Detail Man

My husband is generally not detail-oriented. I see evidence of this almost every day and it drives me half wild: empty beer bottles left on the kitchen table, an overflowing trash basket left in his wake, bits of food left on the side of the skillet after he has washed the dishes. And although he will deny this until he is blue in the face, I know he's largely responsible for the little bits of plastic I've found in the compost.

This past autumn, I turned our gigantic compost heap and picked out hundreds of little bits of junk: pieces of Styrofoam, plastic juice carton pull-tops, and foil seals from milk bottles. Every time I stooped down to pull out another bit of something that didn't belong there, I felt the rage well up afresh.

It's not as though he does this intentionally. I've watched him walk over to the compost bin, chuck a few foil wrappers into it, then move all the way across the room to carefully place used tea bags in the trash -- all the time wearing the expression of a man who has performed a useful service, not one who has put one over on his fussy wife.

When I'm cooking dinner, my husband sometimes comes into the kitchen to chat. We've had a few memorable discussions about this and he will now generally ask what he can do to help if I tell him I'm ready to serve. While I appreciate this, it sometimes drives me wild: there I am, doing a dozen things at once. I'm making a sauce for the fish I've got in the broiler; I'm mashing potatoes and whipping up a custard; I've got a pie baking in the oven, carrots and broccoli in the steamer, and tomatoes and basil ready to chop for a salad. The table has a scattering of breadcrumbs, a smear of jam, a box full of drill bits, and somebody's homework on it. There is a mobile phone in one corner, and a set of headphones tangled up with a scarf. There are two empty beer bottles on the counter; across the room the glass-recycling bag half full of bottles is gaping open, ready to receive them.

Does he really have to ask me what needs to be done? Isn't it as screamingly obvious as a four-arm-alarm fire?

And here is something truly amazing: I can walk into the kitchen when he is cooking and drive him wild precisely by doing the things I wish he would do for me! He doesn't mind (or, in some instances, notice) if I clear the table and set it, but when I clear away vegetable peels or turn the fire down under a pot, he is not grateful. When I get into his way to bundle up trash, he fumes and accuses me of interfering.

But here is something even more amazing: on two occasions, my husband has spotted details that I managed to miss. Important details, too, with possible life-threatening consequences.

On the first occasion, we were walking through the park near our house, deep in conversation. We were passing the lake when I was peripherally aware of a woman running along the bank, calling a name over and over; I assumed she was trying to find her dog. We had passed the woman and were at the busy intersection in front of the park, when we noticed a little girl about four years old. The lights turned green and I started to cross, but my husband stopped in his tracks. "She's too young to be out on her own," he said. "I'll bet that was her mother, looking for her."

"Who?" I asked. "The lady calling her dog?"

He shook his head. "Didn't you see her face? She wasn't calling a dog, she was freaking out." He frowned. "We've got to go tell her we've found her daughter."

This was a problem. My husband's Japanese wasn't 100%, but he didn't think it was appropriate for him to wait with a little girl he didn't know. Quickly I coached him on what to say to the mother, who we could not be certain would know any English. Ojosan wa kooen no iriguchi ni imasu yo. Tsuma to issho desu. My husband went to find the putative mother while I waited with the little girl. "Are you lost?" I asked her. The little girl shrugged and giggled.

A few minutes later, my husband was back with the woman. Until I saw her face, I really hadn't realized just how anxious she was. She threw up her hands, burst into tears, hugged her little girl, then pulled back and slapped her across the face. "Twenty minutes!" she cried. "Do you have any idea how worried I've been?" We left them sobbing, but safe.

Barely a week later, we were in a different park with our daughters. We were watching them playing in the sandbox when all of a sudden my husband yelled, then went racing toward the swing set. A toddler had wandered away from her mother and was directly in the path of a descending swing. Just before the hard plastic swing could crack the child across the face -- as it certainly would have -- I saw my husband swoop down and scoop her up. The momentum sent him flying past the swing set, but he managed to keep his balance. Taking a deep breath of air, he returned the little girl to her astonished, horrified mother who could hardly thank him enough. When we left the park shortly after, we felt like VIPs.

I am all about details. I can walk into a room and spot every single thing that doesn't belong there; I can proofread papers half a dozen people have given a thumbs-up and still find errors. But I did not hear the desperation in that mother's voice, and I did not see the toddler step into the path of the swing.

This doesn't mean that I'm happy about the junk in my compost heap or my husband's infuriating What do you want me to do? when it's as obvious as a cockroach on a wedding cake. But it's also obvious that when he does notice details, they're worth noticing.