The Mower

Alice had a thing for manicured lawns. Tight cross-hatch patterns to be precise, and she tried everything to emulate the downy green runways of the nearby neighbors. But she couldn’t seem to steer it the same way Christopher’s father could, with his valley of grass six blocks over. She tried a mower of old, with its loud belt and wheel rotations. The one’s that backfire and masticate the green threads until a home’s focal point, the show and tell of an entryway, appeared flat and finished. Roadway paint. That was in part the look she was going for, which she could achieve, but she wanted the coarse, imprinted lines of manual achievement. Mr. Adams’ lawn had lines in perfect symmetry; in and out loops that inspired confidence in invited guests. She was adept at the task. The home was maintained. There were patches of flowers, crude cross-bred bouquets she purchased pre-grown, and tall trees that were sheared some, when necessary. But the blade running lines were never visible, or misaligned or terribly out of focus. So they switched to a modern model, at Christopher’s behest because Alice had too many times since nicked her ankle or shin, enough to warrant worry and once requiring three stitches. Their new make performed much the same way and Alice took to blaming the elements; the mud, sod or soot that was procured to produce the grass. It was an easy argument to make, and one of Christopher’s own coaxing so that the chore itself would be less demanding on her.

There were points of procedure to her mowing. Her mother had lupus, and, as such, was always in hat. Alice learned to thwart the sun at a very early age and grew in the habit of wearing an oversized sun shade, usually loose and drooping in the summer seasons and at most points outdoors. Her hats made her visible, as she pushed the machine across the yard. There was a ketchup stain on the front brim, slightly sticky, from their morning breakfast. Christopher made an omelet. She, hating omelets, and even more their nausea inducing egg scent, shook some frozen potato patties onto a cookie sheet for when she finished mowing. She started early to escape the smell of egg, but in so doing, hurried past Christopher who was just then shaking the ketchup bottle. There was a smear of the viscous paste above her eye. She also hated ketchup.

“It was an accident,” he said, still shaking.

“It smells like shit in here.”

And she started up the mower for the third time that week.