DEER DRIVE, C. 1950
MAYA CHESLEY
Here the white houses line themselves up in a neat little row, the gardens stay green and pink and yellow all seasons, and the grass does not grow above an inch. Here the air chokes some days. Humidity smothers. The magnolias bloom, unperturbed.
Mary is here, but she is not blooming. She is scrubbing silver pots and pans with soap that smells of lemons, broiling veal in the oven and sweeping invisible bits of dirt from the freshly-mopped floor. She hums the melody to “De Colores.” Her mother used to do the same, back when they were huddled in that cramped New York apartment. They shared the cracking building with other Hispanic families and immigrant families and hordes of cockroaches. But here there are no cockroaches, and certainly no immigrants.
Samantha starts bawling upstairs. She and Tim come thumping down the steps, and stop in front of Mary. Timothy has his arms folded. He is looking at his feet.
“Mom, Timmy hit me.”
Mary keeps scrubbing. “Timothy, did you hit your sister?”
“No.”
“Then one of you is lying to me.”
Samantha sniffs. “He hit me, Mommy.”
“Nuh-uh.”
The smell of lemons hangs in the kitchen. Mary wipes her forehead with her arm, and dips her hand back into the soapy water. “You can both go sit in the corner if you can’t decide who’s right.” Samantha wails. Timothy grumbles.
“That’s not fair.”
“You’re right. Now come on. One corner. Each of you.” They both cry. Mary opens the window to let out the noise and the smell of lemons. She keeps scrubbing.
Outside, the cicadas drone. The midsummer humidity smothers like a damp towel. And Mary has chores to do, chores to do. She knows how to float through them now, better than before. One grows accustomed to the things they do enough times, like mopping a kitchen floor that hasn’t ever been dirty, or evenly broiling a cut of veal, or acting like a mother.
Years ago, back in New York, there was no time for this type of conditioning. Things changed daily. There was always some new family crowding into their apartment complex, some familiar one being ushered out. Her mother, spouting off some new, crazy proverb or prophesy each day. Mary would always listen like a good hija. There was—don’t stand next to white people in the rain; they smell like wet dog—so she didn’t, and—don’t buy two of anything. So she would always get things in ones and threes. But there was one she had never liked. “You can’t force your shoes to fit.” It was the one her mother said to her any time she came back inside from a humid day, all in a huff, her hair frizzy and enormous. Or when Jason Prescott sent her love notes in private but couldn’t be seen with her in public.
She’d sit awake in her room, thinking. Not crying, just staring in the mirror. As it turned out, her mother had been wrong. If she had been right, it wouldn’t have been possible to become Mary instead of María, or to perm the curls out of her hair.
That night, when Daniel gets home he says “there’s my gorgeous wife,” and plants a kiss on Mary’s cheek. “The office was a madhouse today.” She sets out the plates for dinner. “Lenny—you know Lenny, right? He introduced an error into the op-ed piece that was supposed to run. Everyone had to scramble to fix it. Bryce was beside himself.”
Samantha and Timothy come running to him. They grab onto Daniel’s legs, screaming “Daddy.” Mary adjusts the dinner napkins while Daniel laughs and ruffles their hair. It was always such a round laugh, Daniel’s. Full. The laugh of someone who consistently had just enough veal roast and just the right amount of sauvignon to top it off.
“Alright, clean those hands,” he says to them. They race each other to the bathroom. “How were the rascals today?”
“Well-behaved, as usual.” Mary sets the roast on the table.
“Give me a kiss, dear. You look lovely tonight.”
She leans in and kisses him, and her lips tingle, if only for a second. When he pulls away he stares at her with a look like he might actually love her. She thinks, briefly, of lemon-scented soap and the kids. Their kids. They are little and white, whiter than the houses that line Deer Drive, and sometimes she is not sure they are hers.
Later that night when the dishes are cleaned and put away and the children are cleaned and put away, Mary and Daniel sit in the living room. Daniel reads the paper. Mary sips tea and hums the tune to “De Colores.” Off in the distance, the mourning doves are calling.
“Dinner was good, dear.” Daniel says. He doesn’t look up from the paper.
“Good.”
“The Batemans are coming over tomorrow, for supper.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
Daniel nods. He looks up from the newspaper. “Say, what do you think of taking a trip this weekend? With the kids and everything. I can get off work Friday.”
“That sounds just lovely, Dan.”
Daniel stares down at his paper. “You know I’m trying. Right, dear? I’m trying hard.”
“Of course.”
“Would it kill you to make an effort, too?”
Mary sips her tea. “What exactly do you want from me?”
“I want you to be you again.”
Mary laughs. “What’s my name, Daniel?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean; what’s my name, Daniel?”
“Stop screwing around. Can’t you see I’m trying to have a real conversation?”
“Do you know the answer?”
“Your name is Mary Baker, and you’re my wife.”
Mary snorts. Daniel slaps the paper on the ground. He stands up. He points. “Who says you’ve got the right to treat me so casually? I am a good fucking husband.”
“You take secretaries to bed.”
Daniel moves towards Mary. She is still sipping her tea. He grabs her by the shoulders, shakes her. Her drink sloshes onto the white carpet. She’ll need to steam the stain tomorrow, before the Batemans come.
“I gave you this house, that car, that I taught you to drive. I even let you take it to God-knows-where, with God-knows-who.”
“How magnanimous of you.”
Daniel reels his hand back. It lingers in the air, shakes, but ultimately falls back to his side. He trudges back to his seat and slumps into his chair. Mary wipes a tear from her eye, then runs to grab a towel that can sop up the spilled tea. She wonders if the stain will come out. All her hard work. From the kitchen she can hear Daniel muttering “you know I try, I try hard,” and the whining of bugs, and the faint wailing of mourning doves.
Was it right to hold him so accountable? After all her noontime meetings with Lenny, lunches in private and half-hour sessions at hotels, when the kids could stay at the neighbors’. She told herself those were because of Daniel. To get back at Daniel. But in the back of her head she could always hear her mother, saying how you can’t force a shoe to fit.
The next morning, Mary is walking through the supermarket, looking for kale for the Batemans. Timothy and Samantha play incomprehensible games with each other as they trail behind her. At the house, the tea stain has already been brushed and bleached. The traces of last night have been neatly steamed away, and now two layers of red velvet cake sit cooling on racks in the dining room. They will be iced in three hours, placed in the refrigerator for two, and served cold at promptly 7:45pm, ten minutes before William Bateman starts to make a fuss about getting home to finish up some work.
Mary is standing in front of the vegetables now, contemplating which bundle of kale looks greenest. The lady next to her stares. Mary does not look her in the face. She smells messy, like an old apartment building full of immigrants, and her skin is unmistakably brown.
“Tú, ¿de dónde eres?” She asks.
Mary pushes around a few bundles of kale.
“Tú, ¿de dónde eres?”
Mary turns to her. “I’m sorry; I don’t know what you’re saying. Come on, kids.” Tim grabs the side of the shopping cart and Samantha nestles into the hollow of Mary’s leg, staring back at the woman.
“Qué preciosos, los niños. ¿Cuántos años tienen?"
“Look, I don’t speak your language, Miss. Now I don’t mean to be rude, but I’d like it if you left us alone.”
The lady smiles and nods. Her front tooth is chipped and her gums are purple.
“Come on, kids,” Mary says. Samantha clings to the bottom of her dress as they walk away.
At 6:45 the bell rings, and Mary opens the door. Cassidy Bateman walks in, fanning herself and complaining about the dense heat, and Will Bateman nods and mutters a curt “Mary,” to greet her. Mary calls the kids and they come thumping down the steps.
“Where’s Dan?” Cassidy says before anyone has the chance to sit.
“He’s at work. You know how busy they keep him. He’ll be here soon-”
“I certainly hope so. This is the third time he’s been late, now, and I’m beginning to think he has a distaste for us. Aren’t you, Will?” She pats him playfully.
He shrugs. “The man’s busy. Let him work.”
“And how are the little ones doing? Oh, we should have brought ours but Ikey has sports practice right now. You should’ve seen how we complained to the coach when we heard they were keeping him so late, but he said and I quote, ‘this is the best way to foster great talent.’ You hear that? ‘The best way to foster great talent.’ He’s a real genius. Works the kids hard, but now, their little league team is almost undefeated. And Ike is the star player.” She beams. Will rubs his temple.
“Have you got any of that merlot you had last time?” He asks. Mary nods and goes to grab him a glass. “God bless you,” he says, moving for the dining room. Cassidy follows, and Mary whispers to the kids to wash their hands.
By 7:15 Daniel has still not come. They are already well into the main course, and Mary is already well into her wine. Will eyes her from his spot across the table, with looks like the kind Daniel gives her when the kids are out. He is not as handsome as Daniel, but more handsome than Lenny. And there is a largeness to him, a shiftiness that makes Mary wonder how he and Cassidy ended up married, with a kid. Cassidy gabs on, unaware or unaffected.
“…But what else would you expect? I heard she’s half-Italian.”
Mary nods and sips her drink. Will nods and stares at Mary. The kids play with their mashed potatoes and eat with their hands at some points. The door handle rattles.
“I’d better go get that,” Mary says, beelining for the front of the house. Daniel walks in, the scent of beer and the wet heat of midsummer sticking to him. Moths flutter near the doorway. Mary shoos them away.
“Where the hell have you been?”
Daniel chuckles, grabs her, and kisses her on the lips. She slaps him. He laughs harder.
“We have guests. Get in there, please.” Mary points to the dining room.
Cassidy is still ranting when they sit.
“…She’s not the only one. Mary, I’m sure you’ve noticed all the Spanish. In the stores and supermarkets now. They’re invading.”
“Careful now,” Daniel says, chuckling and taking off his hat. “People might think you’re a bigot.” Will snorts. Mary drains the rest of her wine.
“Who wants cake?” She says. “I made red velvet, just like you like, Cassidy.” Cassidy opens her mouth. “William, cake? And Dan, wine for you?”
“I’m alright hon, thanks.”
“I’d like some wine-”
“I can’t have either. I’m trying to watch my figure. Some of us aren’t blessed with stellar metabolisms like you, Mary.”
Mary laughs, a little too loud, and opens the merlot.
“Anyway the Spanish aren’t too bad,” Daniel says. “A little slow, maybe, but they make decent maids. At least there aren’t any negroes yet.” Mary slips and almost spills the wine she’s pouring. Will looks up at her. Daniel doesn’t seem to notice, just keeps talking, and for a second he is indistinguishable from Cassidy.
Daniel fell asleep right after the Batemans drove off that night, left Mary to clean and put the kids to bed and end her night alone. But he kissed her on the porch before he left for work. That was the way of things. The neighbors would say “what a lovely couple.” And Mary would put on a smile and say “we try our best.”
Today she is at the supermarket again, in the checkout line. Timothy and Samantha smack each other, laughing. Mary watches them play.
The man in front of her looks like her mother. His hair grows thick and bushy, and he has black eyes and brown skin.
When he gets to the front of the line, he holds up a large notepad. “Hello. I an lookeen for huan that—eh—I need, huan that ees more small?”
“Sir, I can’t understand you.” The cashier leans over near Mary, signaling for her to come take the man’s place in line. She doesn’t move.
“I need huan that ees more small.”
“Sir, you need to speak clearer.” The cashier keeps signaling for Mary to move in front of the man. “Look, I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the line. I can’t be holding all these customers up-”
“He’s saying he needs one in a smaller size—¿Cuál tamaño quieres?” Mary asks.
“¿Eh? Em, necesito uno de tres por cinco pulgadas.”
“He needs one that’s three by five.”
The cashier stops signaling to Mary. He looks from her to the man. “Oh. Uh, we’ve got those, yeah. Let me just go to the back. Sorry to hold things up.” He eyes her one more time before leaving the register.
Just outside the big, square windows of the store, a group of Canada geese starts to flap away. Mary thinks of her mother. She thinks of Daniel’s hands on her shoulders, shaking her. But mainly she thinks about driving off tonight, without waving goodbye to the white men in white houses, or the children she does not understand, or the humid air that used to make her hair frizz up in knots.
Mary is here, but she is not blooming. She is scrubbing silver pots and pans with soap that smells of lemons, broiling veal in the oven and sweeping invisible bits of dirt from the freshly-mopped floor. She hums the melody to “De Colores.” Her mother used to do the same, back when they were huddled in that cramped New York apartment. They shared the cracking building with other Hispanic families and immigrant families and hordes of cockroaches. But here there are no cockroaches, and certainly no immigrants.
Samantha starts bawling upstairs. She and Tim come thumping down the steps, and stop in front of Mary. Timothy has his arms folded. He is looking at his feet.
“Mom, Timmy hit me.”
Mary keeps scrubbing. “Timothy, did you hit your sister?”
“No.”
“Then one of you is lying to me.”
Samantha sniffs. “He hit me, Mommy.”
“Nuh-uh.”
The smell of lemons hangs in the kitchen. Mary wipes her forehead with her arm, and dips her hand back into the soapy water. “You can both go sit in the corner if you can’t decide who’s right.” Samantha wails. Timothy grumbles.
“That’s not fair.”
“You’re right. Now come on. One corner. Each of you.” They both cry. Mary opens the window to let out the noise and the smell of lemons. She keeps scrubbing.
Outside, the cicadas drone. The midsummer humidity smothers like a damp towel. And Mary has chores to do, chores to do. She knows how to float through them now, better than before. One grows accustomed to the things they do enough times, like mopping a kitchen floor that hasn’t ever been dirty, or evenly broiling a cut of veal, or acting like a mother.
Years ago, back in New York, there was no time for this type of conditioning. Things changed daily. There was always some new family crowding into their apartment complex, some familiar one being ushered out. Her mother, spouting off some new, crazy proverb or prophesy each day. Mary would always listen like a good hija. There was—don’t stand next to white people in the rain; they smell like wet dog—so she didn’t, and—don’t buy two of anything. So she would always get things in ones and threes. But there was one she had never liked. “You can’t force your shoes to fit.” It was the one her mother said to her any time she came back inside from a humid day, all in a huff, her hair frizzy and enormous. Or when Jason Prescott sent her love notes in private but couldn’t be seen with her in public.
She’d sit awake in her room, thinking. Not crying, just staring in the mirror. As it turned out, her mother had been wrong. If she had been right, it wouldn’t have been possible to become Mary instead of María, or to perm the curls out of her hair.
That night, when Daniel gets home he says “there’s my gorgeous wife,” and plants a kiss on Mary’s cheek. “The office was a madhouse today.” She sets out the plates for dinner. “Lenny—you know Lenny, right? He introduced an error into the op-ed piece that was supposed to run. Everyone had to scramble to fix it. Bryce was beside himself.”
Samantha and Timothy come running to him. They grab onto Daniel’s legs, screaming “Daddy.” Mary adjusts the dinner napkins while Daniel laughs and ruffles their hair. It was always such a round laugh, Daniel’s. Full. The laugh of someone who consistently had just enough veal roast and just the right amount of sauvignon to top it off.
“Alright, clean those hands,” he says to them. They race each other to the bathroom. “How were the rascals today?”
“Well-behaved, as usual.” Mary sets the roast on the table.
“Give me a kiss, dear. You look lovely tonight.”
She leans in and kisses him, and her lips tingle, if only for a second. When he pulls away he stares at her with a look like he might actually love her. She thinks, briefly, of lemon-scented soap and the kids. Their kids. They are little and white, whiter than the houses that line Deer Drive, and sometimes she is not sure they are hers.
Later that night when the dishes are cleaned and put away and the children are cleaned and put away, Mary and Daniel sit in the living room. Daniel reads the paper. Mary sips tea and hums the tune to “De Colores.” Off in the distance, the mourning doves are calling.
“Dinner was good, dear.” Daniel says. He doesn’t look up from the paper.
“Good.”
“The Batemans are coming over tomorrow, for supper.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
Daniel nods. He looks up from the newspaper. “Say, what do you think of taking a trip this weekend? With the kids and everything. I can get off work Friday.”
“That sounds just lovely, Dan.”
Daniel stares down at his paper. “You know I’m trying. Right, dear? I’m trying hard.”
“Of course.”
“Would it kill you to make an effort, too?”
Mary sips her tea. “What exactly do you want from me?”
“I want you to be you again.”
Mary laughs. “What’s my name, Daniel?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean; what’s my name, Daniel?”
“Stop screwing around. Can’t you see I’m trying to have a real conversation?”
“Do you know the answer?”
“Your name is Mary Baker, and you’re my wife.”
Mary snorts. Daniel slaps the paper on the ground. He stands up. He points. “Who says you’ve got the right to treat me so casually? I am a good fucking husband.”
“You take secretaries to bed.”
Daniel moves towards Mary. She is still sipping her tea. He grabs her by the shoulders, shakes her. Her drink sloshes onto the white carpet. She’ll need to steam the stain tomorrow, before the Batemans come.
“I gave you this house, that car, that I taught you to drive. I even let you take it to God-knows-where, with God-knows-who.”
“How magnanimous of you.”
Daniel reels his hand back. It lingers in the air, shakes, but ultimately falls back to his side. He trudges back to his seat and slumps into his chair. Mary wipes a tear from her eye, then runs to grab a towel that can sop up the spilled tea. She wonders if the stain will come out. All her hard work. From the kitchen she can hear Daniel muttering “you know I try, I try hard,” and the whining of bugs, and the faint wailing of mourning doves.
Was it right to hold him so accountable? After all her noontime meetings with Lenny, lunches in private and half-hour sessions at hotels, when the kids could stay at the neighbors’. She told herself those were because of Daniel. To get back at Daniel. But in the back of her head she could always hear her mother, saying how you can’t force a shoe to fit.
The next morning, Mary is walking through the supermarket, looking for kale for the Batemans. Timothy and Samantha play incomprehensible games with each other as they trail behind her. At the house, the tea stain has already been brushed and bleached. The traces of last night have been neatly steamed away, and now two layers of red velvet cake sit cooling on racks in the dining room. They will be iced in three hours, placed in the refrigerator for two, and served cold at promptly 7:45pm, ten minutes before William Bateman starts to make a fuss about getting home to finish up some work.
Mary is standing in front of the vegetables now, contemplating which bundle of kale looks greenest. The lady next to her stares. Mary does not look her in the face. She smells messy, like an old apartment building full of immigrants, and her skin is unmistakably brown.
“Tú, ¿de dónde eres?” She asks.
Mary pushes around a few bundles of kale.
“Tú, ¿de dónde eres?”
Mary turns to her. “I’m sorry; I don’t know what you’re saying. Come on, kids.” Tim grabs the side of the shopping cart and Samantha nestles into the hollow of Mary’s leg, staring back at the woman.
“Qué preciosos, los niños. ¿Cuántos años tienen?"
“Look, I don’t speak your language, Miss. Now I don’t mean to be rude, but I’d like it if you left us alone.”
The lady smiles and nods. Her front tooth is chipped and her gums are purple.
“Come on, kids,” Mary says. Samantha clings to the bottom of her dress as they walk away.
At 6:45 the bell rings, and Mary opens the door. Cassidy Bateman walks in, fanning herself and complaining about the dense heat, and Will Bateman nods and mutters a curt “Mary,” to greet her. Mary calls the kids and they come thumping down the steps.
“Where’s Dan?” Cassidy says before anyone has the chance to sit.
“He’s at work. You know how busy they keep him. He’ll be here soon-”
“I certainly hope so. This is the third time he’s been late, now, and I’m beginning to think he has a distaste for us. Aren’t you, Will?” She pats him playfully.
He shrugs. “The man’s busy. Let him work.”
“And how are the little ones doing? Oh, we should have brought ours but Ikey has sports practice right now. You should’ve seen how we complained to the coach when we heard they were keeping him so late, but he said and I quote, ‘this is the best way to foster great talent.’ You hear that? ‘The best way to foster great talent.’ He’s a real genius. Works the kids hard, but now, their little league team is almost undefeated. And Ike is the star player.” She beams. Will rubs his temple.
“Have you got any of that merlot you had last time?” He asks. Mary nods and goes to grab him a glass. “God bless you,” he says, moving for the dining room. Cassidy follows, and Mary whispers to the kids to wash their hands.
By 7:15 Daniel has still not come. They are already well into the main course, and Mary is already well into her wine. Will eyes her from his spot across the table, with looks like the kind Daniel gives her when the kids are out. He is not as handsome as Daniel, but more handsome than Lenny. And there is a largeness to him, a shiftiness that makes Mary wonder how he and Cassidy ended up married, with a kid. Cassidy gabs on, unaware or unaffected.
“…But what else would you expect? I heard she’s half-Italian.”
Mary nods and sips her drink. Will nods and stares at Mary. The kids play with their mashed potatoes and eat with their hands at some points. The door handle rattles.
“I’d better go get that,” Mary says, beelining for the front of the house. Daniel walks in, the scent of beer and the wet heat of midsummer sticking to him. Moths flutter near the doorway. Mary shoos them away.
“Where the hell have you been?”
Daniel chuckles, grabs her, and kisses her on the lips. She slaps him. He laughs harder.
“We have guests. Get in there, please.” Mary points to the dining room.
Cassidy is still ranting when they sit.
“…She’s not the only one. Mary, I’m sure you’ve noticed all the Spanish. In the stores and supermarkets now. They’re invading.”
“Careful now,” Daniel says, chuckling and taking off his hat. “People might think you’re a bigot.” Will snorts. Mary drains the rest of her wine.
“Who wants cake?” She says. “I made red velvet, just like you like, Cassidy.” Cassidy opens her mouth. “William, cake? And Dan, wine for you?”
“I’m alright hon, thanks.”
“I’d like some wine-”
“I can’t have either. I’m trying to watch my figure. Some of us aren’t blessed with stellar metabolisms like you, Mary.”
Mary laughs, a little too loud, and opens the merlot.
“Anyway the Spanish aren’t too bad,” Daniel says. “A little slow, maybe, but they make decent maids. At least there aren’t any negroes yet.” Mary slips and almost spills the wine she’s pouring. Will looks up at her. Daniel doesn’t seem to notice, just keeps talking, and for a second he is indistinguishable from Cassidy.
Daniel fell asleep right after the Batemans drove off that night, left Mary to clean and put the kids to bed and end her night alone. But he kissed her on the porch before he left for work. That was the way of things. The neighbors would say “what a lovely couple.” And Mary would put on a smile and say “we try our best.”
Today she is at the supermarket again, in the checkout line. Timothy and Samantha smack each other, laughing. Mary watches them play.
The man in front of her looks like her mother. His hair grows thick and bushy, and he has black eyes and brown skin.
When he gets to the front of the line, he holds up a large notepad. “Hello. I an lookeen for huan that—eh—I need, huan that ees more small?”
“Sir, I can’t understand you.” The cashier leans over near Mary, signaling for her to come take the man’s place in line. She doesn’t move.
“I need huan that ees more small.”
“Sir, you need to speak clearer.” The cashier keeps signaling for Mary to move in front of the man. “Look, I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the line. I can’t be holding all these customers up-”
“He’s saying he needs one in a smaller size—¿Cuál tamaño quieres?” Mary asks.
“¿Eh? Em, necesito uno de tres por cinco pulgadas.”
“He needs one that’s three by five.”
The cashier stops signaling to Mary. He looks from her to the man. “Oh. Uh, we’ve got those, yeah. Let me just go to the back. Sorry to hold things up.” He eyes her one more time before leaving the register.
Just outside the big, square windows of the store, a group of Canada geese starts to flap away. Mary thinks of her mother. She thinks of Daniel’s hands on her shoulders, shaking her. But mainly she thinks about driving off tonight, without waving goodbye to the white men in white houses, or the children she does not understand, or the humid air that used to make her hair frizz up in knots.
MAYA CHESLEY is a graduate of Virginia Commonwealth University, and a Fulbright ETA scholarship recipient. Her fiction has previously been published in Rabble Literary Journal.
