When my parents died, I lost contact with Great Uncle Hans and Great Aunt Asta. “It was the best thing for all concerned,” I said to Epsilon. Hans died a few years later from a long-dormant birth defect, and the week after the funeral Asta died for no apparent reason.
One of the photos in the album isn’t stuck down, it falls into my lap, it was taken before anyone ever gave me a thought, not that anyone ever has, particularly. There’s my mother and father and Hans and Asta, it’s summer and they’re all sitting posed in a row in front of a big cherry tree, they’re dressed nice and smiling, even my mother. I’ve always liked that picture, even though I’m not in it, and now it occurs to me — being dead must feel just like being unborn, and that’s not so bad. But you would miss out on snowy trees, cold hands under clothes, and oranges on Orange Hill. And not only that — at least I know that after the cherry-tree picture there will be pictures that have me in them. But as I look through the pictures from my childhood, I realize I’ve never been photographed alone.
In the very back of the album there are a couple of pictures of a dog I used to take care of. “Stig wagging his tail,” a childish scrawl says under one. Then there’s “Stig having a good time with his bone”—and the last one is of Stig and me: “Stig is the one on the left.”
When I’m putting the album back in the drawer I find the big sandwich bag full of teeth, a souvenir from my first and only job.
“I have good news for you,” Epsilon said, we hadn’t been married for very long. “Are you going to retire?” I asked. “Of course not. I’ve just started working,” Epsilon said, he’d just been hired at the Central Statistics Office. The good news was that his boss needed a cleaning lady for his house, and wouldn’t it be nice for me to get out and mingle with people a bit? “But I don’t like mingling with people,” I said, “I like mingling with you.” “Yes, I noticed,” Epsilon said. “So you should feel special,” I said. Unfortunately, he’d already told his boss yes, and he was sure no one would be at home while I was doing the cleaning, so people wouldn’t be a problem. He smiled so contentedly that I didn’t want to point out the flaw in his logic. Sometimes you’ve got to be generous in marriage. It’s a matter of give and take.
After I finished all the work at our employer’s house, I couldn’t resist looking in the cabinets and drawers. The first interesting thing I found looked like a cigar box, but when I opened it I was disappointed because the box was full of teeth, more than I could count — and I tried. There were milk teeth and molars, teeth with and without fillings, gold teeth and wisdom teeth. I’ve always envied people who have a mouthful of teeth, because I’ve never been able to go to the dentist, I just know my tongue would get in the way. As a result, my teeth started jumping ship early on. When I was just a girl, I already knew how it would be, and to this day I worry about the state of my teeth when I eat cucumbers and see the crisscrossed bite marks. Out of envy, I took the tooth collection home. I dumped the teeth in a sandwich bag and figured someday I’d find a use for them. Then I hid the bag underneath the photo album in the bottom drawer, Epsilon wouldn’t find it because he’s never cared about the photo album. “We have to live in the present, Mathea,” he says.
Epsilon bought a cake at the bakery to celebrate, but a couple of days later I could tell by the look on his face that something was wrong. I was worried that his boss had discovered that the teeth were missing, but Epsilon didn’t say anything about that. He just said that his boss didn’t need a cleaning woman after all. “And you’d just gotten going, Mathea,” he said. “I’m so sorry.” I comforted him as best I could. “Now I have more time to spend with you,” I said. “But I’ll be at work,” Epsilon said. “Yes, but you’ll be in my thoughts,” I said. Epsilon stroked my cheek. “I’m the world’s best wife,” I said.
Epsilon didn’t notice my disappointment. Not that I’d expected his boss to throw me a big going-away party, but a thanks for the effort might’ve been nice.
I wonder if I should put the teeth into my time capsule, DNA is always useful. Then again, it should probably be my own DNA, and though a few of the teeth in the bag are mine, I have no idea which ones. And I don’t have enough teeth left in my mouth to sacrifice them for the cause. I don’t have much hair left either. That’s not something I worry about, though, because every other Russian president has been bald. I figure I can donate a little dead skin. Every person’s DNA is unique, and I like the thought that I’m unique, until it hits me that every person in China is just as unique as me.
It takes me another day to collect all the things I’m going to bury, and now I have to wait until it’s dark again. I flip on Einar Lunde. He’s trimmed his beard, I see, but the little hamsterlike mustache under his nose has a life all its own.
“Don’t you want to watch the news with me?” I ask Epsilon. “No, I’m reading,” he says and turns a page in one of his statistics yearbooks. “I’ve got all the information I need right here.” “But something might’ve happened,” I say. “Something might’ve happened?” he asks. “Even the thought upsets you,” I say.
Einar Lunde is talking about people who’ve died, and they manage to go on dying every single hour until the late news comes on. I don’t know why people put up with it, we should stage a protest.
I eat again simply because I can, and then I wonder if I should write a note and put it in the time capsule. Surely I can manage something that doesn’t sound like a personals ad, though maybe that’s exactly what it is. The one thing I can think of, however, is that I am the only Mathea I know, so I write, “I alone am Mathea.” When I look at what I’ve written, I see “I Mathea am alone,” and I wonder if Epsilon knows that. I press my finger beneath it to leave some DNA, and just to be thorough I sneeze on the sheet. I believe in dotting my is and crossing my ts.
~ ~ ~
LESS IS MORE, I say to myself, and then I say it again a little louder. After a lot of negotiation with myself, I’ve finally decided what’s going into the time capsule and what I’m going to write in my note. It all ends up being far less than I’d originally planned. I look out the kitchen window, happy that all the windows opposite ours are dark. I’ll bury the box exactly in the middle between the buildings so I can find it in case I change my mind and need to dig it up again — which is rather likely — and that way too, I can keep an eye on it from the kitchen window. While I’m standing there planning my next move, I have to close my eyes, I feel warmth growing beneath the lids, and think maybe I should bury myself instead of the capsule. I don’t know if it’s worth the effort, or if life is worth living, though maybe that’s something I won’t know until I’m dead, and probably not even then.
I have to wear dark clothes that blend in with the night. That’s fine, because I only have two dresses, a black dress and an apricot wedding dress. I take the black.
“You should make yourself a jacket with some color in it,” Epsilon says, “you’re so handy with those knitting needles. Not that there’s anything wrong with a gray jacket and a black dress, of course, but a little color would be nice. What about the plum red you used on my last earwarmer?” But I could never wear plum red. It’s more than enough to walk next to Epsilon’s earwarmer.
We keep a shovel in the closet. “It’s good to keep a shovel in the closet,” Epsilon says, “you’ll thank me for that shovel some day, I’m sure of that.” I had to bury a rabbit once, and I tell Epsilon thanks again as I stand nervously at the peephole with the shovel in my hand and the box under my arm. Then I slip out the door and down the stairs. The breeze is cold and refreshing, I draw the night into my lungs and try to calm myself down, it’s been a long time since I was out after the nine o’clock news. I stopped going out late after that girl Therese was kidnapped.