by Daniel Poppke
Slowly, the sun begins to penetrate the dawn horizon, bathing the semi-identical homes of Harper’s Valley in an optimistic pumpkin glow. Gradually, the sleeping town rouses from its collective slumber, an exercise in routine and synchronicity. Bedrooms, bathrooms, and kitchens illuminate with a click; husbands and wives begin tossing and turning against the shrill of the alarm, and the looming consequences of the day; children stir awake in twin beds, frantically searching the recesses of their groggy minds for a plausible illness, anything at all to keep them safe and dry beneath their sheets, far from the inevitable April rain, and the rigors of a school day.
It’s not long before the sun scrapes the roofs of Turnberry Lane, a cohesive collection of cape cods and salt boxes nestled within the heart of suburban Harper’s Valley. The frosty morning dew sparkles as it basks in the early morning warmth, flecking the lawns with tiny pieces of silver.
There is only one light visible from the front of 1465 Turnberry Lane, the immaculately white salt box home occupied by the family Downington. The single light emanates from the kitchen, where Jenny Downington stands in front of the stove, waiting for an iron skillet to heat up enough to cook her husband’s morning eggs. Even though she spends most of her day alone in this large house, it is during these early hours, whisking eggs and frying bacon that she feels most isolated. Every small noise or creak is intensified. The placid gurgle of the coffee pot becomes a guttural roar; the normally docile hum of the refrigerator thunders and surges through her ears.
On this particular morning, Jenny has experienced more solitude than usual, having been ripped awake by a rather violent dream around five AM, and unable to fall back asleep due to the incessant drum beat of tiny feet against her stomach’s wall.
She glanced at the clock on the microwave: 7:45. With more revulsion than usual, she tipped the bowl forward and the hideous yellowy goo swallowed the black surface of the skillet, which popped and sizzled as it received the cool eggs. She had it down to a science; at 7:45 each morning she began scrambling or frying the eggs–or the pancakes if it was a special morning or a Sunday– and at 7:50 she started the bacon. This way, when her husband came downstairs at 8:00 after dressing for work, breakfast would already be on the table, and he would be right on time for the 8:32 bus into downtown Akron, where he worked in the industry regulations department of Federal One Bank.
The ceiling above her creaked as Russell wandered around upstairs, tying his tie, or combing his hair. Jenny turned her attention away from the eggs, and walked down the long hallway between the kitchen and the large red front door. She shook her head as she opened the door and plucked the morning’s “Akron Beacon Journal” from the front stoop. Russell was one of the last people in all of Harper’s Valley—probably the entire country—who still insisted on having his morning paper delivered, rather than accessing news via the internet. It cost him a fortune to still receive home delivery service, but it seemed to make him happy, so she didn’t complain.
She hurried back into the house and took the eggs and bacon off the stove. Just then the toast rocketed forth from the bowels of the toaster, and within seconds, Jenny had the entire ensemble on the table, complete with orange juice and instant coffee. She smelled her handiwork and shrugged, frowning slightly. She had never been the best cook, but she had certainly improved in the 11 years she’d been married, and she could tell Russell appreciated her effort.
“Good morning darling,” he said, striding into the kitchen. He was dressed in a black suit, white shirt and lavender tie, with his light hair cut short and gelled in the front. Jenny thought he looked especially handsome this morning, well-rested and fresh. As if he, like the perennials in the garden and the maples in the yard, had finally emerged from the endless Ohio winter with a renewed vibrancy and health. Not at all the way she must have looked in her comfortable gray sweats and matching maternity t-shirt.
“Morning.” She rose and he kissed her delicately on the mouth.
“And how’s our little miracle?” He placed his hand on her protruding belly. She noticed he’d been doing that a lot lately, referring to their unborn child as a miracle, and speaking directly into her belly in a sickeningly sweet voice. He sounded like an idiot, but Jenny couldn’t really begrudge him his excitement. This was her fifth pregnancy, and the first time she had reached six months without miscarrying. At 35 years old, she was running out of chances. For the Downingtons, this child really was something of a miracle.
“He’s okay, a little trouble this morning,” she replied, patting the baby growing daily inside her. “I’m surprised I didn’t wake you, I was worried.”
“Nope, slept like a brick.” The newspaper crinkled in his hand as he flipped the page to the next section, rendering the rest of his response inaudible, if he said anything else at all. Minutes passed and they breakfasted in silence with Russell shielded behind a thin wall of print, until he folded his newspaper and extracted a pack of Lucky Strikes and his Zippo lighter from his suit jacket, placing them atop the table.
“Hey honey, do you mind stepping into the other room for a few minutes, you know how I like my morning cig. And we can’t have you anywhere near smoke now, can we?” For this last sentence, he used his baby voice, shaking his head rapidly back and forth and grinning from ear to ear.
“Um, sure, no problem,” she replied, rising from the table and shuffling into the hallway. Once there, she heard him trigger his lighter, imagined the flame roaring to life at the insistence of the flint, and finally, smelled the aroma of the scorched tobacco as it flirted with the tang of just-cooked bacon and burnt toast crumbs. Her knees nearly buckled against her urge to smoke one—just one. It had been months, and she tried to quench her cravings by telling herself that it was for the baby’s health, but even that proved ineffective, and made her feel unworthy as a mother at the same time.
“Jenny,” her husband called from the kitchen, his voice hoarse and chafed from smoke. “Don’t forget, the man from the satellite company is coming to hook up one of those dishes on the roof this morning. Make sure you let him in, and that he hauls away all the old cable. That stuff is hell to dispose of with all these regulations.” And with that, Russell Downington hopped up from his chair and met his sulking, nicotine-starved wife in hallway.
“Have a great day darling,” he chimed, pausing briefly to stoop and kiss her proffered cheek.
“You too baby,” she smiled up at him. He touched her face tenderly, spun on his heel and walked out the front door. She stood in the hallway looking after him a moment, wifely concern coloring her face.
She glimpsed her appearance in a nearby crescent shaped mirror in the hallway, and with horror, she remembered the man from the satellite company. In a whirlwind, she cleared the breakfast dishes. She wiped down the countertops and rushed upstairs to make herself presentable for this complete stranger.
She finished preparing herself just in time to see the white van lurch to a stop at the curb in front of the house. A large man in a baggy white jumpsuit lumbered from the driver’s seat and skulked through the front lawn. Jenny quickly surveyed herself in the blank screen of their bedroom TV and was fairly pleased with the results. The haggard pregnant woman from breakfast had been replaced by a dignified, expectant mother, glowing with optimism and the sweat of harboring a burgeoning life.
Gray sweatpants were replaced by a blood orange slip dress, just baggy enough to conceal her baby bump, but not so baggy as to make her appear fat rather than pregnant. She had teased the hopeless blonde ponytail, pulled back hastily while sweating over the stove, and sculpted it into a carefree wave. A touch of lipstick to plump her matchstick thin lips, and she was ready to face the day.
The doorbell rang. “Coming,” she sang, descending the stairs.
“Yeah I’m here to install a dish,” he husked when she opened the door and smiled.
“Of course. Would you like a cup of coffee before you get started?” she asked.
He stared at her for a moment, as if confused, almost stunned by her offer. “Uh…I think I’ll just take care of the dish and be on my way, if that’s okay with you ma’m.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” she said, eyes downcast toward his shabby brown work boots. “If you need anything I’ll be right here…in the…house. Thanks.”
And with that he turned and walked back toward his van, where he produced a large satellite dish wrapped several times in some sort of sticky plastic. Russell had retrieved the ladder and leaned it against the side of the house, just as everyone was instructed to do, and with his free hand the massive ape of a man hoisted it upon his shoulder and disappeared behind the house.
Jenny stood at the window in the back den of the house and looked out across the yard, listening to the man work above her. After about an hour of toiling, the man reappeared carrying the ladder and a substantial coil of cable wrapped around his shoulder, like a slain snake, at the mercy of this primal field worker. Jenny felt a strange and foreign sexual charge beneath the canopy of her belly as she watched him slough through their backyard, different from any charge Russell ever gave her. She cursed herself, humiliated, and jumped when the doorbell rang again.
She tried to conceal her embarrassment as she opened the door and stood face to face with the man who had just seconds ago thrilled her so briefly.
“You’re all set. Got the cable in my van, and the ladder’s leanin’ on the house. Have a good day lady.” He turned to go.
“Wait!” Jenny said, reaching for her purse. “You’ve done such a good job I have um, something for you.” She pulled a $20 note from her purse and handed it to him.
“This was a free service lady. But uh, thanks anyway.”
Jenny fixed a snack and kicked back on the couch to watch her new satellite television. It was difficult at first to master the controls, but before long, she was flicking artfully through the channels. She came to rest on one of the countless cable news stations and turned the volume up as a pretty black woman recounted the day’s top stories:
“The President paid a visit to troops in Kabul this morning, praising their heroic commitment to spreading democracy and freedom across the globe. Presently, he’s on a plane back to Washington to meet with members of his financial team regarding the renewal of expiring economic regulations.
In other news, Secretary Henry Mitchell said this morning that the Free TV Initiative is progressing better than expected, and that as of this morning nearly 85% of households in America have already had their free satellite dishes installed, and that we can expect 100% coverage by the end of September. Mr. Mitchell, the former Congressman who just three years ago spearheaded the initiative to offer free satellite television to every American, as part of the Arts and Entertainment Resurgence Act, released the numbers this morning. Mr. Mitchell now serves in the President’s cabinet as Secretary of Recreation and Leisure. We’ll take a quick break, and come right back with national weather here…”
Jenny sat back and tuned out the perky anchorwoman, munching her wheat crackers and sipping her green tea. Tired of news and weather, she flipped absentmindedly through the channels, searching for anything interesting amongst the daytime muck. Without realizing, she began pressing the input button repeatedly instead of the channel button. “Damnit!” she cursed, aware of her mistake. Suddenly, something on the screen caught her eye. It was devoid of any action, just a furnished room, a living room or den. There was something vaguely familiar about the entire scene, which Jenny couldn’t quite place. She sat forward in her chair and studied the room, probing for clues. She gasped as a woman suddenly walked into the room, seemingly unaware of being filmed. She wore a maid’s uniform and was dusting the mantle.
“Oh my god!” Jenny shrieked, realization thrusting her forward. “That’s…that’s Glenda!”
The woman on the screen was Glenda, the Mercer’s housekeeper. She had seen Glenda plenty of times while lounging on the deck of the Mercer’s pool many a Sunday afternoon, sipping cocktails and bathing in the sun. And that room! Jenny had been there often, smoking cigarettes and talking with the other women of Turnberry Lane, while Russell and the rest of the men smoked cigars out on the back deck and practiced their golf swings, or whatever it is men do in congregation.
It didn’t make sense. How was she picking up the Mercer’s home on her TV? Could some frequencies have crossed? She hit the right arrow button and the Mercer’s kitchen came into view. She scrolled through the rest of the house, the bedrooms, the bathrooms, even the garage.
Just then the invasiveness of it all took hold of her, and she waddled from the room in horror. Had she really just seen what she thought? Her mind was racing as she sat at the kitchen table, breathing deeply and trying to steady her hands. Jenny couldn’t take it anymore. She had to know. Slowly, she rose from the kitchen table and crept down the long hallway toward the living room. She sat down and glanced up at the screen. Everything was as it had been when she left, the channel tuned to the Mercer’s empty dining room. She scrolled through the rooms, stopping at the garage when she noticed something odd: Ronnie Mercer’s car. She glanced up at the clock perched on the fireplace: 2:13. Fairly early for Ronnie to be home from work. She scrolled through the rooms until she came upon what appeared to be a guest bedroom, and a sight so shocking she dropped the remote.
Ronnie was on his knees undressing an already mostly naked Glenda the maid, kissing her all over as she lay back on the bed, her black legs spread wide and resting on his shoulders. Jenny shuddered, paralyzed, helplessly watching one of her closest friends kiss the bottoms of his housekeeper’s gnarled pink feet, rub ample thighs, and suck calloused fingers. The bottoms of her feet matched almost perfectly the bedspread that had been cast aside in the tussle. She shook herself loose from the horrifying image and shut the TV off.
She looked again at the clock, and realized she’d been watching the Mercers longer than she thought. It was now 3:52 and Russell would be home in little more than an hour. She needed to get dinner started, but she was still stupefied. How long had this heinous affair between Ronnie and his help been going on, and how could she possibly tell Shirley, Ronnie’s wife, and Jenny’s closest friend? She wondered if she should tell Russell or not, and while slicing potatoes decided she wouldn’t.
Just after she finished half heartedly preparing a baked chicken dish with roasted redskin potatoes, tomato salad, and ice cold beer, the front door swung open and Russell walked in, hat in one hand, brief case hanging limply from the other. He had already undone his tie, a sure sign of a rough day.
“Russell, you’re home,” Jenny said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster, rushing toward her husband. “How was work?”
“Not too bad,” he grumbled. “Starving. Smells great…finished?”
“Sure is!” she said proudly, handing him his beer. “A nice cold beer for my hard working man.” She drew him towards her and kissed him passionately. After several seconds he drew away and plopped down at the table.
The conversation was lacking throughout dinner. All Jenny could think about were the Mercer’s, and what sordid activity may be taking place. Russell asked her about the satellite dish, and did everything go smoothly. She answered with a simple yes, neglecting to mention the portal into the private lives of their neighbors or her bizarre sexual attraction to the ape-man. After dinner Russell rose from the table, Lucky Strike in hand, and started toward the stairs.
“That was great sweetheart, thanks. But I’m exhausted. I’m going to take a hot shower.”
“That’s fine. I’m just going to clean up a bit here,” she replied distractedly.
She prattled around in the kitchen until she heard the water running upstairs, then galumphed into the living room and powered on the TV. The set was still tuned to the Mercer’s guest bedroom, but the room had been vacated, purged of any evidence of wrongdoing. She wasn’t sure how long she sat watching them eat dinner, watch TV, work on homework, and interact. When she finally checked the clock, she was surprised that 3 hours had passed and it was nearly ten.
In their bedroom, Russell slept atop the sheets with nothing but a towel draped loosely around his waist. She awoke him gently, helped him into his pajamas, changed into hers, and lay down next to him and tried sleep. After tossing and turning to no avail, Jenny eased herself from bed and crept down the stairs to her chair. She clicked through the Mercer’s home but found nothing particularly interesting. It was close to midnight at this point and everyone was either sleeping or on their way. Jenny found it strange to watch a sleeping house from this perspective. Everything in the house seemed to breathe collectively when completely shrouded in darkness. Even the appliances seemed to slumber in harmony, the refrigerator snoring softly in unison with the washing machine.
As the night pressed on, Jenny grew bored of watching the slumbering Mercers, and decided to play around with the remote. Around 4 AM, discovery came in the form of two more neighborhood homes–The Buford’s and the Felding’s. Their houses slept soundly too, but Jenny delighted at the excitement of new secrets to plunder.
Around 6 AM the Buford house began to stir. Marcy Buford rolled from beneath the covers and stood. Jenny was somewhat surprised to find Marcy completely naked. Two years younger and a full cup size smaller than Jenny, yet Jenny noted with elation that Marcy’s breasts drooped and sagged, the nipples disproportionately large, like big pink dinner plates. Jenny revealed a round and perky breast from beneath her own nightgown and fondled it appreciatively.
Without dressing, Marcy walked to the bathroom and washed her face, Jenny following every step of the way. She slipped downstairs to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. The Buford’s were childless, which explained Marcy’s affinity for nude cooking.
Jenny scrolled over to the Felding house and discovered Mike Felding, clad in apron, preparing breakfast at the stove, and his wife Liz standing next to him plate in hand and dressed in a business suit. Mike had clearly burned whatever he was preparing and Liz was not happy.
“Do you know how important this case is Mike? I’m trying to make fucking partner!” She was standing on her toes, pointing in his face, lurching closer as she yelled. “Is it that hard to cook an egg Mike? Christ!”
“You know, Liz, I don’t have to wake up every morning and cook you breakfast! I do it out of love, because I want you to start your day with a good–”
She stepped forward and batted the skillet from his hand. It crashed to the floor, charred eggs splashed about the tile.
“I don’t have time for bitching Mike, I’m late!”
She stormed from the room, leaving Mike to pick up the pieces of his shattered morning.
“Jenny, what’s going on? Isn’t there any breakfast?” Russell called from the kitchen. She shut the TV off and told him that she had been sick all morning, and unable to cook breakfast. He begrudgingly accepted this, muttered something about grabbing a bite to eat in town, and left for work.
Three days passed, or maybe it was five. Jenny was spending more and more of her free time engrossed in the private lives of her neighbors. Invigorated by Marcy Buford’s unabashed expression of womanhood that first morning, Jenny had taken to stripping down and stretching out on the floor during the day to spy on the Mercer affair or the domestic disturbances over at the Feldings. Sprawled there, her bare toes curling into the fibers of the beige shag, she felt so alive, when all at once she was struck with the terrible possibility that someone could be watching her, the same way she watched others. She wrapped herself in a blanket from behind the couch, eyes wide with terror. Even under the blanket, Jenny was freezing. She shivered uncontrollably, skin prickling all over.
She thought of her pregnant nakedness, and her glutinous obsession with the private lives of her friends, and she could feel them. Hundreds of eyes, wet with shock and laughter, judging her every move, her pathetic insecurities; her freckled shoulders and the large mole above her right thigh. She let out a scream so primal that any neighbor, friend, soul watching the Downington station would surely shudder in discomfort at the raw emotion of the moment. Late April rain pounded against the roof as tears poured uncontrollably from her eyes. Jenny stood suddenly, tightening the blanket around her, and waddled to the hall and into the linen closet. She hunkered down and shut the door, draped the blanket over her head, and curled up.
Russell came home from work that evening to a seemingly empty house.
“Jenny, are you here?” he called. “Hello!”
He wandered into a vacant living room, and found that the TV was on. The screen displayed an empty room, a living room or den. He turned to leave, but paused. Something vaguely familiar about the room on screen, but he couldn’t quite place it.
Dan Poppke is a 2009 graduate of Youngstown State University. In 2009 his work received the Hare Award for fiction. A SLAA member since the organization’s inception, Dan is extremely excited for the launch of Jenny, and honored to be featured in the inaugural issue. He would also like to thank his family and girlfriend Suz for all of their support, as well as the professors who have been so helpful and supportive. Special thanks to Chris Barzak and Dr. Keith Lepak.