Just Add One Hamster by J. F. Burnett

JUST ADD ONE HAMSTER

My former neighbors thought of the Penfields as the “Immaculate Couple,” since those lucky enough to have received an overview of their house, grounds, habits, and physiognomies had spread the word. When we glimpsed them at work in their front yard or in transit from their front door to one of their two cars parked on the street, both young people always looked perfectly groomed, behaved irreproachably. The skeptics could never find fault with them; the gossips could never find the grist to make up stories about them; the parents could never find anything in common with them. We tried, but there wasn’t much to sink our teeth into. Two years went by without incident, and lack of rumor turned gradually into lack of fact.

Then the domestic half of the neighborhood honed its senses — aural, visual, olfactory, and cynical. A delivery truck stood one day in front of the Penfield home. Out of it Mr. Penfield and another man carried a folded crib, in excellent condition, a chest of drawers, painted pink, a wooden high chair of antique vintage, and several large packing boxes with colorful pictures on them of babies in various attitudes of infant activity.

“Now things are going to change a little,” said my neighbors eagerly. The skeptics knew now that it was only a matter of time. The gossips, bright-eyed, hovered cheerfully. The parents enjoyed friendly stirrings and conjured up many overtures to interrogation of the expectant couple. But all their neighborly spirits were soon dampened. The self-sufficient Penfields saw no need to cultivate friendships. They were pleasant people enough; they answered all questions willingly; they seemed very happy about the expected addition to their family. But they possessed an annoying economy of words. They spoke only when spoken to, never asked questions, never sought to elaborate on a point  or continue a chat.

I had lived next door to them until my divorce, four years after the delivery truck. Then, because of an amicable arrangement that satisfied all my neighbors’ dominant instincts, I kept coming back to the house during the week to take care of the kids so that their father could go to work. This went on for three years, even after he had found another mate, I had remarried, he had remarried, and I had moved to another town. It continued, in fact, until I started a day care operation in the new town and could not leave it during the day. Then my kids visited me on the weekends and during school holidays and vacations.

Until those three years were up, it wasn’t so bad, really. The daytime domestic routine had its advantages. I didn’t slog through the morning in a stupor the way I used to do before I left. I arrived at the house dressed and ready to pack the kids off to school. When I picked them up, I usually had something interesting planned for the afternoon. I drove them to their lessons and medical appointments. I joined the PTA at their school and went to parent-teacher conferences. I had their dinner prepared before I ducked out for the night (that is, until their father hooked up with his future wife, who happened to be a marvelous chef). My ex had it made, as did the kids, in a way. There were drawbacks to the plan, but I at least became a functional human being, an important step to a meaningful job. While I knew motherhood was the best thing that had ever happened to me (and I still know that), it was humiliating telling people that I was “just a mother.” I knew I had to be something more than that to feel good about myself, and yet I still had to keep up the old appearances.

So it was a revelation to discover a new neighbor who made motherhood and domesticity look respectable in a community of career women. Mrs. Penfield had a night job, but it was not a career. She was thoroughly content being a homemaker. Married again and still trapped into being domestic myself, I was delighted to discover her within reach early one morning, just as the sun was rising. It was still damp from an overnight drizzle, but Charlotte Penfield was on her knees in her Monet-like front garden, crawling around among the broad-leafed plants, carefully placing snails in a food container filled with fresh lettuce.