Breadcrumb #535
CAROLINE REDDY
The water in the sink had gathered swiftly and the tiny whirlpool did nothing to ease Ettie’s nerves. She could still hear the drip...drip...drip taunting her and her aching head as she leaned from the tattered beige couch--a gift from her in-laws--and peeked over at the door.
The key to the front door hadn’t turned yet, and that meant Douglas was still in his office, fussing over a tall stack of papers that belonged to the Wall Street Men of the financial district. The men worked with tricky numbers and wore designer suits and ties with brand names: names that Ettie could never pronounce right.
Ettie knew she was too dull to understand the significance of business lunches, tennis matches in the Hamptons and late-night meetings, so she bought fashion magazines and read the advice columns on how to become the wife that Douglas deserved.
She tried keto diets and went for spa pedicures. The Korean women painted glittery rose flowers on her big toes: designs that swirled as she lifted her long blue bohemian dress and wiggled her toes at Doug.
Her husband wasn't amused and Ettie eventually got bored with her failed attempts at pretending to be posh. One night as the thunder roared above, she wandered about the attic like a lost ghost and stumbled upon her grandmother’s cookbooks. She blew the dust and cobwebs away and began her new hobby--a flame had been ignited.
First she pulled the weeds and tended to a small garden in the backyard, watching with delight as the vegetables grew tall and proud. The smell and feel of the root vegetables and the dirt between her fingers grounded her. She made sweet potato- almond salads, rosemary carrot fries, and brown-sugar glazed candied yam. She loved the smell of corn roasting, and dripping with melted butter, along with the herbs and spices that she blended to make bean dips.
“The smell and feel of the root vegetables and the dirt between her fingers grounded her.”
Ettie smiled when soups began to bubble and her eyes lit up as she watched dark chocolate hazelnut cupcakes fluff up in the oven: she would top them with strawberry icing and rainbow sprinkles and leave them by the windowsill to cool.
Ettie often cooked mostly for herself since Douglas was never home. She would listen to the various sounds of the kitchen and turned up the volume on an old Hitchcok flicks (Rear Window being her favorite).
Besides working late night shifts Douglas was OCD about cooking so Ettie could never be too creative with his meals. It was often one cup of steamed kale, bok-choy and one cup of rice measured to the last grain.
“Ettie...please follow my instructions,” Douglas would say before he left for work. If she didn’t he would throw away the pot and make her cook it all over again.
Drip...drip...drip...
Ettie listened to the stillness of the night and tried to forget about Douglas’ silly instructions and the sink. She counted the spaces between the drips, as a child would with waves crashing over their sandy toes on a tame beach.
The night before it had been the same and the drips disturbed her dream. It had been a good one, filled with red-blue butterflies fluttering over a lush green meadow. When her eyes stirred open, Ettie rolled over and hugged her fluffy pillow, pretending it was her husband until she fell back into the silent emptiness of the four bedroom house.
Ettie’s memory wasn’t clear but she knew she had asked Douglas to look at the sink at least once or twice before he had left.
“I have to go now...” Douglas had said and walked away as his voice trailed off.
When was that?
She couldn’t quite remember.
There were no other sounds, good or bad, just the drip. Ettie took a handful of over the counter night-time relief pills and tried to shut her eyes. Lately, sleep felt like a luxurious vacation on an Island with tiki huts and massages by men whose muscles were kissed daily by the sun.
Ralph, the plumber, visited her early morning one day and clanked away at the sink with his box of metallic tools: clogged up lady--too much rice.
Ettie stopped cooking rice. Between Doug’s obsession with the measurement of the rice, her keto diet, and the dripping sound, it made sense to banish rice from their house. However, the craving for rice remained.
It began as a sharp pain at the bottom of her gut until it gathered saliva in her mouth. There were days that she felt ravenous as she smelled and tasted the phantom texture of it in her mouth.
Ettie used to make vegetable biryani and yellow Mexican rice-arroz con pollo; and she longed for the taste of saffron, for it had been her favorite flavor.
Her grandmother had shown her how to make zeresk polloh, chicken cooked in saffron and barberries, back in Esfahan, Iran. She pictured the Zorostrian gods of ancient days lazing upon lavish Persian gardens and licking the ambrosic vivid crimson thread right off of the crocus.
On one occasion, Douglas brought some of the business men to his home. He had gone over the jokes and proper manners and the menu for the night: stuffed mushroom, baked clams and spaghetti with lobster pomodoro.
Something had awoken in her since she began to cook and Ettie decided to improvise instead. She roasted plump heirloom tomatoes from the Farmer’s market. She sizzled olive oil and water with the tiny sour barberries, mixed and stirred the aromatic basmati rice and simmered the organic chicken. She even made tah-dig-the fried rice that remained at the bottom of the pot.
Everything was perfect: she shampooed the rug, bought a beige tablecloth from a small French boutique store, spread out the silverware and lit vanilla scented candles that perfumed the dining room. The Zeresk polloh: was served that night along with vanilla creme brulee and spiced cardamom black tea.
Everything was perfect.
The Wall Street Men drank the Riesling wine, ate their meals, and laughed boisterously. Ettie smiled and told a few jokes. She took small bites and skipped desert. Douglas nodded, saying very little.
A lovely wife.
You’re a lucky man Douglas.
A very lucky man...
She thought she had heard them say and those words echoed far away somewhere in her memory.
When the men left Ettie twirled towards her husband in her fancy new green gown and let out a delightful laugh--for she had drunk more than she should have.
Douglas grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her close.
She could smell the hard liquor on his breath.
“I told you these men wanted lobster tonight. Lobster-not chicken.”
Ettie was dumbfounded.
“They loved it,” she said in a small voice and Douglas dropped her hand.
“They were being polite...”
“They said you were a lucky man…” Ettie insisted.
“You are delusional.”
Douglas disappeared into the bedroom and a few minutes later, he appeared in front of her with two huge suitcases stuffed with a bulk of his belongings.
“Where are you going?” Ettie asked as tears dripped down her cheek.
“I’m sending Daine to pick up the rest of my things. Don’t follow me,” he said.
The dripping began right after Douglas had left.
It had been a while now...somewhere in her clogged up memory she knew it had been weeks, maybe months since her husband had returned home.
That’s why the sink is still dripping...
Autumn leaves had faded fast, dried up like summer cicadas, and winter had brought on a harsh wind, leaving a wilted grave instead of a robust garden.
Ettie kept looking at the door, imagining the key turning, her twirling towards her husband as Douglas walked through the door--hugging and kissing her-- with those fancy men complimenting her efforts:
A lovely wife.
You’re a lucky man Douglas.
A very lucky man...
Perhaps those words weren’t spoken..
Perhaps they had been.
She couldn’t quite remember.
After Douglas left, Ettie had cooked rice with the last threads of saffron...one last time and when it was done she poured it down the sink.
She went outside to see if the BMW had pulled up: but every night it was the same--Ettie would walk back inside, wrap the Mexican blanket around her body.
She would plop on the couch, lay and listen to the sound:
drip...drip...drip.