It is a cool morning in the midwest. The windows are open, so I can hear the fading cicadas and the grinding school bus as it picks up speed after picking up my daughter, who entered the kitchen this morning, grumbling that there was nothing good for her lunch. I stopped my work to look in the fridge for some options. A hard-boiled egg? Celery sticks and peanut butter?
"You're not helping by asking about things I don't want."
So I go back to my writing. I am nearing 50 pages with still no Anna Karenina figuring into the story. Levin has been rejected by Kitty. Dolly has left her cheating husband, Stepan Arkadyevitch going on and on about why he was entitled to sleep with the governess. But still no Anna. She remains invisible, and silent. A thought occurs to me as I contemplate this, my hands moving of their own accord over the curve of each c and b and y. Why bother putting her name in the title? What value was there in that, for the book is not really about her. And if I were Anna, I would want more recognition for the use of my name, especially knowing that it is Anna who pays the ultimate price for the story to resolve itself.
I suppose the value of a woman's time is on my mind in other ways. I began my new job last week. Already I have worked more hours than I recorded on my timesheet, in an attempt to organize my workspace and schedule so that, ultimately, I will have to spend less time doing that. And on the homefront, I am trying to put some new procedures in place, beginning with a weekly menu, posted on the fridge, with assigned helpers for each night. 12 is coming home to an empty house for the first time in her dozen years of life, so I have write out her daily to-do list and leave it on the table each afternoon, including extra chores that will ease my workload. In exchange for her services, I offer her a weekly allowance of $10, another first in our household. And the last shall be first.....
I cannot avoid the thoughts that spin their threads into a great pink ball of cotton candy in my head: we pay for what we value. And Sophie Tolstoy, like Anna, was an invisible character in the writing of this story. Not only did she remain unpaid, because Leo took the stance I did regarding allowance, that we do this work because we are part of a family and we have a responsibility to share the work, but she also had no say in how the rewards of that work would be used. Like me, she might have sat up long after everyone else was asleep, her fingers aching with stiffness on a cool autumn evening, while a pot of chicken and vegetables bubbles on the stove for the next day's dinner, clean dishes piled up to dry on the counter, piles of yet undone laundry waiting for her to wake the next morning, knowing that her work was important for the survival and happiness of her family.
Unlike me, she did not get a paycheck. No part of the income from Anna Karenina went into a retirement fund in her name. She couldn't siphon a percentage of the money into a 429 so that her kids would be able to go to college even if their father wasn't around to help. She couldn't decide if it was worth the money she made to hire a housecleaner but maybe not worth buying a new pair of shoes. When the family wagon broke down, she couldn't take out a debit card in her name to get it fixed. All she could do was let those cotton candy thoughts spin in her head, sticky and blinding, and go a little crazy.
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