Nineteen points and the foot cream

The notebook lives on the nightstand on my side of the bed. An ordinary squared one, a pencil tucked between the pages. My husband knows what is in it and has never once opened it. I never said “forbidden”. He simply understands that the numbers in it are mine to write, and reading them is not his business.

The notebook appeared a year ago. Before it he asked three times an evening, “Does this count?” — about the rubbish taken out, about an ironed shirt. The third time I took a squared exercise book out of the drawer, wrote the date on the first page and said that what counts is what I write down. The questions ended that same evening. He understood faster than I expected: if you ask, you are doing it for the number, not for me.

That evening he came home at half past seven. I lay on the sofa with my feet up on the armrest and listened to him work: water in the sink, a cupboard door, the clink of a lid on a pan. He didn’t come into the room. That is how it is: until the work is done, nobody comes near me.

At eight I called for tea. He brought it, set it on the armrest, went back to the sink. I wrote nothing for the tea: I had asked for it, so it is the norm. He knows that and didn’t glance at the notebook.

At nine he stood in the doorway.

“Done.”

“What is done?”

“The kitchen. Laundry is running. Your shoes are polished, they’re in the hall.”

I reached for the notebook. He stayed in the doorway, arms at his sides, and watched me write. Kitchen — three. Laundry — two. I hadn’t asked about the shoes, so he had noticed on his own — two. Seven for the evening. I added it to the earlier lines: nineteen.

Nineteen

He had been saving for three weeks. I could see it in the handwriting — more entries, shorter lines: “tea — 1”, “shopping list — 2”, “morning, no questions — 1”. I never name the threshold. Sometimes ten is enough, sometimes I wait until twenty-five, and he doesn’t know where the line is today. That is the whole point: he works for my decision, not for a number.

That evening I was holding twenty in my head. One short.

“Nineteen,” I said out loud. I don’t usually say the total. I said it to see what he would do with it.

He didn’t ask how many he needed. He stood a moment, went to the bathroom, and I heard the cabinet open. He came back with the tube of foot cream, knelt on the floor by the sofa and took my foot in his hands. Warm, dry. He said nothing, worked the heel with his thumbs, then the arch, then each toe in turn. I looked at the ceiling and counted: cream — one. Twenty.

Here I thought — and I’ll say it here, because my readers ask — about keeping him waiting a little longer. Twenty is my number, not his. He doesn’t know it. I could add five and nobody would be hurt. I picked up the pencil, wrote “20” and drew a line under it. Decided: tonight. Not because the total was reached, but because I wanted to look at him unlocked.

“How many do you think you have?”

“I don’t know.”

“Correct. Bedroom. On your back.”

He got up off his knees as if afraid to scare something away.

The lock

The key lives in the same drawer as the notebook. I took it out, sat down on the bed beside him and took my time. He lay with his hands under the pillow — I ordered that in the very first month, so they wouldn’t wander. The cage was warm from his body. The lock clicked and he breathed out as if he hadn’t breathed for three weeks.

I didn’t take the cage off right away. I held the open lock in my fingers and watched him wait. He knows how to wait lying down, hands under the pillow, but his throat was working. That is what I wanted to see — not what came next, but this: a man who has polished my shoes for three weeks, waiting for me to make up my mind.

Unlocked, he always looks different. Red skin with the marks of the steel, everything so sensitive that my palm alone makes him jolt. I took him in my hand — dry, no cream — and held him without moving.

“Look at me. Don’t close your eyes.”

He looked. His lips were shaking. I moved my hand slowly and he held on as best he could — I spent a long time teaching him that. In the second minute he said “please” and I nodded. The whole thing took about four minutes. Then he lay there breathing while I fetched a damp towel, wiped him myself and put the cage back on. The steel was cold; he flinched. The lock clicked for the second time that evening.

I opened the notebook and wrote under the line: “Unlocked. 4 min. Balance — zero.” I showed him the page. For the first time in three weeks he saw his numbers.

“Zero,” he said.

“Zero. From tomorrow morning.”

Morning

He was up before me, as always. When I came into the kitchen the coffee was there, and beside it a note: “Bread, milk, bulb for the hallway — will buy on the way.” I wrote: “list on his own — 2.” He saw me do it and didn’t ask how many he needed now. If he had asked, I would have taken a point off.

In the evening he stood in the doorway again with his “done”, and again I wrote. Two lines, four points. He looked at the pencil, not the page, and went to put the kettle on. The cage had been locked since the night before, the key lay in the drawer under the notebook, and the next line was a long way off. How far — only I knew.

This is what a year with the notebook taught me. He doesn’t wait for the reward the way you wait for a paycheck. He waits for the moment I decide I want him unlocked, and he works to bring that moment closer. There is a big difference: a paycheck is demanded, a decision is waited for.

• You keep the notebook, every evening, in front of him. He gets the result only — and not always.
• Never announce the threshold. He should work for your decision, not for a number.
• Points only for what he did without being reminded. What you asked for is the norm, not merit.
• Even when the total is reached, you can still wait. Let him know the decision is yours.
• After unlocking, write “zero” and show him. The new count starts in the morning.