After Melanie Read online

  They trooped upstairs, Denise and Brian hand in hand, she looking up at him and tripping on a step.

  ‘Clumsy,’ Brian teased as he caught her and turned her toward him and kissed her on each cheek. She laughed, blushed, looked back at Judith and David who trailed behind them and immediately turned away. Judith thought to tell her that their brief gaiety was not an affront but she said nothing.

  They paused beside the closed door of Melanie’s room where the hallway was blocked by the rolled-up red rug.

  ‘It has to be cleaned,’ Judith said. ‘I’ll send it out tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s in good shape. I’m sure Nancy will want it. Is that OK?’ David asked.

  Judith nodded. ‘Fine,’ she agreed. ‘Ask her when she can arrange to have it picked up.’

  She was anxious suddenly for the room to be totally emptied, stripped of furniture, the black trash bags and cartons gone, the walls painted, the floors scraped and polished. The wide window that overlooked the apple tree in the front garden washed and fitted with new shades. Within weeks tender white apple blossoms would burst into full bloom amid shining dark leaves. There would soon be a new season, a new beginning. How she yearned for a new season, a new beginning.

  She felt in her pocket for Melanie’s bracelets and slipped them on to her wrist. The metal was cold against her skin.

  FOUR

  The synagogue to which they had belonged for many years was located in a neighborhood that had once been residential but was now populated by big-box stores, small businesses, mid-sized corporations and the county’s largest hospital. On its lower level a thrift shop had flourished for many years. There had been talk in the congregation of relocating to a new site. Committees had been formed, surveys taken, but long-standing members, including Judith and David, had an affection for the brick building with its intricate network of arches and gables. It was repeatedly argued that the thrift shop was an excellent source of income, easily accessible to the budget-conscious employees of the local businesses and the hospital. The shop, which offered donated clothing and household items, was called Gently Used, a name proudly invoked by the staff of volunteers who managed the sales, sorted through the contributions and priced and tagged each item.

  Judith herself had never volunteered. It was not, she told herself, her sort of thing. Besides, she could never manage, given her schedule at the university. To compensate for her failure to participate in the communal effort, she had periodically brought her family’s discarded clothing, dutifully dry cleaned and neatly bagged, to the shop. It amused her that her donations, like all others, were always carefully examined before being accepted.

  ‘We want only gently used items,’ Suzanne Brody, the volunteer manager, repeated each time Judith appeared.

  ‘“Gently used” is Suzanne’s mantra,’ Judith murmured to Denise as they carried the first of the huge black bags up to the shop.

  Denise laughed, even as Judith frowned.

  They pushed the door open and a confluence of odors wafted toward them. They inhaled the lingering scents of detergent and perfumes, deodorant and perspiration, the sad commingled pungencies of other people’s lives. A few weary women clutching worn, oversized purses inched their way around the shop, pausing at the trestle tables, fingering first one garment, then discarding it for another.

  Judith noted, with relief, that Suzanne Brody was not there. The counter was manned by Libby Goldsmith, a sweet young mother of twins. Judith remembered that Libby Goldsmith had brought a fruit platter to her home during the week of shiva, and she hoped that she had written her a note of thanks. It appeared that she had because Libby smiled at her and hurried to relieve them of the huge black plastic bags they carried.

  ‘Oh, Judith, I’m so relieved to see you,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I’m here on my own – Lois was supposed to partner with me but she had car trouble and Suzanne has a doctor’s appointment. I just got a call from my Mitchell’s school. He has a fever and they want me to come and get him. I wonder if I could ask you to do us an enormous favor. Could you man the counter at least until Lois or Suzanne gets here? There are customers here already and I just don’t know what to do. I can’t leave the shop alone, but I’m desperate to get Mitchell to the doctor.’

  Judith hesitated and tried to think of a reason to refuse, but she read the worry in Libby Goldsmith’s eyes. She knew what it was like to be summoned to care for a sick child. She herself had, after all, bolted out of a lecture she was giving on Edith Wharton when the department secretary handed her a note telling her that Brian’s school had called because he had fallen in the playground and sprained his wrist. She had abandoned the presentation of a paper at an MLA conference in Philadelphia because Melanie was running a fever.

  She trained a regretful smile on the distraught young mother. ‘I’d love to help you but I’ve never worked here. I haven’t the slightest idea of what to do. I’d be a disaster, Libby,’ she protested weakly.

  ‘Oh, the prices are all marked. Children’s things on these shelves. Women’s clothing at the other end. Boys’ and men’s stuff over there. A sort of dressing room behind that shower curtain, although hardly anyone uses it. Household stuff all over the place. The cash register is open. There’s a pile of plastic bags under the counter. It’s really simple. I’d be so grateful, so grateful.’

  Libby glanced nervously at her watch, fumbled in her bag for her car keys.

  It was Denise who responded. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out,’ she said, her voice calm and comforting. ‘You get to your son. We’ll manage, won’t we, Judith?’

  She smiled brightly and Judith managed a reluctant nod.

  ‘I suppose so,’ she agreed, annoyed with Denise for volunteering, annoyed with herself for hesitating.

  ‘Oh, thanks. Thanks so much.’

  Libby, pale with worry, nodded her appreciation and fled just as a weary, dough-faced woman, her fleshy arms weighed down by a pile of infant clothing, approached the counter.

  Judith looked helplessly at Denise and then went to the cash register, relieved to see a small calculator in the open drawer. She smiled at the woman, looked at the tag on each small garment and tallied up the amount due. Denise carefully folded onesies and sleepers, pausing to hold up a bright green snowsuit and pronouncing it the cutest thing ever.

  ‘It’s for my grandson. For next year,’ the woman said, her face brightening.

  ‘I bet he’ll look adorable,’ Denise said, and she put it into a separate plastic bag.

  Judith glanced at the calculator. ‘Sixteen dollars for everything,’ she said. ‘You got some great bargains.’

  ‘I know. I know. I always do good here.’

  The woman opened her worn black leather bag, fished out a change purse and slowly removed one dollar after another, her pudgy fingers fumbling with the creased bills. She counted them, then counted them again, her lips moving soundlessly. She fumbled for change, studied the coins. Her face collapsed in disappointment.

  ‘I got only fifteen bucks,’ she said. ‘I thought I had more. OK. Maybe take out one of the undershirts. Or two. I think they were fifty cents each.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Judith shook her head. ‘Fifteen dollars is fine.’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs. Thanks so much.’

  She heaved a sigh of relief, hoisted the plastic bags and hurried out as though fearful that Judith might change her mind and force her to surrender the two tiny undershirts.

  ‘That was so nice of you,’ Denise said admiringly. ‘I didn’t know what to do.’

  ‘It made me feel good, actually,’ Judith admitted. ‘But I hope Suzanne Brody doesn’t find out. Rumor is she runs this place with an iron hand.’

  It was strange, she thought, to feel such gratification from such a small action, strange also to be so pleased by Denise’s words. She busied herself counting the bills in the cash register as Denise turned to a pale girl, who approached her hesitantly.

  A waitress on her morning break, Judit
h assumed, glancing at her striped, grease-streaked uniform and the flimsy net snood that covered her hair. She watched as Denise led her to a far corner of the store and pulled a teal-blue silk formal dress from the hanger. The girl smiled, held it up to her body, fingered the fabric. Color rose to her cheeks. She pulled off the snood and her dark hair tumbled to her shoulders. Denise led her to the improvised dressing room, pulling the shower curtain closed. Minutes later, the young woman emerged, wearing the blue silk gown, the shimmering fabric draped with subtle graceful folds over her slender form, her eyes newly bright.

  Judith watched them, moved by Denise’s instinctive kindness. She was still staring at them when Suzanne Brody swept in, her arms laden with winter coats, all of which seemed to be of the same navy-blue wool and lined with the same red fleece. She trained a thin smile of recognition and surprise on Judith and dropped the coats on to the counter.

  ‘Judith, how nice of you to be here. I’m late because I had to pick these coats up. A donation from Ed Weinstein. Winter stock he couldn’t sell. We’ll store them until the fall. But where are Libby and Lois?’ she asked. ‘They’re on the roster for this morning.’

  She pointed to the calendar pinned to the wall, names penciled in on each date.

  Judith shrugged, recalling that she had never liked Suzanne, whom she had known casually through the years because her son and Brian had been classmates. Suzanne had been the chair for numerous school fundraisers, always efficient, always officious.

  ‘Libby’s little boy got sick at school and Lois had car trouble,’ she replied. ‘We were dropping some donations off and Libby asked if we would help.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘I am with my son Brian’s fiancée,’ Judith replied coldly and pointed across the room to where Denise was rummaging through a box of loose fabric. ‘She’s helping a customer just now,’ she added, watching as Denise pulled out a white stole and draped it over the young woman’s shoulders.

  ‘She’s being overly helpful,’ Suzanne said curtly. ‘This isn’t Lord and Taylor.’

  ‘She’s being nice,’ Judith retorted.

  She stared Suzanne down and decided that she was very like Eva, the judgmental secretary of the English department at the university, a woman much admired for her efficiency and much disliked for her authoritative manner. Assumed to have either an independent income or a wealthy lover, she was always impeccably dressed, her tweed skirts and cashmere sweaters a startling contrast to the loose shirts and worn jeans favored by harried, hard-pressed graduate students. Her clothes defined her even as Suzanne’s outfit – her well-pressed gray slacks, and the elegant patterned silk scarf that draped her black jacket – proclaimed her status. Eva would never be mistaken for a struggling teaching assistant and Suzanne would never be mistaken for a Gently Used customer.

  ‘Perhaps if we had more help, we could afford the luxury of being nice,’ Suzanne said.

  Judith frowned. Suzanne’s retort was well aimed.

  They turned away from each other as Denise and her beaming customer approached, chatting companionably.

  ‘You look terrific in it,’ Denise said. ‘And the stole is just perfect.’

  ‘I just love it. And you were so great to help me out. I was really nervous about what to wear to this wedding. My boyfriend’s whole family’s going to be there.’

  ‘I had fun doing it.’ Denise smiled happily, and Judith knew she spoke the truth.

  It pleased and reassured her that Denise, kind-hearted and wildly disorganized, would be Brian’s wife. It was her concern for others that had spurred her toward a social work degree, Brian had explained proudly. He had, from their first meeting, delighted in Denise’s cheerful optimism, her talent for joy. Melanie had also recognized it.

  ‘I love Denise,’ Melanie had once said. ‘She’s so much fun.’

  Judith remembered feeling a foolish pang of jealousy. She had wanted her daughter to think that she too was ‘so much fun’. She shivered at the memory as she watched Denise fold the blue gown and place it in a box.

  ‘I’ll just ring it up for you. The gown is eleven dollars and the stole didn’t have a price on it. Let’s say two dollars. Thirteen dollars. Is that OK?’ Denise asked.

  ‘More than OK.’

  She reached into the pocket of her uniform and counted out the thirteen dollars – two fives and three singles. Tip money, Judith knew.

  ‘Have a good time at the wedding,’ Denise said.

  ‘Sure. Gotta rush. My shift’s beginning.’

  The door slammed behind her and immediately swung open. Four chattering women, all wearing the standard blue smocks of nurses’ aides, rushed in.

  ‘Damn! It’s lunch hour. And pay day at the hospital. Our busiest time. And I’ll be all alone unless Lois shows up, which doesn’t seem likely. I don’t know what I’ll do,’ Suzanne said. ‘Could you possibly stay?’

  She turned to Judith who recognized the reality and sincerity of her distress. More and more customers were pushing their way in, some in groups, some alone, men and women both. They headed for the racks, rummaged through the piles of garments arranged on shelves, delved into gaping bins of shoes, each pair tied together with rough cords.

  Judith hesitated. ‘I guess so,’ she said reluctantly.

  She turned to Denise who nodded her agreement. ‘I have hours until my seminar. I’ll catch an express train.’

  They worked rapidly then, the three of them, alternating at the cash register, darting from children’s clothing to women’s dresses, to men’s shirts. Wire hangers fell to the floor, creating a dissonant metallic chorus. They dashed about, picking up fallen garments, bagging purchases and making change. And then suddenly the rush ended. Watches were consulted, anxious confirmations of time exchanged. The lunch hour was over. Clutching their plastic bags, the Gently Used customers hurried back to work, and Suzanne, Judith and Denise exchanged collegial smiles of relief.

  ‘Is it like this every day?’ Judith asked.

  ‘Mostly on pay days. But we usually have more volunteers helping. We’ll be getting the municipal workers later in the week and then we’re swamped when welfare checks arrive. Everything is fairly predictable and our volunteers are usually very reliable.’

  Suzanne turned to the cash register and began to count the bills, smoothing them out and arranging them in piles. Ones, fives, tens, three lone twenties. The calculator clicked.

  ‘Not a bad day at all,’ she said and smiled proudly. ‘We took in four hundred and thirty dollars. That’ll pay the synagogue electric bill.’

  ‘That’s terrific,’ Judith said.

  She glanced at her own watch. If they left now, she would be able to take Denise out for coffee before dropping her off at the train station.

  ‘Judith, I wonder if you could arrange to give us a couple of hours a week. I know you teach, but if you could squeeze us in, it would really be helpful. I don’t want to play the guilt card, but most members manage to do their share,’ Suzanne said, her face averted.

  Judith smiled, aware that they both knew that she was, in fact, playing the guilt card.

  ‘Actually, I’m not teaching this year. I’m on sabbatical,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, yes. I should have realized. Because …’

  ‘No. It was arranged before …’

  The same evasive shorthand, the unfinished sentence because death could not be mentioned. Suzanne Brody’s refusal to give voice and word to the grim reality of her loss suffused Judith with an irrational anger.

  ‘Before my daughter – before Melanie died,’ she added with a sudden surge of courage and watched as Suzanne Brody turned away, either in shame or in sympathy.

  It was Denise who broke the uneasy silence. ‘I wish I had the time to volunteer,’ she said. ‘It’s sort of interesting. And you were really good at it today, Judith. You might actually enjoy doing it.’

  Her voice was calm and controlled – perhaps her social-worker-in-training, or her don’t-piss-off-your-future-mothe
r-in-law voice, Judith thought bitterly.

  She chastised herself at once. It was simply Denise being nice, wanting to help, and perhaps speaking the truth. It was just possible that she might, in fact, enjoy working in the shop. It would at least give her somewhere to go, something to do. She would give it a try. Why not? Certainly Evelyn would approve. Her therapist would see it as progress, a tentative step out of the enclosure of her grief, a dismantling of her self-imposed isolation. Evelyn loved the word ‘dismantling’.

  She turned to Suzanne. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘I’ll give it a try.’

  ‘Wonderful.’ Suzanne’s smile was self-congratulatory. She had taken a risk and prevailed. She took up the calendar, her fountain pen at hand. Judith was amused. Of course Suzanne would not use a ballpoint pen. Eva, the department secretary, also preferred a fountain pen.

  ‘Afternoons. Let’s say twelve to three. Lunch hours are so busy. That all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ Judith agreed. ‘But maybe only three or four days a week.’

  She would have one day a week for research or writing, and the mornings and the late afternoons to concentrate on decorating David’s home office. Not that there would be that much to do. A reconfiguration. A computer table, bookcases, a sleep-sofa. Pickle pine walls. Real wood or laminate? She would work it out. She wondered when David’s co-worker Nancy would pick up the furniture. She would ask David to find out.

  Denise touched her arm and they left together. There was, after all, time for a quick snack. Bloomingdales, she decided, seized by a sudden desire to buy Denise a gift, a foolish extravagant gift, perhaps soaps and sachets, fragrances that celebrated the new and tender season of spring. Progress, she thought. Yes, indeed. Progress.

  FIVE

  David arranged for Nancy to pick up the furniture on the Sunday. Judith thought to leave the house, reluctant as she was to see the remnants of Melanie’s life disappear into the maw of a rented U-Haul truck. In the end she stayed, hoping that Nancy Cummings might arrive with her small daughter. She wanted to meet the child who would sleep in Melanie’s bed, sit at Melanie’s desk.