More Like Trevor

At the sound of the garage door opening, Helen startled and looked up from her book. 5:30 already? The chicken she’d defrosted to cook for supper sat on the counter, still encased in its plastic and Styrofoam packaging. Jim would get all grumpy when he realized dinner was still an hour away. Sighing, she stuck the receipt she was using as a bookmark between pages 213 and 214, then set her book down on top of her Bible—a book she hadn’t gotten around to looking at today. Guilt niggled vaguely at the fringe of her psyche, but she gave it a mental shrug off. At least the novel she was reading was a Christian novel. She’d read the Bible tomorrow. There was always tomorrow.

By the time Jim came shuffling in through the door from the garage, looking as he always did after a day at the shop—greasy, sweaty, and perpetually navy blue in the way of wardrobe—Helen had managed to extract the chicken from its package and scatter enough ingredients and cooking implements on the kitchen island to make it look as if she’d started cooking more than fifteen seconds ago. One by one she dipped the breast pieces into buttermilk, then breadcrumbs.

Jim draped his coat over a chair rather than the coat rack. “Hi honey.”

“Hi.” She braced herself as he approached and remained facing the counter, not taking her eyes off the chicken. “How was your day?”

“Not bad. Pretty slow.” He placed his hands on her hips and jutted his stubbly chin over her shoulder. “Mm. Fried chicken?”

As he craned around her, aiming his lips at hers, she stiffened, then tolerated the kiss, offering a mouth as cold and uninviting as a statue’s and pulling away after the faintest contact. His breath betrayed what he’d had for lunch—something with onions and garlic. Helen’s thoughts turned to Trevor, whose breath carried with it a consistently pleasant hint of cinnamon tic tacs. Maybe if Jim were more like Trevor, she’d want to kiss him when he came home.

Jim moved to the sink and scrubbed his grease-stained hands. Helen watched him from the corner of her eye. Same old T-shirt. Same old workpants and boots. She couldn’t help comparing him again to Trevor, always so neat and stylish. Today Trevor had worn a red button-up shirt with trendy jeans and sandals. The top few buttons of his shirt has been left undone, revealing deliciously sculpted pecs. Instead of a belly like Jim’s—which reminded Helen of her own in the fifth month of pregnancy—Trevor’s jeans belted around a well-defined abs, kept firm by a daily exercise regimen.

Helen turned on the stove’s front burner and poured oil into the skillet. “Honey, have you thought any more about joining that gym?”

Jim wiped his hands on a towel and shook his head. “No. I wish you’d get off that. I don’t have time, I don’t have money, and I’m really not interested in going there.”

The oil sizzled as Helen dropped the first piece of chicken in. She pressed her lips together. No sense in talking anymore. He’d only get defensive. And he obviously didn’t care about being attractive for her. Trevor ran five miles every morning, lifted weights, played baseball with a league, and took karate classes. Jim couldn’t go to the gym a couple times a week?

She waited until she heard the sound of his recliner opening and the evening news clicking on, then relaxed, letting her imagination wander. What would Trevor do if he were here? Not sit slumped in the living room while she did all the work. Probably he’d make one of his fancy salads with cranberries, walnuts, and gorgonzola. Or set the table, lighting candles and pouring wine for the two of them. He’d act silly and make her laugh, telling jokes and entertaining her with stories about his mountain-climbing adventures or his time in the Marines. Or maybe he’d talk about his volunteer work with under-privileged youth. Just thinking about the way he helped that wheelchair-bound boy learn to play basketball made her heart patter.

Why couldn’t Jim help out once in a while? Do something exciting? Say something charming or interesting? Something besides, “Mm. Fried chicken?” or, “Where’s the remote?”

Dinner was quiet for the most part. Jim relayed some stories about the guys at work, but Helen found it hard to keep her attention from wandering. Who cared was Bob Weston’s wife was diagnosed with? Or what Sherman Potter’s son had gotten in trouble for? The monotony of this nightly ritual and the boring conversations depressed her. She longed to look across the table and see Trevor’s sparkling eyes and crooked smile instead of Jim with a chunk of mashed potatoes hanging from his lip. Trevor would talk to her about meaningful things—art, music, spiritual matters. Trevor understood about so many things. He knew when to talk, when to just listen, when to give advice and when to simply offer a tender embrace. She finished her meal quickly and began to clear the table while Jim was still eating.

Getting through the evening was no problem. Helen simply set up camp wherever Jim wasn’t, which wasn’t difficult; his routine rarely varied. He’d do some yard work, take a shower, then watch TV from the comfort of his trusty Lay-z-boy. So Helen busied herself with some of the housework she’d avoided during the day, until she heard Jim turn the TV off. He’d be going to bed.

Now comfortable in her pajamas—the new ones she bought with the money Jim gave her yesterday—she entered the living room. She lowered herself onto the couch just as Jim rose from his chair, as if they were on opposite ends of some invisible seesaw.

He walked over and leaned down to kiss her. “You comin’ up?”

You comin’ up? She knew what the real question was: Can we have sex? Indignance flared up. Why should she give herself to him? What had he done for her? If he were like Trevor, he might have brought home flowers, tried to look good, romanced her…

Jim stood waiting, nothing like Trevor in his boxers and old Rolling Stones t-shirt with the armpit stains.

Forcing a smile, Helen nodded. “Pretty soon. I just want to read for a bit.” Of course she’d drag it out, and by the time she came up, he’d be snoring. Again, a stab of guilt pricked at her. When was the last time they’d been together? Two weeks ago? Three?

Well, there was always tomorrow. Tomorrow night she’d go up with him.

He brushed his hand down the back of her hair. “Okay. Don’t stay up too late.”

The usual sense of relief washed over her when he exited the room. Now she could be alone. She picked up the novel she’d put down earlier, found her place, and began reading:

Trevor sank to his knees. He lifted Sandy’s chin and gazed into her eyes. It seemed as if he could see right into her soul. Her pulse quickened as he leaned toward her, and his cinnamon-scented breath caressed her face…