Mother and Daughter stood side by side and watched the white
sky grow shades darker as the sun set itself in the usual spot behind the shed.
The mountain of dishes beside them contained the remnants of their annual
Thanksgiving feast, the cranberry sauce bright purple spots amongst the brown
splotches. As they fell into the rhythm of washing and drying, Denise noticed
her mother’s grip upon the plates had become more claw-like.
At 6:00 every night since Denise was old enough to stand on
a step stool and reach the countertop, they’d done this ritual, the steam from
the soapy dishwater covering half the window. Then, she was slow and awkward,
constantly worried about breaking the plates and cursing the house with an
uneven number. By the time she was a teen, she could grab a dish with her left
hand and with two or three swipes to the front and back, put the dish on the
counter in time to grab the next proffered one. They’d had a good rhythm then,
speeds easily matched, and it freed their concentration to look out at the yard
as they talked about the latest gossip and injustices among family and friends.
Now Denise waited patiently as her mother moved the greying
dishcloth around and around the same plate and eventually passed it over with
the slightest of shakes. Denise concentrated on the gurgle and splash of the
dishes and the familiar thin towel embroidered with ducks and apples that
somehow always dried the very last spoon, despite being sopping wet.
“Mom, you should be able to rest more, especially after
these big meals. Let me get you a dishwasher.”
“What on earth would I need of those cockamamy things for?
They’re noisy and they use gallons of water and electricity. They’re a scam.
Remember when your Aunt Margie got one? She had to spend an hour rinsing and
scraping and then putting the dishes in just so and then two hours later, she’s
got super shiny plates with crud all over them. Total waste.”
Denise had heard the Margie dishwasher stories a hundred
times. Margie liked keeping up with the latest gadgets and trends and nothing
made her mother happier than when these failed abysmally.
“But Mom, they make them much better now. They save energy
and water and they’re actually a ton cheaper than when Margie got one 30 years
ago!”
“No way, Jose. And besides, where on earth would I put the
damn thing?”
What Denise’s mother didn’t realise was that in a few days,
that new damn thing would replace the old oak stand under the south facing
window. For years a ceramic basin and pitcher sat upon it proudly, reflecting
the afternoon sun. It had been Denise’s great-grandmother’s and was among her
mother’s only connections to her European ancestors.
On the day of the installation, Denise’s mother was across
town, under the blasting heat of an ancient hairdryer, as she had done twice a
month for the last three decades. Despite the roar of the dryers, the women had
no difficulty chewing the fat, especially after a major holiday. The haircut
sorely lacking on a grandkid; the son-in-law who drank too much of the good
sherry; and the comparisons of total hours invested to make the perfect turkey
that was devoured in ten minutes.
Denise’s mother admired her daughter for her crisp and clean
business suits, immaculate nails, and no-nonsense tone when taking calls on the
back porch. She had no idea nor interest in what she did but bragged at the
salon that Denise’s company couldn’t survive without her. So because of her
love and admiration for her daughter, she smiled graciously upon seeing the new
shiny metal box snugly installed beneath the window, the basin and pitcher
looking sad and lost, on top, like a doily on the moon.
But in fact, she hated the damn thing. It whirred and
gurgled and moaned for hours and when opened, emitted a steamy smell of a
bleachy bin. She tried watching TV while it carried on, but found the news to
be just a repeat of what she’d watched at 5:00. The game shows left her feeling
hollow and anxious and she missed watching the sun setting behind the shed. After
two weeks, she threw the powdery disks in the bin and filled the sinks.
Christmas came and with it the baked ham, cherry pies, and
various side dishes. After the men and women had spent the requisite amount of
time chatting at the table, the men shuffled off to the den to watch other men
crash into each other; the kids went out to hurl snowballs.
Denise rose and began carrying the plates and serving dishes
into the kitchen.
“Mom, I’ll load the dishwasher. You just relax.”
Denise’s mom sat at the table, playing with a napkin and
listening as her daughter rinsed and scraped and crammed as many dishes as
possible into the two levels of the machine. She suddenly remembered a
Christmas day years ago when they had hid some leftovers on two plates and
after washing and drying nearly the entire cupboard’s worth of dishes, they
brought two chairs onto the back porch and gorged on cold ham and pie, leaving
the others to fight over the little they left in the fridge. How they had
laughed and held their bulging stomachs that day.
Denise was now standing in front of her, clearly annoyed.
“Where is the soap for the dishwasher?”
“Oh, I must have run out.”
Sinks filled, Denise fumed in silence, grabbing each cleaned
dish and rubbing it furiously with the cloth. She noticed her mother smiling.
“What?”
“Just like when you were 16. You’d rather be doing anything
other than drying dishes.”
“And wouldn’t you?”
Denise’s mother turned and put two soapy hands on her
daughter’s shoulders and spoke the long remembered words quietly.
“Anything that brings you even the teensiest bit of joy is
never a waste of time.”
