“It’s like living in a fishbowl.” That’s what my wife used to say about our first house. I didn’t see anything wrong with it, though. Actually, I’d worked myself to the bone six days a week at the store just so we could save up enough to have it built brand-new, and I was quite proud of the place.
In those days, a new build was an attainable dream even for a grocery clerk like myself. Affordable new neighborhoods were springing up all over rural towns around the city, where land was still cheap.
When we were living in our apartment in the city, we sat at the small drop-leaf table in our tiny kitchen night after night and daydreamed about what our new life would look like. A sprawling yard, fresh air, nothing but the sound of crickets at night.
Once we moved in, we were surrounded by grassy fields on the north and east. Across the street and to the west of our house were homes built around the same time as ours or a little before. It was really something else after living in the city for so long, with walls so thin and floorboards so old you could keep track of where your neighbors were in their identical apartments at any given time.
But after spending our entire savings on the down payment, we were really hurting for money that first year, and it took its toll. We could hardly afford to fill the place with furniture, let alone hang curtains. Our voices echoed through empty rooms with bare walls.
At a certain point, we each started keeping an eye on every penny the other spent, snapping at each other if one of us was careless or bought something beyond the necessities. That’s how bad it was. Going out for drinks after work was out of the question for me, as was buying a new pair of shoes on a whim for her.
“What’s the matter?” I remember saying one night when my wife was giving me the cold shoulder. “I thought you wanted this.”
“The neighbors can see us all the time!” she snapped back, breaking her silence. “And everything we do in here. I’m telling you, it’s like living in a fishbowl.”
“Everything?” I joked, trying to ease the tension as I stood up and wrapped my arm around her hip. “They can watch if they want.”
It must have worked at least a little, because as she slapped my hand off, she let out a snicker. “What, do you have some kind of kink?”
“Maybe,” I said, stepping in close to her again.
That time, she didn’t push me away, and we kissed. Later that night, we turned out the lights and made love on the living room floor beneath the open window, just out of view from the outside world.
It was easy like that back then, when we were young. Even when things would get close to reaching a boiling point, it didn’t stay that way for long. We could eventually see the humor in things and move on.
Not much later, after the first kid came along, things changed a bit. We were more tired and my wife had to do a lot more cooking and cleaning than before. But we didn’t realize how easy it still was at the time. Sure, we were sleep-deprived, but even with a baby around we could stay up late, have a beer or two, put a record on and dance around to L.A. Woman in our underwear.
For a while, it even seemed like she didn’t care if the neighbors were watching anymore. Those really were the golden days, just the three of us.
As we had more kids, more houses popped up around us too. My wife started socializing with more of the ladies around the neighborhood, other homemakers, and things changed once again. It was like they were all in constant competition with each other over everything, or nothing at all. How they decorated, how clean the house was, what kind of food their children ate.
There was one neighbor in particular, Serena, that drove her up the wall. For whatever reason, they pretended to get along, having coffee together while the kids played—but as soon as Serena was gone and I got home from work, my wife would start:
“She was being passive-aggressive,” she would tell me. “I know it.”
“Because she said the drapes remind her of her grandmother’s house?” I’d ask. “Does she not like her grandmother?”
“She meant they look tacky,” she’d say, completely serious, looking at me like I was some kind of clueless moron.
If she knew Serena was coming over the next day, she’d always stay up late into the night, making sure the place was spotless and preparing some kind of elaborate dessert.
“Is something going on between you two?” I joked one morning before work, as she picked up my empty plate from breakfast and furiously cleaned the kitchen. “If so, tell me now.” She scraped the contents of my plate into the garbage disposal and flipped the switch with a huff.
Occasionally, if I had the day off, I’d see the two of them as they made their way down the street during their morning walks. In their matching sweatsuits, you might’ve thought they were in some kind of race. I’d seen people speedwalking before but this was different. If one got slightly ahead, the other would pick up the pace to make sure she was in the lead—at least, that’s what it looked like. One time when my wife got back I asked her who won, but she just gave me that look again.
Over time, things only got worse. If Serena and her husband replaced the carpets at their house, my wife would start going on and on about needing new wallpaper. If they got a new couch, suddenly she’d be flipping through the furniture catalog and saying we needed a new dining table. If Serena served the children carrot sticks for a snack, the entire family had to go on a health kick for an entire week. It was as if everything Serena did bled over into our house, dictating how we lived our lives.
This sort of thing went on for years, continuing on for as long as the kids were in school.
When Serena and her husband announced that they were moving, now that their kids had flown the coop and gone off to college, I thought things might get better. I thought maybe I’d finally get my wife back.
Then one day, after her weekly lunch with the neighborhood ladies, my wife stormed in and looked at me with daggers in her eyes. I thought I’d done something wrong, but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what it was. Then, slamming her purse down on the table, she said, “It’s on the lake.”
“What is?” I asked.
“Their new house,” she said as if it explained everything. “It’s on the lake.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” was all I said, which only set her off even more. She seemed to take their move as a personal attack. As if they were doing it to make us look bad.
A few weeks later, she showed me a picture in the paper. It was a beautiful house, right on the lake, and the price tag was way beyond our means.
“Looks nice,” I said. “Too bad we can’t afford something like that.”
A gloomy look fell over her. “Bob works in retail,” she said quietly. “How come they can afford a lake house?”
“Well, for one, their house isn’t that big,” I said, which seemed to lift her spirits slightly. “Plus, he’s some kind of director, in merchandising. That’s not what I do, honey. But maybe if I go out for a store management position–”
“You think so?” she interrupted me, the excitement returning to her face.
“Sure.”
After that, she went around saying things to our friends along the lines of, “Once he gets his promotion, we’re getting a house by the lake.” She said this like I’d already had it in the bag and it was only a matter of time. It embarrassed me a bit, to be completely honest, but I played along. “That’s if I get it,” I’d say.
It took a couple years, but eventually I was able to work my way up to a higher paying management position. The day I got the call, I came home with a bottle of champagne and a six-pack for myself. She’d known I was expecting to hear back and spent the day waiting anxiously by the phone, but I wanted to surprise her. When I walked in the front door, she stood up and gasped.
“Well?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Does that mean…” she trailed off, her hand over her mouth.
“Sure, we’ll start looking once the new paychecks start coming in.”
Tears in her eyes, she embraced me for the first time I could remember in years. We made passionate love that night, but the whole time I couldn’t help but wonder if she was thinking about me, or a house with vaulted ceilings and lake views.
Of course, we’d never be able to afford one of those huge houses right on the lake, I always knew that. Those were for millionaires. But the next town over was generally more budget-friendly and had some options.
One was a more modern, boxy style with large windows throughout the entire place. It wouldn’t have been my first choice, but my wife fell in love with it instantly because everything about it was new and updated compared to our house. And although it was across the street, it had her lake view. So, we put in an offer.
My wife had a lot of opinions when it came to decorating, so I left that part up to her. This time around, she insisted on skipping window treatments altogether—no curtains, no blinds. Sometimes when the neighbors walked by, I’d see their heads turn toward the house and feel like they were looking in at us, which irritated me to say the least.
“If you felt like you lived in a fishbowl before,” I’d say, “this is an aquarium.”
To that, she’d say something along the lines of, “It’s the style right now. And I wouldn’t dare cover this gorgeous view.”
She spent months and months decorating the place, replacing the old furniture, picking out new artwork for the walls, things like that. It seemed to be all-consuming, and we drifted further and further apart during that time.
The really strange thing was, though, after all of her hard work, she wouldn’t invite anyone over. A couple of times I suggested having a housewarming party, but she always said it wasn’t ready yet.
A few months later, when the place appeared to be for all intents and purposes “ready,” I brought the subject up again.
“Aren’t you going to have any of the ladies over soon?” I asked one afternoon.
She was on her hands and knees in the kitchen, scrubbing grout in her designer jeans. The sound of nylon bristles scraping against the floor paused momentarily.
Without turning, she responded, “So I can hear all of their opinions? I don’t think so.” She went back to scrubbing, the abrasive sound filling the room.
I crouched down and leaned in close to her before whispering in her ear, “You look good in those jeans.”
With a shriek, she jerked her elbow back, right into my groin. She turned her head toward me, mouth agape. Then, all she said was, “Can you give me some space?”
I didn’t bring either subject up again.
During that time, my wife became more and more of a recluse. She stayed home every day, making sure the place was spotless at all times, and only ventured out for necessary errands like grocery shopping. Because of this, she eventually stopped chasing new trends, keeping both her and the house preserved, like a museum exhibit.
Each day, though, she made it a point to look her best. She woke up at the crack of dawn to get herself all dolled up and make breakfast for me before work. Then, in the evening, she would sit in front of the large front window, looking out. I, on the other hand, was more or less banned from using the main living area since the neighbors could see inside. If I wanted to watch TV or have a beer, I’d have to go down to the basement.
For a long time, I thought she was looking out at the lake at night. She was always talking about that view, after all. But when I took the time to look for myself, I realized that with the lights on she couldn’t possibly see anything out there. That’s when I noticed her reflection—she was watching herself.
Even now, if I come home after dark, I see her inside the glow of the bare windows, perfectly framed, like a figure in a painting. She’s wearing something fashionable, usually reading a book or drinking a glass of wine.
I no longer bother interacting with her or doing anything in the main area of the house in the evenings, because I know if I do, she’ll say, “Don’t, the neighbors will see.”
Instead, I head right downstairs. Sometimes, I take a look at her before I close the door, her eyes falling on the same pages of the same book I’ve seen her hold open a hundred times, and it breaks my heart.
But over time, I’ve mostly learned to accept it. It’s just easier for her this way, separated from the outside world by glass.
Lenora Maitland may or may not be a fiction writer living in the Midwest. If you want to read more of her work, you won’t find it anywhere, because she hasn’t been published anywhere else. Instead, she’d rather you just keep reading On Sunday.
