Trying again

Melba unpacked Arnold’s Limoge.

“Sweetheart,” Arnold said, an ever-so-slight hint of uneasy condescension in his graveled voice, “place those in the dining room china cabinet. You remember where we used to keep them.”

She placed a white plate on the countertop and shrugged. Since he’d gone, she’d replaced the formica with an off-white stone. He’d inherited the Limoge from his mother, but she’d gotten the house. Melba turned to face Arnold and faked a laugh.

“But Arnold, darling,” she said, wary of where this might go. They’d never managed conflicts over domestic issues very well. “You know very well I sold the china closet. We now have a credenza over there.”

Arnold paused a moment and looked down at his shoes, as if making sure he stood on his marker for a photograph. “What was I thinking. You put it where you think best, love of my life.” He said this in an even tone.

Ten minutes later Arnold came into the room with a charcoal painting of his mother as a young woman – Gertrude, the mother-in-law whose every compliment came laced with an insult to Melba’s domestic capabilities. “Honey, would you mind if we hung this in the foyer above the crystal vase?”

Melba massaged her forehead at the point where she thought the crevice between the left brain and the right brain resided. “Yes, dear. You may hang your mother anywhere you like.”