Page 2 of The Wrong Family

She heard a cabinet open and close. Juno knew it was the one under the sink by the sound the loose hinge made; he was grabbing a rag. Then the sound of running water and the rustling of a sturdy black garbage bag being shaken open. And then, listening to Third Eye Blind on full blast, Nigel began to clean the mess his wife had made the night before. It took him fifteen minutes, and at one point she heard the vacuum going. When he was finished, she heard him lingering near the front door, probably considering if he should give the doorbell another go.

There was nothingwrongwith the doorbell; it worked perfectly fine. Juno was of the strong opinion that Winnie was spoiled.

“It’s too loud,” Winnie had complained. “Every time someone rings it, I feel as if we’re being robbed at gunpoint.”

Juno wasn’t sure what chimes had to do with being robbed at gunpoint, but the lady of the house wanted the bell switched to something “more soothing.”

By now, Juno knew a thing or two about this family. For one: Winnie was a too-much girl. There was always too much spice on her food, too much mustard on her sandwich, too much cologne on Nigel. If Nigel tried to do things his own way, Winnie would watch him like a hawk, waiting for him to mess up. And he did—he always did. If someone were waiting for you to mess up, well then of course you would. She was like a door-to-door salesman, the way she demanded everyone conform to her whims: once her spiel started, you were screwed into listening.

And for two: Nigel hated color—hated it. His den was decorated in defiance of Winnie’s garish collection of designer decor, which was sprinkled across the house, meant to look unassuming and missing by a long shot. Mr. Crouch did most things passive-aggressively. Juno had a great deal of respect for the passive-aggressive. They got things done, in their own way, though if it went unchecked, it led to trouble. She’d seen it in the couples who’d dragged each other into her office, demanding that she fix their spouse. “You can’t fix it if you don’t know it’s broke,” she’d tell them. And Nigel didn’t know. The rules by which he lived were the result of being an only child and being an only child to a single mother. Winnie was his priority—he had an innate need to take care of women, and specificallyhiswoman—but he was bitter about it. Maybe he hadn’t been in the beginning, but he was now.

The box at the door (which Nigel had ordered) said the new bell played “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” Winnie had squealed excitedly when she saw it, and Juno had smiled knowingly into her elbow. Juno knew that Nigel had been snide in his choice, yet his bubbling blond bride was pleased as pudding.

She heard him linger for a moment longer before he moved on. There would be no doorbell installation tonight.

2

WINNIE

It was 6:47 p.m. when Winnie’s car pulled past Mr. Nevins’s ancient Tahoe and into her own driveway. As soon as her car was in park, she cast an irritated glance in her rearview mirror. The Tahoe, a rusty beige thing festooned in bumper stickers, was parked on the street directly outside her living room window. It had been there for the last three weeks, and Winnie was tired of looking at the yellow rectangle that saidYou Mad Bro?that Mr. Nevins had slapped drunkenly on the back passenger-side window. Yes, she was mad, and she didn’t need that sticker calling her out every time she happened to look that way. But tonight was not the night to be angry at the neighbors; tonight was a celebration.

She checked her makeup in the visor mirror, having freshly applied it at work before she left. It looked like she was wearing little to no makeup, of course. That’s how Winnie rolled: she liked to make things look easy when really everything she did had a lot of sweat behind it.

Stepping into the drive, Winnie tiptoed across the gravel, being careful not to sink her heels into the dirt. Her bag under her arm, she opened the side gate, hearing Nigel moving around the kitchen before she could see him. She felt bad about last night; she’d overreacted. She knew that now. Her plan was to apologize right away, get it out of the way so that they could enjoy the rest of their kid-free night. She hadn’t meant for things to get as heated as they had, but lately Winnie had felt off balance emotionally. It was her own fault; sometimes she looked for things to be upset about, as if a lack of problems was its own problem in her mind. Nigel would rather pretend that nothing was wrong, though he hadn’t always been like that. Her husband hated confrontation, and that comforted Winnie. The kitchen window came into view, and Winnie saw that Nigel had left the back door open.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she stepped into what she thought of as the belly of the house. It was clean, the spills from last night mopped and cleared away—not a speck of her Pyrex on the floor. She felt more positive than she had even five seconds ago. Nigel was a good man; he’d cleaned everything up so she wouldn’t have to, even though she’d been the one to pick the fight.

As she closed the door quietly behind her, Nigel stood with his back to her, examining the contents of the fridge. Winnie took a moment to admire him; he hadn’t heard her come in on account of the music he was playing, “Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac. She didn’t want to startle him, so she waited, her hip leaning against the lip of the counter. It felt like such a strange thing to do, being that they’d been married for over a decade, but sometimes Winnie had no clue how to act around her husband.

For the most part, Nigel was charming, funny, easy to talk to—check, check, check.The one thing people never seemed to pick up on was the fact that he refused to talk about himself. If you asked him a question, he’d deflect, lead the conversation back to you. For this reason, Winnie felt like she couldn’t really know her husband; he simply didn’t want to be known. She was content to be part of him, however shallow that made her.

When he turned around, she had her best smile ready.

Nigel jumped. “Je—sh—you scared me.”

“Sorry. I was actually trying not to.”

Nigel didn’t smile back; he was distracted. Winnie cocked her head, trying to read his face. He was wearing his feelings tonight. Nigel became still when he was troubled—his face, his body, everything frozen in sagging, bent defeat.

She skipped over, wrapping her arms around him. He smelled so good, and not because of cologne or aftershave—Nigelsmelled good. When they’d first started dating, he’d accepted her enthusiastic affection with the amusement an owner would have for a new puppy. And Winnie had loved being Nigel’s new puppy; the joy her personality seemed to bring him gave Winnie’s every day meaning. He’d given her the nickname Bear, a Winnie-the-Pooh joke.

But then the bad thing had happened.

After that, it was as if the rosy illumination with which he viewed her had been replaced with harsh, supermarket lighting. She wasn’t Bear anymore. Now she was just plain old Winnie. But it wasn’t like she still had hearts in her eyes every time she looked at him, either. They were settled into their arrangement, whatever that was, and though Winnie loved her husband very much, she saw him through human eyes now.

“Nothing for dinner,” he said. Lifting his hands to her back, he looked over his shoulder, staring dully into the fridge. Winnie thought he was joking. She smiled, wanting him to get on with it and tell her where they were going.

But then he pointed to the plastic containers stacked on the otherwise bare shelf: spaghetti and fried rice. “The spaghetti is old,” he announced, and then held up the Tupperware container of rice. “There’s barely enough for one person. I could have sworn there was more left over.”

She screwed up her face, the two of them examining the Tupperware, Winnie trying not to cry. He’d forgotten their anniversary. He’d forgotten once before, in the beginning, and he’d felt really bad about it. Winnie didn’t think he’d feel bad about it this time.

“Eggs,” Nigel said suddenly, jarring her. “We have a box of powdered eggs that came with that survival kit your brother got us.”

“For our wedding?” Winnie gaped. She was hoping the wordweddingwould spark some recognition in her husband, but Nigel didn’t answer—he was in the pantry moving things around.

“Why can’t we just get takeout…?”

There was no answer. When he emerged from the pantry, the box of powdered eggs in his hand, her heart shriveled a little. This was for real, this was serious: they were going to eat fifteen-year-old powdered eggs for dinner. Winnie opened her mouth, the words poised on the tip of her tongue, ready to fly, but then she noticed a dark curl resting across her husband’s forehead. He looked like a little boy—like Samuel. She didn’t really know why in that moment she lost her voice, or why she’d lost it a hundred other times. She loved this man something terrible; she just wasn’t sure if he loved her anymore. Today was their fifteenth wedding anniversary, and they were having powdered eggs for dinner.

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