Free The Safety of Objects: Stories by A. M. Homes Page A

his body? Does he need permission? This is not America as Abe Lincoln intended.
    He is angry and ashamed. He has the urge to turn the hose on the children but knows it will only start trouble. Instead, he moves cautiously, rinsing himself with his back to them and then wrapping the towel tightly around his waist. Jim carefully collects his clothing, the soap, and the hose, leaving no traces, and walks back toward the house, clean feet squeaking on the grass.
    He sits in a straight-back chair in the living room, wet hair slicked back. Susan has bought all new furniture. Nothing is familiar. Nothing is comfortable. Jim goes into the kitchen and tries to make phone calls. His book is in his briefcase at the office. He can’t think of where anyone lives and so can’t get their numbers from information. He sits in his chair, in the dark, until his wife and children return. They have stopped at McDonald’s on their way home; he can smell it on their clothing.
    He takes the sleeping Emily, his little french fry, from Susan and carries her up to bed.
    “Why were you home this afternoon?” Susan asks when he comes downstairs.
    He points up toward Emily’s bedroom and motions for Susan to whisper. “Bomb threat,” he says.
    “Nobody else came home early?” Susan says as if she doesn’t believe him.
    “It wasn’t the whole city, just my building, my firm to be exact.
    “How odd,” she says. “Will you go in tomorrow?”
    It has not occurred to Jim that he might not be going to the office in the morning. Susan goes upstairs to remind Jake to put his retainer in. The phone rings and Jim picks it up, hoping it will be someone from work.
    “Is Susan there?” a male voice asks.
    “No, I’m sorry, she’s not.”
    “This is Bob Wellington. I ran into her at the car place the other day, and I just wanted to make sure she got her tires rotated all right.”
    “They seem very well rotated,” Jim says.
    “How many miles you got on that car?”
    “I wouldn’t know,” Jim says.
    “Well, remind her to check on the oil change: every thirty-five hundred miles, even though they say you can wait to four or five. Runs the engine down if you wait, kills the car.”
    “I’ll pass the information on.”
    “Is this her father by chance?” Bob Wellington asks, chuckling.
    “No, it’s not,” Jim says.
    “Well, good talking to you,” Bob says.
    “People must think you’re divorced,” Jim says to Susan, as they undress and get ready for bed. He sees her taking off her slip and underwear and imagines that Susan has secretly gotten a job on her own. She is a suburban call girl, saving tips to buy a house at the beach. If she works hard enough, she could have a house in the Hamptons by next summer.
    “You’re at the office a lot,” she says.
    “What about these other guys, don’t they have to work?
    Susan goes downstairs. Jim follows her. She tries to start the dishwasher. It runs for a second, makes a horrible sound, then stops.
    “Damn,” she says.
    “Here, let me try.” He goes over to the dishwasher, opens the door, closes the door, pushes the start button again, and looks down at the machine. Nothing happens.
    “I’ll call Robbie Martin,” Susan says.
    “You don’t have to call anybody,” Jim says.
    “You certainly can’t fix it. You have no idea of what to do.”
    It is true Jim doesn’t know what to do with anything. Somehow he is content to leave it all alone and assume that it will heal itself.
    Jim returns to the bedroom, takes off his pajamas, and dresses again.
    “Where are you going?” Susan asks when she sees him dressed and heading for the door.
    “Nowhere.”
    He starts the car and pulls it up close to the house, aiming the lights toward the yard. He flicks on the high beams and gets out. Jim replants the marigolds, constantly looking over his shoulder, fearful that a band of sixteen-year-olds will mistake the lights for a party. He imagines they will find him, think he is an old man, bind