The Couch

Noah Cohen-Greenberg

     Marlene was reading Dream Decor again, a sleek, sexy thing she’d been poring over for the better part of a week, gifted to her by her new neighbor and good friend Jessica Lozen. The magazine had smooth pages, and glossy, oversized pictures of important-looking people: skinny men in sports coats and gorgeous women in bronze wire-rimmed glasses. In the lamplight she traced her finger over an article about interior decorating. Armless couches: all the rage. The couch pictured was slender and elegant, nothing like her bulky gray sectional. It had personality. “Couch'' didn't even seem like the right word to describe it—it was more like a “piece” of the kind that filled Jessica’s house. Marlene imagined herself perching upon it, wrapped in the fuschia curtains hanging luxuriously in the photograph’s background. No scene like that could exist in her and Court’s old wood-paneled ranch. Nor could it exist, she had thought until recently, in the kind of town where the men spend Saturday afternoons leaning against chain-link Little League fences and drinking their tallboys before going home and passing out on their awful oversized couches. 

     But Aidan Lozen didn’t act like that. Jessica’s husband returned home every day at a reasonable hour, or as near as he could as the lead engineer at the new nanotech complex that had brought the Lozens to town. He made six figures, cooked half the meals, and did all of the dishes. 

     They had moved in the month before, at the start of Branch Middle’s academic year. Marlene had noticed Jessica at the first faculty meeting, as had all of the other women and especially the men. She might’ve had the longest legs to ever walk the building, or at least that’s what Principal Miller had whispered into Marlene’s ear. Marlene had pursed her lips in disapproval and silently agreed. Jessica was something else. On top of having money and a husband who did the dishes, she was gorgeous, smart, and already beloved by the kids. This miraculous combination of traits made complete sense to Marlene, who by now had learned that good things happened to people to whom good things happened. 

     The Lozens had small, efficient cars that made everyone’s trucks look silly. They wore tight, stylish pants, and looked out of place amidst the drear that surrounded them, yet completely comfortable everywhere they went. Jessica was more than happy to tell a dirty joke, and Aidan willingly danced—even fast-danced!—when chaperoning the junior prom. They were nothing like the people she went to church with, or rather the ones she used to go to church with; she hadn’t been to church much after she’d invited Jessica to Wednesday Bible study and Jessica had laughed like she’d said something adorable. And really, what had she been thinking? She tried to picture Jessica drinking Folgers from a styrofoam cup and putting up with Pastor Schifflett’s cat stories. Jessica knew how to dress, how to talk, and how to spend money. Some of the other teachers found her pretentious. Marlene found her revelatory. 

     She heard the sound of a key scraping at the front door lock, the stomping of boots, and a deep, huffing breath. Her husband. She grabbed her magazine. Repositioning herself to gain a peripheral view of the mud room, she found a page with particularly miniscule text, laid it open on her leg, and assumed a look of disapproval. 

     Court fiddled with the lock for another few seconds before heaving open the door. He stood nearly six-two, with a lumberjack-ish back and burly forearms; the kind that wouldn’t fit on a magazine page. Like Aidan, he was a hard worker; unlike Aidan, he worked at a Christmas tree farm. In the moonlight that found its way through the window above the front door, he resembled a threatening but ineffective henchman in an old movie. She watched as he wrestled with his winter coat. 

     “It’s late,” she said. 

     He said nothing. He was wearing a big gray Oberon Ale sweatshirt, old jeans, and a drunk’s face. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and lumbered toward the couch. He sat blindly on a throw pillow, stood part of the way back up, pushed the pillow off the couch, and sat back down. At the conclusion of all that, he treated himself to a sigh and a sip of beer. She moved in front of the TV to deny him his late-night diet of sports analysis. A few seconds passed. She waited for at least a glance at the remote, but his eyes were closed. He was stonewalling. She crossed her arms. 

     “Well, I hope you had fun,” she said. “Wherever you were.” 

     He nodded and took another drink. 

     “You know,” she added, “I bumped into Jessica and Aidan yesterday. The Lozens.” Court stared into the middle distance. 

     “Our neighbors…” 

     “I know who they are.”

     “Well,” she continued, “they were shocked when they heard that you stay out past one in the morning. They thought you must work the late shift, and I said, no, no, unless you mean the late shift at the bar.” She paused for a response. “Apparently Aidan comes home every night at 6. Every single night. And some nights earlier to make dinner. And I thought, ‘That’s a real husband.’” 

     Court put his feet up on the coffee table. “Sounds more like a wife to me.” Marlene would’ve liked to break the table in half, but settled for thwapping Dream Decor onto it and storming to the kitchen. It was unbelievable—here was a person who refused to even consider change. To him, this was normal, and what wasn’t normal was pointing it out. She got out a knife and began to chop carrots. This is what she did when she was angry. Though it would be nearly impossible for her to admit now, the two of them had once been a fine pair. Two people who’d wanted the same kinds of things, backyard barbecues, and awful clothing, and, yes, even beer. They’d had similar standards and aspirations. But of course they did—all the standards had been his! He liked beer, he liked barbecue, he had come home past midnight each night, and to this day didn’t see the problem. 

     It pained her to think that she’d seen nothing wrong with this. But it wasn’t her fault. It was how she had been raised. Her dad, and her friends’ dads, had come home late slurring their words, cars parked slanted in their driveways. The only domestic work she’d ever seen her father do was at her mother’s Christmas parties, where he would locate the prettiest woman in the house and obsessively tend to her drink. But her mother kept hosting in spite of it, in spite of that tiny kitchen that had never been expanded. She’d been far too strong to surrender. She’d just stand there at the oven with a wooden spoon and the iron smile of someone with people to feed and vegetables to chop.

     And had anything changed? Maybe it was the curse of every woman born here to inherit her mother’s life. Marlene had nearly been blind to the whole thing, had nearly put up with it for the rest of her life, like her mother standing there at the oven. A patient woman until the day she’d died; a good woman to whom good things never happened. 

     So thank God for the Lozens. The first time that  Marlene had set foot in the Lozens’ house, it was like she was on a whole different planet. Vibrant colors on the walls, a home sound-system, gorgeous furniture, kitchen counters that went on for miles, and a woman who had opinions, big ones, with a husband who encouraged her. What would that even be like? Marlene chopped faster. She wanted to live like Jessica did. Like her mother should have been able to live. It was within reach. Jessica had said that the hardest part of the renovation was opening up the kitchen, but the contractor they had found, Dan Harden, was fantastic. We can give you his cell! she had said, excitedly. The whole thing’s much less expensive than you’d think it would be. 

     Marlene put down her knife. She walked back to the living room, which looked an awful lot like her mother’s. There was a lump forming in her throat. “Court,” she asked. “Have you thought any more about calling Dan Harden?” 

     He took a sip of beer and smirked. 

     “He’s really busy on the weekends, so if we wanted him to look at the house this week, we’d have to—.” 

     “Marlene.” 

     She put her hands on her hips. Her face was hot. “What? What is so ridiculous? I’m just asking for a consultation—the consultations are free! And the Lozens say that renovations are actually a lot cheaper than—” 

     “I’m sure they would say that.”

     “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” She could feel her voice raising. “Why do you always dismiss them? How do you think that makes me feel?” 

     He stood. “How do you think I feel? We used to be fine. This place,” he waved vaguely in the direction of the recliner, “used to be fine.” He pointed at her magazine. “You think you might be reading a little too much of that?” 

     She seethed. “You won’t raise a finger for this marriage. You don’t want a better life—you won’t even try for it! You act like: who would want to be a good husband? Who would want a happy wife?” 

     Court laughed. “Marlene, I sell Christmas trees. You teach seventh graders. There will be no renovation.” He walked toward the kitchen for another beer. “And your happiness isn’t my decision. That’s up to you.” 

     Something in her knew this fight was different; something shining with hope and growing in size. Before she knew what she was doing, she told him she wanted him out, and didn’t flinch at his expression. She snatched her magazine and sat on the couch. He walked upstairs with a hand in his hair. 

     It began to rain outside with a victorious intensity. She felt on top of the world. She had had enough! She heard him thumping down the stairs with his big boxy suitcase bumping and skidding against the walls. He grabbed his car keys, opened the front door, and walked out into the pouring rain. 

     She could be a new woman. She opened Dream Decor to a random page and ran her fingers over the image. She could have an open kitchen. Once she had dropped his beer and cable from her budget, well, it was possible. The renovation was less than you’d think, the Lozens had said, and if what she was thinking was possible, then the real number would actually be more than possible. Her house could look better. She pictured the elegant dinner parties. The Lozens would come, maybe Karen Pupe, the French teacher, or Dan Harden. Oh, she’d think of people! True, she’d miss having someone to mow the lawn, warm the bed, and hold her close. She would miss these things, and the way he used to talk fast when she got home from school, the smell of pine needles on his sweater, and even his lumberjack arms, so good at helping up the little T-Ball player hit by a pitch. And, if he had ever listened to her, maybe they could’ve worked something out and had a better life together. But he’d given her no other option, and now she would do it on her own. She’d find the money. Likely not at Branch, where she earned less than half of their current mortgage. But somewhere. It didn’t matter. She was done. Better to be alone than to be held back any longer. No excuse not to live a better life! 

     She turned the page of her magazine and luxuriated in how quiet the house was without the sound of the TV, how pleasant the chill of the drafts were when his body wasn’t up against hers. She could get used to this. 

There was a knock. She listened. More knocking. Long, sad, regretful knocking. She chewed her lip. Putting down her magazine, she went to the door. When she opened it, she saw Court. He was drenched. And were those tears on his face? 

     “Come on, Marlene,” he said. “It’s wet out here.” 

     Her big old husband was standing there, begging her to take him back. It was like a movie. Hardly ten minutes had passed before he’d seen reason and come back to her. He was willing to change. She wrapped her arms around him. Oh, how good it felt when good things happened! 

     He gave her a squeeze and headed toward the couch. She smiled, and told herself that with some new upholstery everything would be fine.