It was laundry day, a Tuesday, and Harriet was thankful, since it always gave her time to think. Time away from the house. Joe was a First Lieutenant in the army, so they never had any reason to buy a washer and dryer of their own, always moving from one base to the next. Often at nights, when she sat at her mirror combing her shoulder-length permed brown hair (a perm was about the only luxury she allowed herself, every couple of months or so), staring back at her dry hazel eyes, Harriet would remind herself that she missed her husband, afraid that she might forget that fact, maybe forget Joe altogether. But it was true. She did miss him.
Most of the other wives used the laundromat offered to them right on base, but Harriet did all she could to avoid conversation about the war. To her, it was more than just laundry. Or it was less. Either way, the methodical nature of washing her family's clothes slowed things down for Harriet. It simplified them. Wash, dry, fold, repeat. Nicholas � Boy's Medium, boy's size eight waist. Sarah � Girl's Large, girl's size ten waist. Joe � an assortment of greens, browns, running shorts, and undersized T-shirts that showcased his chiseled muscles, which Harriet rarely had the privilege of touching or even seeing these days. It was an equation she had come to learn offhand. One that allowed her mind to focus on something other than the three-bedroom apartment that needed a good dusting, or elementary homework to be done while she prepared the roast that was currently sitting in the slow cooker on the kitchen counter, and the dirty dishes next to the slow cooker, and the awkward hellos as she passed the other military wives on her way to the market store on base to get the can of beef broth she mistakenly thought she had purchased the week before.
It wasn't that Harriet didn't love her family, her children. She did, exceedingly. But with a husband, a little boy, and a little girl, things just seemed too symmetrical. Or maybe asymmetrical. She could never decide which it was, but something about it all dissatisfied Harriet. It didn't matter. She left the reasoning to her therapist, whose most recent suggestion involved soothing music as therapy. Harriet decided the rhythm of the spin cycle would suffice.
As was her ritual on laundry day, Harriet checked the Lost and Found for any stray socks that might closely match the unpaired ones she had stocked in a cupboard at home. It was a habit she learned from her mother, and though she couldn't be sure, probably her mother before her. Harriet's mother said, �A good wife is a thrifty wife.� And she never forgot hard-working. On this morning, however, Harriet found something she was not expecting. Amongst the regular mundane items � the mismatched buttons in assorted shapes and colors, some Mexican coins that didn't work in the machines, a set of house keys � was a man's golden wedding band. She picked it up and examined it, ran her fingers across the engravings � a series of lines and loops that danced all around the outside, and a phrase on the inside, �Always and forever.� It was nothing like Joe's, a smooth metal ring.
�Nothing fancy,� he had said the day they went looking. �That one.� It was supposed to be a whole-day event. He bought the ring, and they went home.
Harriet pressed her hand against her chest, where her husbands silver band dangled from a silver chain. He never took it with him. Said, �If they take me, they'll take the ring, too. They'll cut it right from my hand, those bastards.� He drew out on paper some equation that illustrated how his wedding ring would translate to bullets that would eventually kill U.S. Soldiers. Harriet supposed it made sense. Honestly, she didn't really care.
Unlike many of the other military wives, Harriet thought the hardest part of Joe's being at war was in his returning. Whenever he shipped out, she forced herself to think it would be the last time they spoke, and they always made the words romantic. �No regrets,� he would say. �I've always loved you, and I always will.� Stuff she might read in one of her novels Joe would always roll his eyes at. The last time he had come home, Harriet was surprised to find that she was slightly disappointed in his embrace, knowing that now, things were real again. He was Joe, and she was Harriet. No glorified hero, no distraught and lonely widow. Just husband and wife. Still, she was deeply embarrassed at this, and she kept the secret from everyone she knew � including Dr. Kaufman.
Harriet wondered what kind of a person might have left such a beautiful ring behind. And how did it get there in the first place? How had it come loose from its owner's finger? Surely this was no accident. She couldn't help but think it curious that no one had snatched it up yet, considering the rough neighborhood, a microcosm of violence in Edgetown, just miles away from the base in Colorado Springs. On her second trip from the car with another load of clothes, she stopped back at the box and stuck the ring in her pocket. To keep it safe, she thought. Until someone comes looking for it.
Harriet pulled the first article of clothing from her bag � an old cream-colored dress with a pink ribbon across the belly that her mother wore as a child. She wasn't sure why she kept it, but it came in handy now that she had kids of her own. Sarah loved to play dress up. All day she would prance around in anything but her normal clothes, changing outfits every hour. This dress belonged to lunchtime. A large, red, tomato soup stain dominated the entire front, from top to bottom. The stain, Harriet knew, was hopeless, but she tried anyway. After all, it was her profession to remove the dirty stains from her family's life. She doused the dress in stain-remover and tossed it into the washer.
Sarah dressed up because she liked to pretend, thought Harriet, and that was it. She dressed up because she could, and that was it too. Harriet would dress up, but only when Sarah wasn't watching. She would don the clothes of a chain smoker, of a worried wife and an uncertain mother, someone who didn't have it all together. Harriet dressed up when Joe came home; she would make herself pretty for him. She painted her face and her lips. And she dressed up when they were alone. When supper wasn't ready once, she explained that she wasn't herself that day, and that she would be someone else tomorrow. Sarah wore makeup because at that moment it was right to be a woman. When it was no longer convenient or fun, she became something else, like a lion (a Halloween costume that Harriet had made for her on her first year of Trick-or-Treating).
Did the mystery-man have a daughter? she thought. If he left his wife, which he was obviously willing to do since he had already left the ring, would she stay to care for the little girl? Or perhaps he didn't even have children. Not because he couldn't, but because he didn't want to. He was probably the type of man who didn't want anything tying him down in one place. He needed to be free.
Harriet glanced at the door. She realized that she hadn't been paying very close attention, but she was sure that no one had come in since she had started her laundry. The laundromat was always slow on Tuesdays. Most people were at their jobs, doing something important to help the world or the economy, and she couldn't help but envy them. After all, what did she do?
Laundry.
Harriet started the wash cycle on the first machine and began with the next. She reached into the bag of dirty clothes and pulled out one of Nicholas' shirts, a nearly unrecognizable bundle of red cotton and mud. Saturday had brought one of the worst storms of the Spring so far, and afterwards, Harriet told Nicholas he could go play with his friend Josh, General Landen's son, who lived just down the road (Nicholas only ever had military friends, a fact Harriet often regretted). Harriet found comfort in the temporary silence when he was gone. Meanwhile, the boys were running to the field behind the recreation center, where Josh had discovered what he said was a cave. Just days earlier, the base started construction on a new outdoor pool, currently just an enormous pit in the ground, now filled with a few inches of water. To a six-year-old, this was irresistible. The sweatshirt that Harriet had made Nicholas wear, so as to avoid getting a cold, was balled up, stiff, and contorted in an odd twisted shape, the mud now a solid mass. She shook her head, opened a third washer, and threw the shirt inside.
Nicholas and Josh often played war together, running through the neighborhood with sticks bent at right angles to make a perfect replica of a gun. But not replica. Just gun. Sticks they must have searched for all morning. They would climb into trees, pluck off an onslaught of robbers, warriors, and the occasional sparrow. They played war because it was fun. Because when they ran and the wind blew back their hair, they knew they were free. Because when a grenade landed at Josh's feet, Nicholas never hesitated to throw himself upon it, saving his dear friend from utter devastation. Then he would get up, brush himself off, and jump up and down, shooting his gun in the air, celebrating his bravery. Every day they fought tougher enemies, received new medals and better ranks, and lived to tell about it the on the next. No consequences. No responsibilities. Just a perpetual pile of dirty clothes.
�Looks like laundry day,� said a voice behind Harriet. She spun around, dropping several quarters in the process, and they scattered in several directions on impact across the laundromat floor. Instead of chasing after them, Harriet studied the man now in front of her, on the other side of the folding tables. She had seen him before. At the laundromat, that is. He was was a man of average height. Somewhat taller and a bit scrawny. His collar bone protruded significantly, making it seem as though his neck had sunken down into his body slightly. And he was balding. What sporadic hairs remained on the top of his head were pulled across from left to right in a greasy streak, and he kept matting them down with his nervous, greasy hands. She hadn't heard the bell on the front door, nor had she heard him come up behind her. When she noticed the open office door in the back of the room, she remembered that he had introduced himself as the owner at one point in time, though his name still eluded her. He was wearing a button-down plaid shirt and tattered jeans, both of which were blanketed with stains. Whether it was paint or something else, Harriet couldn't be certain, but she thought it strange that such a man would have an establishment where people came to make their lives clean again. The skin all over his body seemed to glisten. He looked slippery. Slick. Like he could slide his way out of any situation.
The office of the laundromat was a simple small room tucked in the back corner across from the broom closet. From what Harriet could tell, the walls inside were bleak. Painted cinder blocks and plaster. Not one picture. She had never seen inside before. Although there was a window, it was the type that only went one way, and on the other side it was mirror. Harriet wondered why a laundromat would need such a curious device. The thought of this man staring at her through the window from inside his secret cove, without her knowing it, made her uneasy. Or was it something else about him? Perhaps that Harriet thought she knew him. Really knew him. Like he reminded her of someone close. Or far away.
Harriet just stood frozen for a moment. �Yes it is,� she said.
�I guess that would bring you here then, wouldn't it?� At this the man gave a chuckle and leaned forward slightly, across the folding table towards Harriet. �Looks like an awful lot, too, I'd say. Don't have so much myself. No family so it tends to cut down. You must have kids. You got kids?�
�Yes. A couple.�
�Yeah, I thought so. And a boy, too, from what I can tell. Little rascals! They're dirty little buggers, ain't they?�
�They tend to be that way,� said Harriet, trying to force a smile. She had her hands in her pockets now, fiddling with the ring.
�Well, it's a blessing, that's what I say. Wouldn't you say the same thing? Of course you do, who am I kidding? Little angels I bet.� He smiled at Harriet, and held it for several seconds, then he started rocking back and forth on his feet when neither of them said a word for a moment. �Just came out to check on a few things. Make sure everything's working fine. Hope everything's been working fine for you. Got a few things to run over, so don't mind me at all. I'll just be a shadow. A little mouse. You won't even know I'm still here.�
The man strode over to the candy machines at the front of the laundromat and started banging on them and jiggling the levers and knobs. He put a coin into one of them and twisted the handle until a candy bar popped out the side. He lifted it to the light, as if to inspect it, then turned and tossed it in the garbage. Turning back around, he started towards the back of the room again. Meanwhile, Harriet was folding her clothes, having accidentally put one of her own shirts on Nicholas's pile.
�I've been meaning to ask,� she said, �where is your bathroom here? I tried that door, but it's just a closet full of cleaning supplies.�
The man's face turned red. Harriet wasn't sure why. �Yes. We don't have a bathroom,� he said. �Used to, I mean. Not anymore. Too much hassle, you know. All the cleaning. I'd clean her one week, then she'd be dirty the next. Wasn't worth my time. Had her torn out couple of years back and put an office in. Wouldn't you know, it cut down on costs, too, by golly. Do you know how much I spend a month just for water? Well, I'd have to take a look at the figures, but it's up there. Just wasn't worth it.�
�I see. So no bathroom at all?�
�No, ma'am. Not here at least. You'd have to walk around the corner for that. Nice new gas station two doors down. Got all the amenities. Goddamn sensors that make the toilets flush and the water turn on and the paper towel shoot out. Never heard of such a thing! Though they do ask that you buy something when you go in. You know, out of courtesy.� He raised his hand slightly towards Harriet, as if to wave, in a gesture that said to her, �That's all for me. I'll be back here watching you if you need me.� Then he walked in to his office and closed the door. Harriet's hand brushed against her pocket as she reached up to put a coin in the dryer, and all her thoughts of the ring came flooding back. That ring! What was it doing there? Wouldn't someone have come back by now in search of it? Now that she thought about it, maybe the man didn't even want it anymore. Maybe his wife had mistreated him, and he was gone for good. He had had it; he took off his ring, and walked out the door, and that was that. Harriet pictured what he might look like. A man so daring, so sure of himself, must be good-looking. Not to say her husband wasn't attractive, of course; he was, for his own part. Though she could never help thinking, while they made love, Harriet wrapping her arms tightly around his solid body, that his shoulder blades poked out a little too far, reminding her of a bat.
The man with the ring, or, rather, without the ring, was perfectly proportioned. His hair was soft and majestic, not cut short and ruff. And he had a steady job � a normal job. An accountant maybe. A number cruncher. A nine-to-five-then-you-come-home-and-play-baseball-with-your-son job. Or maybe no son. Just a lover. Together they would travel to who-knows-where and see great things. They would go out to eat at fancy restaurants, and he would order for her � only after asking what she wanted of course � and he would do it in Italian. Then they would go home, not her home or his, but theirs, somewhere on the beach, and they would make love all night long, lying there for hours in bed holding each other close looking into each others eyes, speaking without saying a word. He would know how to please her � breakfast in bed, massages, and taking out the garbage before it became a mess. He would know her favorite color (�No, it's blue, Joe�), he would make it home for supper (�Sorry, hun, it went into overtime�), and if he didn't, he would bring her a card and some flowers (�I hate Daisies�). They would be happily married. Or maybe not. Maybe they would leave metal out of it this time. Just unadulterated love for the rest of their lives.
Harriet wasn't completely against the idea of marriage, of a wedding. There was something romantic about it all, something spiritual and bigger than this world. Their priest had told them it was God who held Joe and her together. Like a rope, He would bind them close and tight. But Harriet didn't much like the metaphor. It was too restrictive for her. Too claustrophobic. She liked to think of it as an umbilical cord � supplying them with the love they needed � a direct line. And they would submerge themselves in the warmth and safety of His Lifeblood, feeding and living off it. But that wasn't always it either. Sometimes the love inside her was like a terrible storm, powerful and violent. It would well up inside her until it found some way to escape. It was that love that she encountered on their honeymoon, and even for the first year or two of their marriage. Like the pressure in a rocket, the enormity of God and His Love packed into such a tiny, finite space, it would come exploding out with awesome force, spilling over both of them, as they rocked together in unison, throbbing, beating as one pulse. One being. One Love. It was that love that Harriet missed.
Joe still insisted that they went to church, so they did. He drug them every week to mass because, he said, they needed it. Needed God and the church in their lives. He said things felt distant to him now, like they were worlds apart. He said he wanted to fight for them and their marriage. Harriet hadn�t known they were in the midst of a war, and she wondered who it was he would be fighting. Nevertheless, she couldn�t have agreed more.
As far as she could tell, God was no longer between them at all. He had been replaced by the army and the war. When they went to bed, most often they would lie there without speaking, Harriet with her lamp off, Joe with his lit. Harriet, wide awake, on her right side staring into the wall, Joe, half asleep, still pulling his glazed eyes across the pages of some report. And when they made love, or made something, Harriet no longer felt like she was holding her husband. No matter how close she pressed her body to his, no matter how hard she squeezed them together, she always felt as though she was apart from him, standing at attention. Instead of kissing him and staring into his eyes, as she had once done, inhaling and exhaling on the same count, she now moved her face off to one side to avoid breathing his already warm, used air. Joe was Husband, Harriet was Wife. He did his thing, she did hers.
Harriet was taking a load of her own clothes from the washer when a woman walked through the front door, letting in a rush of wind and noise from the street. The woman stopped just inside the doorway, eyeing Harriet and her pile of clothes that now dominated the otherwise bare folding tables. This made Harriet feel uneasy, which always happened when people stared at her, so she returned to her work. She tossed her clothes into the dryer and pressed the button, her neon cottons and pastel pants forming a giant laundry kaleidoscope. She wore those vibrant colors because it made her happy. Because she could. And, mostly, because Joe wasn�t around. This was her separate wardrobe she always wore when he was away, since he would not allow her to wear such �ridiculous clothes.� She was a woman, not a little girl, he would say. It was time for her to grow up and look like a woman should. What should a woman look like?
While Harriet wasn�t paying attention, the woman had slipped over to the Lost and Found box and started rummaging through its contents. She seemed quite intent on finding whatever it was she was looking for, as several items had spilled out onto the laundromat floor. The woman was taller than average, definitely taller than Harriet, though Harriet often cringed when the doctor told her she was �average� or �normal� as he should expect any woman to be. The woman had blonde hair that, in the right light from the giant window behind her, looked a darker brown on occasion, and was streaked with pale blonde highlights that, in the same glinting light, reflected almost white. She had removed her sunglasses when she came inside, so it was quite evident that she didn�t wear prescription lenses. Though, as Harriet well knew, it was quite possible that she wore contacts. She showed almost no skin with her outfit � a blue, long-sleeved jogging suit. She might be a runner. Or a politician. Surely not a wife? Could this woman possibly have been the one to drive her husband to leave her? Could she have been the one who treated him so poorly? She didn�t look evil at all. Could Harriet have been wrong about the ringless man? She turned around completely to face the woman, though she remained standing with her back against dryer.
�Were you looking for something?� asked Harriet. �I might be able to help you.� Although if she were looking for her husband, that was out of the question, since Harriet couldn�t even seem to find her own.
�I seem to have lost my ring,� she said. �I�ve looked everywhere for it. This was the only other place I could think of. Have you seen my ring?� My ring? Was it actually hers, or was she claiming for her husband?
�I found a ring,� said Harriet, as she walked right up to the woman. �It was in my washing machine.� She didn�t know why she lied. There was no real reason to lie. But it felt good. Like she and this woman had something in common � mystery.
�Can I have the ring, please? I must be on my way.� She had places to go. Were people expecting her? Or was there no one? Perhaps it was possible that even a place was capable of missing such a person. That time expected her to be somewhere at a particular time, and if she was absent, it would pause to find out what happened. Harriet never noticed time pausing, but then again, it never did for her.
�Miss, would you give me the ring, please?� the woman asked. �I can describe it to you if you would like. Would you like that?�
The question struck Harriet as somewhat odd. �Sure,� she said. �I think I would like that.�
�Well, it�s a ring, first off. A circle, you know? Golden with a loopy pattern on the outside. The inside had something engraved on it, from what I remember; oh, what was it? Some phrase. Something like �I�ll always love you,� or something like that. That it? Does that match the description?�
Indeed, the woman had described Harriet�s ring, for the most part, but somehow it did not satisfy her like she had hoped it would. The woman hadn�t worded it quite how Harriet would have, and this made her suspicious. Had she gotten lucky? Perhaps there was another ring out there just like this one, and that was the ring this woman was looking for.
�Hey is that it?�
Harriet pulled the ring from her pocket and studied it as ran her index finger across the engraving on the inside. �Yes. I guess you got it right.�
�Great, can I have it back?�
Harriet�s eyes darted from the ring to the woman and back to the ring. Was this it? Had it all led up to this point? She was going to give this woman her ring, and that would be it. The story would end.
�Miss?�
�You weren't quite what I was expecting.�
The woman pulled her head back in surprise. �How do you mean?� she asked. Harriet didn't respond. She just stared at the woman, trying to analyze her, the situation. Trying to figure out what it was she actually felt.
�How do you mean?� asked the woman again.
But Harriet wasn't even listening anymore. Nor was she even looking at the woman. Harriet had her hand slightly extended out in front of her, palm open to the sky like the flat top of a pedestal displaying the beautiful golden ring she had found only hours ago. She thought about just giving it to the woman. After all, it was nearing three o'clock, and Nicholas and Sarah would be getting out of school soon. She should have been getting back to her laundry.