The Housewife, or One Step to Soft Porn, or Mrs. James
Temptation as sin. Mr. Edward James seemed to think that this was the order of the day, so his cardinal rule was to keep everything out of sight, so that there would not exist any temptation that could entrap his wayward family into a life of sin � for, as he knew, they all needed his guidance. Like his ancestors, he had a pale wife with a rather bland and sallow personality. However, unlike the unfortunate others, she (as I had decided) would play a rather large part in the affair to follow. After the initial Hello and Would you like some pie, or something to drink?, she would disappear into the kitchen and not be heard from again. She was a rather dutiful wife, unprepared for living in the modern age. One would think, looking at her, that she would have fit better in the 1950s. Of course, that was when JFK partied with loose women and with Sinatra, who conversely partied with the Mob, and women, lest we forget the charms of Ol� Blue Eyes. The age of Marilyn Monroe, of Betty Page, of god knows what other dolls that publishers could find for their pinup calendars and magazines. But, what most people did not know was that she also led a life apart from him. She never let him know, of course, for traveling down that path would mean exile and possibly, if he was in a big enough rage, death by kitchen knife or vase or strangulation and self-mastication. When she retreated into her kitchen, she put her hands into the little pocket of her apron and took out the little bottle of Johnny Walker or Jack Daniels or Boomerang � this depended on how much money she could bamboozle away from the sparse funds she had at her disposal. This was commonplace and to be expected; it was even a stereotype. I can imagine that to combat this stereotype, some enterprising screenwriter would lay down a tale of erotic suspense and cast her as the boring housewife who not only had a sordid secret, but included her housework as part of that sordid secret.
She loved cleaning the house � but only after she had sex in it. Or smoked a joint and burned a black spot in the kitchen table. Or spilled some alcohol on a spot and let it dry. She was blonde, with large brown eyes, and luscious lips that were probably used a lot to fulfill Mr. James� often repressed tendencies. Rather, the repressed tendencies that he appeared to condone but enjoyed for himself. But no one else would know that. Sally Michaels from Wichita, Kansas would never tell on him. And neither would Betty Glass from Tulsa, Oklahoma. And most of all, not Janet James nee Evans from Armpit, New Jersey; she took her wedding vows seriously. Coincidentally, she was the only one of them from outside the Midwest. Like anybody else, she had at least one exception. For her, it was the broom handle that much mileage on certain Wednesday mornings when the kids were out of the house, and Mr. James solemnly unplugged his webcams and took his laptop to work to unknowingly (and unacceptingly) give her a brief respite from the technological restraint that he placed on the house when he was gone.