Leaning Both Ways

“You really should try the margarine, Jim. I swear it's just as good as butter, and if we both use the same kind, we can save on fridge space.”

“I don't know what you have against real things, Margaret.”

“It's made from – see? – vegetable oil. Vegetables are real.”

“Touché. But I'm late for work.” A kiss on the forehead, a pat on my pregnant tummy, and the conversation is over.

“See you tonight.”

Easy for him to say. He doesn't have to fit three dozen deviled eggs into limited shelf space every third Tuesday for the garden club. Worse, he thinks he owes all his success to merit and not the fact that his boss's sister so admires our home, a.k.a. my work ethic.

It's taken five years, but I have a system now. Dishes into the dishwasher, cat food into the cat bowl, laundry into the hamper.

Finally, it's time for Sinatra and yoga. I used to try to get this part done before Jim even woke up so I could shower before he saw me. But I've learned to let go of some of the little things so I can focus on what’s important. Now I just shower twice.

After my workout, l plan to take my tea up to the office and log in for the day. What, you thought I was just a housewife? I'm the owner and manager of the county’s most successful, independently owned Mommy Leggings business operation. Not only am I a mover of product, but I'm also a manager of people. There's always at least one sob story in my inbox, some twenty-something new mom crying about how she can can’t seem to make back her investment. At least Jim and I had the sense to wait until we had the financial and social capital to give our child the best possible life.

There's only one problem, I think, as I dip into cobra position and my belly brushes the floor. As it stands, I have exactly enough time in my day to do all the things that I need to do. But when the baby comes things will change. I've questioned several doctors, but I'm still having difficulty pinning any of them down a solid nap schedule. They all say things like “you might need to play it by ear,” or “one day at a time,” and other such useless advice.

Of course they don't take my pursuits seriously. No, I'm going to be a “stay-at-home mom,” not a woman with her own wants and needs. Oh, I'm not mad at anybody in particular. You're all conditioned to think of us SAHMs this way. But I worry about the resentment in me that I've so far managed to keep at a low simmer. How will it change under the compressive conditions of first-time parenthood?

Sinatra launches into “My Way,” signaling the start of my cooldown. My mind has already moved on, composing a response to the latest “Shannon” or “Ava,” or whatever her name is this time. I'm rolling up my yoga mat when there's a knock on the door.

I catch a glimpse of a suit and tie through the window. Great. Jehovah's Witnesses have enlisted in the help of morning people. Such things should be illegal.

“Good morning,” I say with a tone of guarded friendliness. One must at least try to assume the best.

The young man smiles and holds out a hand.

I appraise him for a second time as we shake. Not religious, no, he doesn’t quite have that air about him. He's holding a briefcase in one hand, and the corner of a business card peeks out of his front pocket. A salesman. He sees the recognition in my eyes and smiles.

“Okay, you caught me. I'm a Door-to-Door. But I promise my product is something that will interest you. It was designed just for you.

“You mean people like me.”

“No, I mean you. Margaret Smith. Everyone has data online, a digital footprint if you will. Upon inspection of the publicly available and privately purchasable records, the company thinks you have some great ideas. We'd like to see them put into reality. May I come in?”

Interesting tactic. Unsettling, for sure, yet creates intrigue. As a fellow businesswoman, I feel a kindling of respect for this man. Enough to hear what he has to say. I scan the driveway and see a black Lexus. Probably not the car of a serial killer.

“It's a bit of a mess,” I say.

He politely declines my offers of coffee or tea and sets his case upon our small breakfast table. He smiles at my decorative bowl of dried pinecones and ceramic balls.

“Nice place.”

“Thank you.”

“Pier One?” he gestures to the bowl.

“I do have a bit of a busy morning ahead of me, so if you don't mind…”

“Of course! It's all right here.”

He flips open the clasps. The hinges relax and there's a hiss, as though the space inside is adjusting to some great difference in air pressure. I can hear the faint, melodic chirping of electronics from within.

I crane my neck to peek. He lifts the top to reveal a futuristic-looking instrument panel. It's sleek and white and every graceful seam is trimmed in silver. He smiles at my curiosity, the creases near his eyes crinkling into crow’s feet that seem much too deep for his age.

“Here. See? These are your options.”

He points to a matrix of buttons. Each row is labeled with the name of a room in our house, right down to the shoe closet.

“You can use these buttons to create a save state for each room. Then you can recall it later.”

“A ‘save state?’ Of what?”

“The room and everything in it. For example – do you mind? – I'd love to give a demo.”

“Go ahead.”

He lifts the device and sets it on our hallway table. He beckons for me to follow.

“Take a look at your living room right now. Pristine.”

“Except for the yoga mat. And the cold tea."

He chuckles. “Never mind that. Just a demonstration.”

He presses a button next to the words “living room.” The row glows green, but nothing happens.

“I-”

He holds up a finger. “That was just the save function. Observe.”

In a suddenly violent motion, he shoves the bowl off the little table. It hits my cup on the way, spilling chamomile all over the mat. The bowl and ceramic balls smash against the hardwood floor.

My cellphone is already in my hand, ready to receive 911.

“The sheriff's wife is a personal friend of mine and our county does not employ the use of body cameras!"

“Now Mrs. Smith, no need to worry! Sorry for the shock – I’ll clean it up in a jiff. If you'll just permit me to join you…”

He resumes his position in the hallway, careful to move slowly. I stand back, keeping my phone at the ready.

The two living room buttons now glow red. He presses “recall.”

There is a click, and for a moment, nothing. I mean truly, nothing. It’s as though the air itself in the living room has frozen solid. Then all is back in place. The table, the bowl, the ceramic balls, right where they should be.

I take a step into the room. The shards are gone. I touch the teacup.

“It's hot. My tea was cold.”

“Oh yes, I forgot to mention. In addition to recalling the previous condition, the machine can make several minor quality-of-life improvements.”

I lift the cup to my lips. It’s excellent. And I don’t even really like chamomile.

“So. Interested?”

* * *

My deviled eggs are, as always, a hit. The trays are nearly empty, down to the sort of quantities where it would be rude to take the last.

“Honestly, Margaret, I have no idea how you do it all. When I was eight months pregnant there was no way I had the energy to keep a house this clean.”

I pause, giving a thoughtful nod so as not to appear overly boastful.

“It's really just a matter of taking it one day at a time,” I say.

The veteran moms nod sagely.

“That sort of thinking will serve you well.”

I can't believe it. Our local matriarch, wife to the town commissioner, hardly ever approves of anything I do. She smiles at me from over her coffee.

It’s not a lie. I have taken it one day at a time, I’ve just done so with the help of a little “temporal-quantum entanglement,” or whatever it was that salesman was going on about. One room per day, tidied and cleaned to perfection, then saved in its best possible condition.

When the meeting is over and the last of the deviled eggs are truly gone (rudeness be damned), I stand back to survey the mess. It's a tidy crowd, really, but it's just not possible to entertain fifteen or so people without a mountain of work. I hum to myself as I press every “recall” button on my little control center before lying back on the couch and switching on the TV. This time, I won't need to follow along with captions over the sound of the vacuum cleaner.

I hear a car pull into the driveway. Shoot. One of the ladies must have forgotten their purse or something. I scramble to hide the device and peek out through the blinds. But instead of a member of the garden club I see Jim coming up the front steps. He's holding a bag of takeout.

“What are you doing home?”

He looks around the immaculate room.

“Didn’t your meeting just get out?”

“Oh, yes.”

He looks at me reproachfully.

“Margaret. Things can't always be this neat. When the baby comes…”

“When the baby comes, I’ll adapt. Besides, what do you care if I keep a clean house? It's not like you came home to find me in the arms of another man. What are you doing home, anyway?”

He holds me in his gaze a moment longer, then softens.

“Well. I was just thinking. There are only a few weeks of ‘Us Time’ left. So I took a long lunch and brought us something to eat.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

I start for the kitchen for plates, but he pulls out a chair and beckons for me to sit. He pulls two plastic containers from the bag, fetches us forks, and sets everything out. Tenders for him and a weak iceberg salad for me. Positively garish.

“Relax,” he says. “Enjoy a moment of non-perfection with me.”

I sit and eat, trying to ignore the squeaking of my silverware against the makeshift plate. Inside I'm seething. How dare he say things like “I love you,” thus validating all that I am, then chastise me when I turn out to be that person? It's like the harder I try the less satisfied he is. There must be an unobtainable perfection sitting in his mind, a portrait of some kind of paradoxical, laid-back-yet-perfectly-organized woman. But men will never understand. You can't lean in and lean out at the same time.

"Delicious," I say as we finish up. "Thank you."

“I'll clean up,” he says. He takes away the empty packaging and dumps it wholesale into the trash.

“The forks,” I call from the hallway.

“Right!”

He grins sheepishly and digs them out, then tosses them into the sink. He kisses the top of my head and I force a smile.

After he’s gone, I load the forks properly into the dishwasher out of habit, forgetting that I could have just pressed a button. Idly, I open the fridge. Three dozen deviled eggs sit in their cases. Of course. I prepped everything right before my last kitchen save. I wonder where the matter for the eggs came from, and if my guests are now finding themselves slightly hungrier than they were a moment ago.

I take them out, planning to dump it all, but I think better of it. No point in saving the kitchen with three dozen stinky eggs in the trash. I should bag them up and take them straight out to the bins. But the takeout containers are in there now, too. Oh, why did Jim have to go and make extra work. I don't want to deal with the kitchen right now, but I do it anyway. The eggs go in the trash and the trash goes in the bins. I find the device and set it on the counter. Save. But on my way out I stumble over my own pregnant feet and spill a few drops of chamomile. Sighing, I return to the case. Recall.

The room gives a little jolt. I am still in the kitchen, still standing at the counter, but a few inches to the left. The floor is clean and the tea is in my hand once more.

I take a sip. It is excellent.

I really shouldn’t be so hard on Jim. He’s just trying to make me happy. I could do better. I should do better. Smiling, I press “recall” again. The room gives another little jolt. And the tea just gets better and better.