After Melanie Read online

  ‘Of course you should tell her about Nancy,’ Brian said, his voice steady although his words were tinged with uncertainty.

  David sighed. ‘I’m afraid that she would see my reliance on Nancy as a betrayal, an infidelity of a kind. She is, I think, tired of dealing with my needs, my weaknesses. And I, perhaps, am tired of living in an emotional desert.’

  The waitress brought their coffee. David laced it with too much sugar and stirred it too vigorously.

  ‘An emotional desert,’ he repeated, as though startled by his own use of a metaphor. Metaphors were Judith’s domain.

  ‘I think that she has a right to know about Nancy,’ Brian said softly. ‘I think you owe her that. What she may imagine is probably worse than the truth. I think she will understand.’ He wondered if he himself understood, but he respected his father’s honesty.

  David nodded. ‘You may be right. Probably you are right. I will tell her. If she asks. If she cares enough to ask.’

  ‘She cares enough,’ Brian said.

  He watched his father glance at the bill and calculate the tip. A careful man, a generous man, grief-laden, tenaciously faithful. He was a man who had choked on the name of his dead daughter but had finally found the strength, at last, to say it aloud. It was, Brian knew, Nancy Cummings who had given him that courage, but it was Judith, his wife, Brian’s mother, whom he loved. Suffused with relief, he smiled at his father who smiled back.

  They stood in the doorway of the restaurant and embraced, the father and son who looked almost like brothers.

  Brian held Denise very close that night.

  ‘I don’t want us to ever wander away from each other,’ he said.

  ‘We won’t,’ she assured him, her hand resting on his head. ‘How could that ever happen?’

  It was not a question that required an answer. He kissed her into silence.

  FOURTEEN

  The chill of early spring drifted into the sweet warmth of approaching summer. Judith, on her morning walk, thought of picnics and light suppers, after-dinner strolls along streets brushed with last pale rays of dying sunlight. It was a season she had always loved. She thought of their student days when she and David had walked at the twilight hour wrapped in a companionable silence. She remembered that when Brian was a toddler they had rented a small house in an unfashionable town on the Jersey shore before the onset of summer. Rates had been affordable. They were on the cusp of a new prosperity, but as always they were careful. Small Brian had jumped fearlessly into the waves and they had hugged each other, their eyes riveted to their courageous son, and decided that it was time to have another child. A girl, a boy? It would not matter, they had assured each other. They had been so young then, so confident that the future was theirs to mold. It had never occurred to them that their plans could be thwarted.

  Walking past a bed of daffodils, nursing that memory, she felt a burst of optimism. Perhaps she and David could yet reclaim the closeness that had been theirs during that long-past summer. Perhaps. On impulse, before going to the thrift shop, she stopped at a gourmet store and bought a wedge of brie and a focaccia loaf. There was, she recalled, a bottle of white wine in the fridge. They might eat in their garden or even wander down to the river and share a meal at the water’s edge. A line from Emily Dickinson sprang into memory. ‘There were times when hope had to be helped along,’ the poet had written with wry wisdom. That was what she would try to do. Help hope along.

  The thrift shop was crowded when she arrived. The new warmth brought a surge of shoppers intent on preparing for the approaching season. Sweaters and woolen clothing, winter jackets and scarves were removed from the trestle tables and carted to a storage closet and replaced with colorful pyramids of sleeveless dresses and blouses, T-shirts and shorts. A plastic bin of bathing suits with a crayoned sign advising that they could neither be tried on nor returned was placed in a discreet corner. Suzanne’s standards remained high. All items were impeccably clean and gently used.

  Judith took charge of the summer outlay of children’s and infant clothing. She loved the feel of the soft cotton layette garments and the smoothness of the polished cotton sundresses and playsuits. She smiled at the logos on discarded T-shirts, the silk-screened images of Oscar the Grouch, Bert and Ernie, the Little Mermaid, Princess Elsa and superheroes flying across cotton surfaces long since faded. It would not be long now, she thought, before a graduate student wrote a learned thesis on contemporary history as reflected in T-shirt logos. She had vetoed less ridiculous proposals.

  She set aside a tiny shirt and rompers of sunshine yellow on which tiny blue birds danced. It had never been worn; the price tag still dangled. She wanted Emily’s dark-haired baby to wear something that was brand new.

  Emily, when she arrived late that afternoon, was delighted with the outfit. As always, she shopped swiftly and decisively, a smile wreathing her heart-shaped face as she plucked up a hooded bath towel for the baby, a sea-green short-sleeved cotton shirt for her husband. They talked easily as Judith rang up her purchases. She and Judith had established a casual intimacy during her frequent visits. Judith now knew that Emily and her husband, James, had emigrated from Korea. James was a medical student who worked part-time as a technician at the local teaching hospital and they lived in a one-room basement apartment.

  ‘Very small but very clean,’ Emily said. ‘We are fortunate.’

  Fortunate too that he had a scholarship and a small stipend from the university as well as a very small hourly salary. There was no complaint in her voice.

  Emily was a registered nurse and it had been their plan that she would work until he qualified, but then she became pregnant and Jane was born.

  ‘A surprise for us, our baby,’ she said, her voice charmingly accented. ‘So we are poorer than we had planned, but we manage.’

  ‘A wonderful surprise,’ Judith agreed and thought to tell her that she too had had a surprise child, but knew, of course, that she would not, could not, speak of Melanie. She did not want to frighten Emily nor did she want her sympathy.

  ‘Of course you will manage,’ she added.

  ‘Things will change,’ Emily said. ‘James will be a doctor. We will have our own house. Jane will have brand-new clothes. But thank you for finding this.’

  She held up the shirt and rompers, the sun-gold hue of the soft fabric almost a match for her sleeping child’s delicate skin. She beamed her gratitude at Judith who smiled back at her. As Emily fumbled for her purse, Judith opened her arms and took the baby from her. She pressed her cheek against Jane’s satin-smooth hair, inhaled the sweet scent of her tiny body, sniffed her milky breath. The infant, her eyes still closed, her long lashes sweeping her cheek, chortled softly, and Judith imitated the sound. She swayed back and forth, a motion that had always soothed and delighted her own babies, first Brian and then Melanie. The memory pierced her heart.

  As she shifted the baby on to her shoulder, the door to the thrift shop opened. She turned. Jeffrey Kahn stood in the entrance, staring at her, a half smile playing at his lips. Flustered and flushed, she surrendered the baby to Emily who, as always, made her farewell with a slight bow. She bowed again as she passed Jeffrey in the doorway, almost brushing against him as she struggled to balance the baby and the plastic carrier bag that held her purchases.

  ‘Judith,’ Jeffrey said, smiling, moving toward her, his hand outstretched to grasp her own. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  ‘And good to see you, Jeffrey,’ she said, aware that Suzanne had turned as he entered and that Lois and Libby were staring at him.

  ‘You’re looking well, Jeffrey,’ she said too loudly. ‘California must have agreed with you.’

  He did look well. His blue eyes glinted brightly in his newly tanned face. And he had gained weight. His daughters would not have allowed him to dine on a single pale chicken breast.

  ‘It did,’ he agreed. ‘And how are you, Judith?’

  ‘I’m fine. It’s been a good two weeks. I’ve managed to get s
ome writing done.’ The lie fell easily from her lips. It had not been a good two weeks and she had written nothing. ‘When did you get back?’ she asked.

  ‘Just two days ago. I was in the neighborhood – I had to see a patient in the hospital – and I thought I would drop by and see if you had the time to go on helping me to sort through the rest of her … Sylvia’s things.’ He spoke hesitantly, almost apologetically.

  Judith nodded and glanced at Suzanne who was emptying the cash register.

  ‘I am busy but I’ll make the time,’ she said. ‘Of course I will. We’ve had very good luck with the clothing you donated. Isn’t that right, Suzanne?’

  Suzanne smiled. ‘Very good luck indeed, Jeffrey. You’ll recall that I asked your permission to send some of the garments to a consignment shop; as a result, we’ve received very generous revenue,’ she said. ‘I’ll be sending you a receipt for tax purposes.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that. It would have pleased my wife,’ he replied and turned back to Judith. ‘Just let me know when it will be convenient for you to come up to the house,’ he said. ‘You can reach me at the office or at home.’

  ‘I will. Sometime next week, I think. It’s nice to see you again,’ she added, and she did not turn to look at Suzanne as he left, closing the door very softly behind him.

  She continued to work, sorting through a new carton of donations, remembering the warmth in his voice when he greeted her, his endearing awkwardness when he asked for her help. He was such a nice man, such a good man. And his eyes were of such a deep blue. She smiled. How foolish of her to think of the color of Jeffrey Kahn’s eyes.

  She left early, driving through streets carpeted with the pink petals of dogwood blossoms. It was a perfect early-spring evening, perfect for an al fresco supper. Their own back garden was ablaze with color. It had been a very long time since she and David had eaten in the garden. Perhaps too long. No. Not too long. They were fine. They would be fine. Love, after all, had propelled them into marriage. Love and need. She had loved David and needed him as he had loved her and needed her. That memory would sustain them, would carry them through the whirlpool of their grief to a safer shore. She thought again of Dickinson’s words. An effort had to be made, she told herself. She would try. She had to try.

  She hurried into the kitchen, checked the refrigerator and saw that there was arugula and cherry tomatoes, a salad to go with the cheese. Happily, she set everything on the counter and then saw that the light on the answering machine was flickering. She pressed down and heard David telling her he would not be home for dinner. No excuse was offered. No regret expressed.

  There would be no twilight picnic, no rekindling of intimacy. She struggled to free herself from the miasma of sadness that descended unbidden. She offered herself words of comfort. There would be other evenings, she told herself. The season of warmth was just beginning.

  She thrust the wedge of brie and the loaf of focaccia into the fridge and made herself an omelet which she tossed away half uneaten. The optimism of the morning morphed into the disappointment of the evening. Loneliness overwhelmed her.

  She picked up a copy of Mansfield Park and thrust it aside. Impossible to read when tears streaked her face, blurred her vision. The book fell to the floor and she made no effort to retrieve it.

  She turned to television, surfing impatiently from channel to channel. CNN. MSNBC. CSPAN. The world was in turmoil. Bored reporters commented on chaos, struggled to insert emotion into their over-trained voices. The images of bereaved mothers drifted across the screen in shadowy sequence. Mothers in Syria, mothers in Gaza, mothers in Jerusalem, wizened, sari-clad women in India, weeping African mothers in brilliantly colored gowns clutching emaciated babies to their shriveled breasts. She had stumbled on to a video landscape of maternal misery that dwarfed her own loss. Her grief burst forth, unabated, uncontrolled. Sobbing, her heart pounding, her hands shaking, she switched the set off and lay motionless on her bed, waiting for the spasms of sorrow to subside.

  She was awake when David entered, his face ashen with weariness, his voice weak as he apologized for the lateness of the hour.

  ‘That’s all right,’ she said. She would not ask him why he was so late. She would not burden him with her own inchoate sadness.

  ‘Did you have a good day?’

  He was struggling for conversation, she knew. She rewarded him with a reply. ‘Jeffrey Kahn stopped by the shop. He’s back from California. He wants me to go on helping him deal with his wife’s clothing,’ she replied.

  ‘If you have the time and if you want to help him, you should do that,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t mind?’ Her question was hesitant, almost flirtatious.

  He smiled at her. ‘Ah, Judith, should I mind?’ he asked and placed his hand lightly on her head.

  ‘Of course not.’ She did not add that she was disappointed that he had raised no objection.

  That too was a source of wonderment. Had she wanted David to be jealous? Yes, she acknowledged, of course she did. She was, after all, a student of literary romance and understood that jealousy was a sometime barometer of love.

  ‘I had thought that we might have dinner in the garden tonight,’ she said. ‘But then I heard your message.’

  ‘Another evening. Yes. Another evening,’ he replied, his voice heavy with regret.

  FIFTEEN

  She called Jeffrey Kahn in the morning and told him that if it was convenient, she would drive out to his house that afternoon.

  ‘Of course it’s convenient,’ he said.

  David’s new computer table was delivered that morning and for the first time she entered the reconfigured room, its air heavy with the scent of recently lathed wood and fresh paint. She watched as the driver set the table down against the newly wood-paneled wall where once Melanie’s white bookcase had stood.

  ‘Nice room,’ the driver said approvingly as she handed him an overly generous tip.

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, and stared down at the beige carpet that had replaced the magenta-colored rug. No hint of Melanie remained. She marveled that she was not moved to tears. Evelyn might call that a step forward, an acceptance of loss. Acceptance, according to Evelyn, was another step in the grieving process. Judith thought to counter that convenient therapeutic wisdom by asserting that there were losses that could never be accepted. They might, however, be assimilated, like wounds that slowly healed, leaving only phantom pain. That was how she had begun to cope with the reality of Melanie’s death. She might, or might not, share that thought with Evelyn.

  She went to the window, looked out at the apple tree, its tender leaves slowly unfurling. A school bus pulled up to a house across the street, and she turned away and walked too swiftly out of the room that was no longer Melanie’s, closing the door very softly behind her.

  In the kitchen, she placed the brie, the focaccia bread and the wine in an insulated bag, thought for a moment and added a small jar of olives.

  She drove to the thrift shop, worked with Suzanne for an hour, sorting through the contents of a camp trunk overflowing with summer clothing and toys that a harried woman had brought in that morning.

  ‘They’re moving – relocating. The father lost his job or something and they had to get rid of a lot of stuff,’ Suzanne explained.

  Judith nodded. She was not surprised. She had grown used to dealing with the discards of reluctant displacements, sudden stresses.

  ‘I’ll need some empty cartons,’ she said. ‘I’m driving out to the Kahn house this afternoon and I’m sure there’ll be loads of stuff to bring back.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Suzanne’s casual tone matched her own. They had begun to understand each other.

  Jeffrey was in the garden when she arrived, kneeling beside a red maple tree. He looked up and waved to her, shading his eyes with his dirt-streaked hand.

  ‘Just planting some herbs,’ he said. ‘Sylvia’s mint is coming up. She always said this was a good spot for parsley and dill
. The right amount of shade. The right amount of sun. So I bought flats of parsley and dill. Stupid thing to do, I suppose. When will I use so much parsley and dill? Still, I wanted to do it.’

  ‘Of course,’ she murmured.

  She nodded. They both knew that the effort of placing the herbs in the soft earth was a tribute to continuity and memory. She bent and plucked a sprig of parsley, drew her finger across a feathery wand of dill.

  Sylvia was dead, but still greenery sprouted in her garden. Life goes on, Evelyn might say. It was a mantra that was beginning to irritate Judith. She inhaled the scent of the new plantings and thought that it might be time to dispense with Evelyn’s expensive and predictable wisdom.

  She handed Jeffrey the insulated bag and followed him into the kitchen as he put it in the refrigerator. She noted that he had set a small blue ceramic vase with the first lilacs of the season on the broad wooden table.

  Once again they entered the large dressing room and once again they turned their attention to the contents of the wardrobe. They concentrated on the linens and cottons of Sylvia Kahn’s spring and summer clothing, an assortment of long pastel-colored skirts, loose shirts of the softest cotton, sleeveless shifts. A pale-blue chiffon evening gown threaded with silver tumbled from its hanger. Jeffrey held it up and fingered the soft fabric.

  ‘She bought it for the formal dance at my med school’s twenty-fifth reunion,’ he said. He handed the chiffon gown to her. She folded it and placed it carefully in the carton. ‘She looked so beautiful that night,’ he added.

  His eyes were closed and a single tear glinted on his cheek. Judith turned away, unwilling to encroach upon the privacy of his memory.

  ‘Jeffrey,’ she said softly. ‘I need to use the bathroom.’

  ‘Right through there,’ he said, motioning to the door that led to the bedroom. ‘The first door on the right.’