Something Smells

by Pieter Mayer

"Could you come here please?"

I know that tone. She wants me there. She wants me to see, hear, feel or taste something that doesn't seem quite right to her. I know the tone.

"Ralph?"

She means it. She wants me there now. "Yes dear." I put a little sugar in my voice.

I'm about to bathe. I'm naked in the bathroom with one tingling foot in the tub's hot water. It's one of those older models that homebuyers tend to excise when they renovate; no lion's paws or cloven hooves, nothing fancy, just deep; an apple-green bather's tub.

But I'm not going to bathe, not at the moment, anyway. Maybe later. I turn the water off. "I'm coming dear. I'm almost there." I don't have my bathrobe in the bathroom. It's in the bedroom hanging on the back of the bedroom door. I do have my slippers though. I slip them on as quickly as I can. I ask myself if I should fetch the bathrobe, but that might slow me down. On the other hand, I'll feel strange in the family room in just my slippers. I go for the bathrobe.

"Ralph?"

The sound cuts through me. I rip the little cloth loop on the back of the collar when I try to remove the robe from the hook on the bedroom door. She'll have something to say about that. I pull the robe around me and head down the hall.

"Yes dear?"

She's glued to the seat of the Barca-Lounger. She's watching Wheel of Fortune and munching Ruffles.

"Shush," she says.

I stand there in one dry and one soggy slipper. "Did you want something dear?"

She wiggles a Ruffle in my direction to shush me again. She holds it delicately between thumb and forefinger—like the wing of a dead butterfly. She's just put on some nail polish, probably that "Crimson Nightshade" she's fond of. I circle around behind her chair so I can see the screen. "Who's winning?" I whisper. I know nothing about Wheel of Fortune. It seems to be on seven or eight times a day now that we have the satellite.

She wiggles a second chip, "Ralph, really!" but doesn't take her eyes off the screen.

I wait in silence for the break. She turns to me the instant Wheel fades out and Crest fades in. I smile; comb my hair with my fingers.

She wrinkles her nose and scowls. "Don't you smell something?"

I lean forward, hands on the back of her chair. "Smell what dear?"

She turns and sniffs aggressively, in several directions. "Don't you smell it?"

I'm surprised. In all our years together this is the very first time my wife has been disturbed by an odor of any sort.

"What's it like dear?"

She concentrates. "Well, it's a ... " The Wheel is back. The contact is broken.

I sit down slowly, cautiously in the other TV-watching chair, to wait, to do a little sniffing of my own. She's gobbling Ruffles now, something she hardly needs. Besides, I haven't been offered a single chip. She asks for a napkin. I hand her a little red paper one that more or less matches the polish. It's something to see the way she pats her fingers clean of chip-oil and salt and never smears her nails. All I can smell is Ruffles and acetone. I turn to watch the show. Everyone seems to be happy on Wheel of Fortune, even the losers. If I'd have lost, I'd have given that Pat Sajak and that Vanna Wuhchumuhkallit a piece of my mind, but I don't suppose I'll ever get the chance to do that.

Wheel of Fortune is over. My wife clicks off the set, turns and examines my face across the top of her TV-viewing glasses. "That smell Ralph, did you find it yet?"

I hesitate. "I don't smell—a smell dear." I paraphrase my earlier question. "What kind of a smell do you smell?"

She removes her glasses, sets them next to the nail polish on the coffee table. She's very upset now. "If I knew what the smell was, I wouldn't need you to smell it for me, now would I?"

I slump down in the chair. "No, I suppose not."

An excellent question occurs to me. "Where is the smell located, sweetheart?"

She stares at me for a moment in silence, sighs, then, after admiring her polished nails for quite a long time, replies. "Somewhere here in this room, dear." She touches my wrist, checks the time on my bath-resistant Timex, then abruptly announces, "I have to leave for an hour or two, Ralph. Be a good boy. Find that smell." She locates her purse, pushes up from the chair, gives a token peck to my bald spot and exits.

"I'll find it dear," I call after her. "You can count on me." I nose out the room, down on my hands and knees. I try for a whiff of something, other than chips and polish, that might be pungent enough to appeal to my wife's newly acquired olfactory skills. But after twenty minutes of poking my nose under couch and carpet, of sniffing along baseboards, I give it up. Nothing I smell smells peculiar to me.

Besides, Jeopardy's about to begin and I feel defiant. I'm going to feast on Ruffles and jalapeno dip—watch the show in my robe and slippers—and then ...

I may just finish my bath.

Copyright © Pieter Mayer 2004