot. She remembers when she couldn’t sleep without her head on Frank’s chest. Now the sound of his snoring keeps her awake. She hears him shift and settle. He looks vulnerable and soft with his eyes closed. Momentarily she wonders what he’s thinking about but that thought is quickly replaced with a reminder to add baking soda to the list.

In the supermarket Clara stares at a can of tomato soup. She is searching for the sodium content. Frank has to watch his salt intake. Nothing tastes as good anymore. She’s having a hard time reading the ant like letters on the tin. The blinding fluorescent light makes everything dance. She notices that the hand holding the can looks jaundiced. She wonders if it’s the lights or if there’s something wrong with her. She makes a mental note to stock up on vegetables.
Suddenly the PA crackles and a voice leaking adolescence pipes in “Clean up in aisle 5”. She checks the sign above her. She wonders about the person behind the disembodied voice. For some reason she imagines he has red hair and ruddy cheeks fighting acne and attempting to grow a beard. He would have the perfectly muscular body that only adolescence can provide so effortlessly. As he scans her items their eyes will meet and he will sweep everything off the counter. They will fuck under the fluorescent lights, their bodies moving to the rythms of the conveyor belt and beeps of the scanner. At the end he would turn to her and whisper “paper or plastic?” She shivers but it is mostly just the icy air conditioning. It is an entertaining fantasy but she is brought down to earth by thoughts of the baby. She imagines being on a day time talk show trying to prove the child’s paternity. Frank may not be perfect but he’s probably a better candidate for fatherhood than the local stock boy. Clara plunks two cans of tomato soup into the shopping cart, sodium content be damned.
She pushes the recalcitrant shopping cart around the corner into the produce department. The cart squeals its protest the whole way and almost forces Clara into a pyramid of cereal that is stacked at the foot of the aisle but she makes it into the produce selection without destroying any of the attractive displays. The air there is damp with the spray of dozens of miniature sprinklers. Between the scent of Pinesol and the mist from the sprinklers, Clara imagines she is walking through a synthetic rainforest which seems an apt analogy for her life at the moment: a poor imitation of the real thing. Maybe, she muses, the baby will change all that. Without trying, everything will be full of meaning and wonder, the way she felt about the world when she first met Frank. She thinks of them laughing hysterically as they posed in the totem poles, the way they used to read books aloud to each other, making up voices for each of the characters, of shared baths, meals made with four hands. Yes, she will become a cooing mother who gushes at every spit bubble and snot drip. She looks down at the shopping cart and catches sight of a soggy bag of low-sodium tater tots. Or maybe she will be one of those hideous mothers she sees in the mall some times, pushing hoards of dirty screaming children, screaming even louder to be heard over the din, holding McDonald’s and wearing grotty sweat pants because they just can’t be bothered with any of it anymore. Clara sighs, grabbing a dripping bundle of spinach and some waxy apples and heads to the pharmacy aisle. She needs Asprin.

When Clara gets home with the groceries, the kitchen is an homage to one of Frank’s sandwiches. There are blobs of mayo on the counter along with streaks of what she presumes is mustard, trails of tomato slime, discarded lettuce leaves and of course crumbs everywhere. Franks is nowhere to be seen but Clara can hear the televisions gentle hum from the den. Then, Frank’s voice erupts. “Shoot the puck you pussy!” For some reason these words, intended for some hockey player who will never even hear them, hit Clara like a punch to the gut. She drops the bags and slides down the counter, sobbing almost silently, except for huge gasps of air. A can of soup rolls out of one of the bag and across the floor, its journey echoing loudly on the tiles. Clara sobs harder.
Suddenly, Frank is there beside her, crouched on the floor. “Babe, oh, babe, babe” he says gently and sweeps her in to his arms. “Shhh, shhh, shhh,” he hums rocking her. She allows her body to go limp, allows him to take her full weight. “Whatever it is babe, it’s going to be alright.” Frank kisses her on the forehead. “Whatever it is babe. We’ll work it out together” And for once, Clara thinks Frank is absolutely right.