“I ordered them out of the catalog downtown,” she said, turning her back to me to pile the towels on the side table.

“They take two weeks to come in the mail.”

“With you there’s always an excuse,” I said.

She dropped the folded towel onto the sofa cushion and hurried toward the kitchen without a reply.

“Are you making dinner tonight?” I called after her.

“Fix something yourself,” she said from the hall.

By seven that evening, the kids were downstairs watching a TV show while I carried two plastic laundry baskets into the dark utility room.

The little room smelled of damp cotton, laundry soap, and powdery detergent from the open box on the shelf.