The Dish Washer

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.”