Neal's Big Idea
6/19/07

Ketchup. He'd asked for ketchup. He didn't just want it, he absolutely needed a bottle of Heinz ketchup. The glass kind.

"Not that plastic crap," he'd said. "Has to be glass."

The trouble was you couldn't find glass bottles of Heinz ketchup anywhere except in restaurants. So there I was, waiting in line at Cathy's Diner on Main Street with a five-dollar bill in my hand.

Cathy recognized me at once. "Hey, Jane!" She called sweetly from behind the counter. "Never see you in here at lunch time. Where's that husband of yours?"

"At home," I smiled back. "Actually, I'm just here for some ketchup."

Cathy's forehead wrinkled up in a puzzled expression. "Well, hon, you know they sell ketchup over at Ford's Market."

"I know, " I said, my face flushing with embarrassment. "See, I need the kind in the glass bottle. Heinz, if you have it."

Cathy laughed, shaking her head of bright orange curls. "I tell ya, I had some pretty strange cravings with Mikey there but this is a new one on me."

Her teenaged son, Mikey, looked up from the nearby table he was clearing and rolled his eyes.

I forced a small laugh, rubbing the bulge of my pregnant belly. "It's for Neal, actually," I said.

Her forehead wrinkled again briefly as she considered this. Then realization dawned and she laughed again. "I bet it's for one of them crazy inventions of his, huh?" Her laughter grew louder, prompting several customers to turn their heads in our direction.

I thrust my five-dollar bill at Cathy. "Look, here's five bucks. Can I just take one of these --"

"Aw hell, you don't need to pay five bucks for no bottle of ketchup," Cathy interrupted, waving away my cash. "Mikey! Grab a Heinz for Mrs. Henderson, and make sure it's nice and full!"

Mikey brushed back his own orange curls and surveyed the empty tables. I spotted a mostly full bottle by the cash register and pointed at it. He sauntered over and picked it up, then looked at me quizzically through his horn-rimmed glasses.

"That one's fine, thanks," I said, struggling to hide my humiliation.

Mikey handed me the ketchup bottle with a shrug and went back to clearing the tables.

"Thanks, Cathy... Mikey," I called as I hurried out the door. Immediately the bright August sun bore down on my bare shoulders and I realized I'd forgotten to put on sunblock. I pulled the crumpled slip of paper from my pocket that contained Neal's list. The next item after "Glass bottle Heinz ketchup" was "Extra large shoe horn." It seemed I was headed for the overpriced shoe store in the mall.

Good. I can pick up some sunblock while I'm there.

I rubbed my belly again and whispered, "Don't worry, little one. Mommy won't get skin cancer."

Of course, Neal didn't want just any shoe horn, he wanted an "extra large" one. He was nothing if not particular. I didn't bother to think what my husband might have wanted with a glass Heinz ketchup bottle and an extra large shoe horn. He'd made bizarre requests like these before, and the creations he built from them were always equally bizarre.

A month ago he'd made a contraption he called the "Coffee-matic (patent pending)." It was a portable coffee mug that stirred in its own cream and sugar at the press of a button. In the spring he'd created the "Auto-brush (patent pending)," a toothbrush on a motorized stand that would brush your teeth for you, leaving your hands free to multitask.

About six months ago Neal had quit his job at the chemical plant to become an inventor, after a rich aunt had passed on and left him a formidable inheritance. A mere three days after cashing the check, he'd turned our basement into his "workshop" and begun spending hours holed up in there, only occasionally ascending to demand supplies.

I'd never questioned his choices, or his demands. Ever since I'd met Neal I'd thought he was a genius, and even after three years of marriage I was like a schoolgirl around him.

So when he'd emerged from his "workshop" early that morning and handed me his most recent list of demands, I'd obediently set out on my quest. Of course, my conscience told me that it was hot outside, and I was three months pregnant, and Neal should damn well get the stuff himself, but I dismissed it. Explaining all that to him would have been useless if he was in "Inventor Mode," insistent that he must not leave the basement until his brilliant idea was fully realized.

As soon as I was back in my car I received a text message from Neal on my cell phone. "Orange peels," was all it said. I knew that meant he only wanted peels, not whole oranges. I would have to purchase oranges and then sit at the kitchen table and peel them for him.

"How many?" I texted back. "17" was his response.

I sighed and headed off toward the mall.

When I returned home an hour later, carrying the glass ketchup bottle, the extra large shoe horn and seventeen unpeeled oranges, the basement door was locked. This was unusual because previously there was no lock on our basement door. Neal must have installed one while I was out.

I knocked on the door three times before Neal finally answered. He looked as he typically did in "Inventor Mode." His eyes were wide, his hair dishevelled, his shirt untucked, and his skin pale. To an outsider he might have appeared ill.

Neal examined the items in my arms. "What's this?" He asked breathlessly. "I said orange peels!"

"I know, I replied, a little taken aback by his agitation. "They don't sell the peels alone at Ford's. I --"

"Then peel them yourself, woman!" He seized the rest of the items from me and slammed the basement door closed.

He'd been short with me before in "Inventor Mode," but never like that.

Woman?

Partly shocked and partly frightened by Neal's sudden outburst, I collapsed on a chair in front of the kitchen table. I stared at the bag of oranges in my hand. My husband had always been a little eccentric and a little unreasonable, but this orange peel business was out there even for him.

I began to feel concerned, but went about peeling the oranges anyway. After what felt like an hour I had seventeen freshly peeled oranges, ten sore fingers, and three small cuts.

Timidly, I knocked on the basement door again. This time Neal answered right away. He looked even more worse for the wear. His eyeglasses were askew on his face, and beneath them I could see dark circles had formed under his eyes. The front of his blue polo shirt was covered in a black, sticky substance, and it was torn above his right shoulder.

"Your orange peels," I croaked, almost at the brink of tears.

He snatched the bag from me and started to close the door.

"Can't I come down and see what you're working on, Sweetie?" I pleaded.

His tired face grew even paler. "No!" He cried. "No one can see it until it's finished!" Then his voice hushed and he glanced around nervously. "They wouldn't like it," he half-whispered, his wide eyes gaping into mine.

"Who wouldn't like it, Neal?" I stammered.

At that, he slammed the door shut again. I stumbled backward and bumped my hip on the corner of the kitchen counter, letting out a small cry of pain.

"Quiet up there!" I heard Neal yell through the door. Then in a softer tone he added, "They might hear us."

Every instinct I had told me to run. Neal had obviously gone insane and it was no longer safe in the house for me or my unborn baby. Still that schoolgirl inside held me back. It was Neal, after all, my husband. I'd shared a home with him for three years; I was carrying his child.

It must be really big, his idea. He wouldn't act like this if it wasn't.

Then there was that word, "they." Who could "they" be? I decided to give him a little more time. The clock on the microwave read "12:30." If he wouldn't come up for dinner at six, then I would allow myself to worry. I went into the living room and tried to relax in front of the daytime soaps.

Five and a half hours, and then... Something.

Sometime later I awoke from a sleep I'd fallen into on the sofa. The daytime soaps had become the late-afternoon talk shows. I glanced at the clock on the VCR. It was blinking, "12:00." The power must have gone out. Neal's idea was big.

A peculiar smell was coming from the kitchen. Slowly I rose from the couch to investigate. As I moved toward it, the smell grew stronger and graduated from peculiar to rancid. It was like a combination of rotten eggs, mouldy rags, and maple syrup.

I covered my nose with the collar of my tank top and knocked on the basement door. There was no answer, only a few banging and shuffling sounds.

"Neal!" I called. "Neal, please!"

The banging and shuffling abruptly stopped, and footsteps followed. Neal opened the door a small crack and peered out at me with one bloodshot eye. A lock of sandy hair hung in his face, and for a moment I thought I saw a few strands of white in it that weren't there before.

"Neal, I'm scared," I said, fighting back the lump that was quickly rising in my throat. "Won't you tell me what you're working on?"

He opened the door a bit more, and I could see that strands of white had indeed appeared in his hair. The odor in the kitchen suddenly became so strong that it caused me to stumble backward again and bump my hip on the same corner of the kitchen counter.

"God, Neal, what is that smell?" I cried, coughing and gasping.

Neal's gray eyes grew wider, his pupils dilated. "You can't know," he whispered. "No one can know. Until they come."

"Who are they? Neal?" I screamed but he had already retreated back into his "workshop."

That's when I made the decision to leave. I had no idea what that smell was, but I was sure it wasn't good for the baby. I'd spent three years catering to my eccentric husband, but now I had another life to worry about. Now it was time to start acting like a responsible mother.

Trembling, I went upstairs to our bedroom and packed an overnight bag. I would go to my sister Judy's.

I'll tell her we had a fight. No one has to know.

Neal's voice rang in my head, "No one can know. Until they come."

I took my bag downstairs and returned to the basement door. "I'm leaving, Neal! I'm going to Judy's!"

The only answer I received was more banging and shuffling. For the first time that day a tear streamed down my cheek. I quickly flicked it away and rubbed my belly.

I have to be strong now. For the baby.

· · · · ·

When I returned the next morning the house was silent. The pungent odor was gone, but now a new one had replaced it.

Is that smoke?

I dropped my bag and rushed to the basement door. It was no longer locked, but wide open. The new lock Neal had installed hung loosely from one screw. I tried to call his name but nothing came out. I pushed the swinging door aside and the loud creaking sound it produced made me jump. This time I was careful to avoid the kitchen counter (my hip now had a large bruise from where I'd bumped it twice the day before).

The inside of the door was covered in the same black, sticky substance I'd seen on Neal's shirt. I suddenly knew with terrifying certainty that I didn't want to go down those stairs; I didn't want my baby going down those stairs. I took a deep breath and yelled, "Neal! I'm home!"

There was no answer, not a even a shuffling or banging sound. I covered my stomach protectively and descended the staircase. The smoke smell grew stronger, and another sensation overcame me -- a breeze. The light was off in the basement, yet the room seemed to be filled with a bright glow.

As I reached the bottom of the stairs I saw that the light was coming from the sun. It was shining through a giant hole high in the wall to my right. Gray smoke rose from the edges of the hole as if the concrete wall had been badly singed. The room was covered with that black substance and the Heinz ketchup bottle was shattered on the floor in a pile of orange peels. Neal was nowhere to be found.

I heard footsteps on the stairs behind me. "Jane?" Called Judy's voice. She had insisted on escorting me home after seeing how shaken up I had been the night before. "I thought I saw smoke coming from the..." She abruptly fell silent at the sight of the gaping hole in the wall.

Neither Judy nor I could speak for several minutes. I examined the hole closely, trying to ascertain what could possibly have happened. A few clumps of concrete and soil trickled down what was left of the wall.

Beneath my protective grasp I felt the baby kicking. "Come on," I said to Judy.

"But... Neal..." She gasped.

An image suddenly appeared in my mind of Neal in "Inventor Mode," pouring ketchup on our newborn child while it lay on a pile of orange peels, shivering as the wind blew in through the hole in the wall. The infant was crying and Neal was shouting at it, "Quiet! They will hear!"

"Forget Neal," I replied. "It's time to start acting like a responsible mother."

Slowly I climbed back up the stairs and picked up my overnight bag from where I'd dropped it on the floor. The bewildered Judy trailed behind me. Together we left the home that Neal's inheritance had bought me, piled into my car and drove off.

I have to be strong now, I thought as the car sped away. For the baby.