The Dishwasher

Debbie Ann Ice

 

At exactly 12:00 p.m. Albert and Betty had been officially married thirty years. Thirty years since they stood by a river in front of a caddy of inebriated  friends all probably whispering things like, “who’d think Betty would end up with someone like him? I give it two years.”  
 

But, no, they lasted thirty years. And to celebrate Albert Finaway gave Betty a dishwasher-- GE model number 5671, deluxe, with a timer and barely visible buttons that made just the slightest hint of a click when pressed. “Computerized” the dishwasher salesman had said when Albert went to Sears and requested the best. “These top of the line models are all computerized now. Got chips.  You can do anything. You can save on electricity by timing when the dishes  get washed. She will be tickled, let me tell you.”


Betty ran her hand over the chrome, at least three inches deep, and pushed a few buttons as Albert hopped from one foot to the other explaining all the ways the dishes could be washed.

 

“They got a timer! A timer, Bets. And looka here.” 

 

He bent down. Betty bent down. She could make out their chins shining back at them in the chrome. His had a bit of stubble that looked like blackheads and hers was doubled now, due to menopausal weight gain. She watched his mouth move in the chrome as he explained the washing machine complexities. There were different ways to dry the dishes, and various cycle selections, all of which were appropriate for different types of dishes: casserole, fine china, pans.  And it could wash anything.  

 

“Why Bets, you could wash a shoe in here!” 
  
Arnold was still talking about the dishwasher when he went to bed, his eyes staring up at the ceiling. She smiled and said how nice it was. She couldn’t wait to fill it up with dishes. He patted her arm, kissed her cheek, and rolled over.  


" Well, Bets, you’re worth it. You sure are worth it.”

 
Betty woke up alone the next day, as usual. Arnold liked to be at work at 6 a.m., so he could start the day organized. He was an electrical engineer.

 

Betty took off her clothes, turned on the shower and stepped in quickly.  The warm water trickled down both breasts in rivulets, not pausing to form droplets at the end, like they used to back when her tits didn’t point to her feet.   Betty rolled the soap between her hands then rubbed it upon her oversized foam sponge. She moved the sponge down her left arm first, slowly running it back and forth, before squeezing out the water and starting over again on her next arm. When the sponge finally made it to her torso, she paused briefly, removed her hand and placed it flat upon her swollen middle, now pushed out by age, not life. She thought about her daughter, Alisa, wondered when she would bring the baby for a visit.


When Betty walked into the kitchen, she noticed everything seemed smaller. The dishwasher’s ebony front took over the area by the sink, making everything else surrounding it, even the linoleum floor, look tired, reluctantly attached to her house.  


Betty reached inside the upper cabinet, pulled out the coffee. After filling the basket with grains and pouring water into the back of the coffeemaker, she walked to the other side where she kept her spices and a few other food products. She opened the cabinet door, moved the corn meal aside, then pulled out a large popcorn bag, spilling a few kernels in the process. Behind this bag was her Calvados, only a slither of auburn liquid remaining. She poured the slither into her cup, put the popcorn bag back, then carefully placed the empty bottle in a brown paper bag, which she then stuffed deep inside her garbage bag. She pushed another crumpled bag on top it. She wrote down on her to-do list, “Need Cvds,” then filled the rest of her cup with coffee.  


She turned and caught a glimpse of herself in the washer’s chrome.  From this distance the reflection was slightly blurred, which, like a sepia picture, hid puffs, broken blood vessels and lines. It was nice this way. Her eyes, which she  always described  as seaweed green, were brighter, more like spring grass.


Betty ran her hand over the washer, touching her reflection, moving her index 
finger over each eye. She took another sip and watched intently as her cup tilted, just so, towards her mouth.

The dishwasher would take a while to fill, so the first cycle would have to wait. Betty ate lunch on paper plates and always washed her coffee cups out herself with Clorox.  Six dinners with Albert would fill the racks. That would take about a week. She would pour in the detergent, push the appropriate buttons, then listen to its hum, probably similar to the sound of a thousand bees tucked inside a box, or maybe more like a rhythmic churning, interrupted,  intermittently, by clicks that announced a cycle change.