Frigidaire by James Keith Smith

Lately, we can’t agree on anything. The money we put away for our trip to San Francisco is instead being spent remodeling an upstairs, seldom-used bathroom—her idea. Now she wants to replace the refrigerator but there’s nothing wrong with the old one. Most nights, I stay up late drinking. When I go to bed, there’s a king-sized space between us. 

I blame Bolivia. Since Bolivia, things haven’t been the same. Six weeks studying a fungal pathogen that grows on a rare chili pepper—her dissertation. She lived in a tent at 6,000 feet while I stayed in this house, alone. I missed her more than ever while she was gone, but something happened on that trip. Something has changed. She won’t say what—or with whom—and I don’t have the courage to come right out and ask. 

Now, all she talks about is her dissertation—the evolutionary process, the heat of the peppers—and I’ve stopped listening. 

At the appliance store, she opens freezer doors, runs her hand across their smooth surfaces. Maytag, Black & Decker, Whirlpool. To me, each one is identical, stainless steel and removable shelves, but she has to comb over every detail. 

When she finds one she likes, we set up a payment plan. We eat lunch in silence at the restaurant across the street.

At home, while we wait for the delivery, we take everything from the old fridge and put it in the ice chest. I’m happy to do these small domestic chores with her. This is our home, and today, as a couple, we work. 

When the delivery man arrives with the new fridge, I tip him $50. Way too much, she mutters, eyes fixed on the floor.

After dinner, we listen to records on the turntable and drink cold beer. We joke and laugh, but then she starts talking about Bolivia. Do you have to go back? I ask, but I already know the answer. There is more research to be done.

She goes to bed early and I’m left alone with the new refrigerator. The hum is louder than the old one; the reddish color seems to clash with the tile backsplash. I begin to think of Bolivia. Who was it? Someone from her cohort? An international student?

I can live without knowing, I tell myself.

In the morning, I wake up first, open the blinds. I fill the dog’s food bowl, give him fresh water. And then I notice the puddle on the kitchen floor. I open the new refrigerator door and the light doesn’t come on. The raspberries and cheese are moldy. The cilantro is wilted and the salmon is a dull gray. I dump the milk and the cream. I watch them swirl down the drain.

Soon the refrigerator is empty.

I hear her voice from the top of the stairs. 

Everything is bad, I say, but she doesn’t hear me.

I look at the empty cans on the table, the Frigidaire, and the sunlight coming through the kitchen window.