A fictionalized domestic comedy.
My husband, Ben, had a secret refrigerator in the basement. I appreciate that “secret” is an ambitious word for an appliance that hums, requires electricity, and is approximately the size of a man. Nevertheless, he had committed to it.
Upstairs, we maintained the ordinary marital refrigerator: milk, vegetables, leftovers we were still pretending to recognize. Downstairs, Ben had established a more selective society. Ice cream. Cold soda. Takeout with an unusually secure future.
I discovered it after noticing that the ice cream we supposedly no longer had continued to appear in his bowl. At first I admired his optimism. Then I followed the spoon.
“It’s for emergencies,” he explained.
I looked at three tubs of ice cream. His emergency planning was considerably more advanced than our smoke-alarm maintenance.
The remarkable part was not that he wanted a few treats to himself. I understood that perfectly. It was that he had solved the problem by commissioning a second refrigeration department instead of saying, “Please leave me some.”
He offered me a scoop with the air of a man granting limited diplomatic access. I accepted, then pointed out that I now knew where the basement was. The security arrangements would need work.
We agreed that the spare fridge could stay and that claiming a favorite snack was allowed. So was asking before finishing it. An ordinary conversation had achieved what neither of us expected: a food policy with fewer appliances involved in the deception.
There is still ice cream downstairs. Ben no longer calls it a secret. He calls it “the good freezer,” which is how I know he considers the entire operation a success.
