An Uncollected Death

by Meg Wolfe

In her irritable mood, it was better to stay put and sort through boxes. At least the electric was still on.

  Charlotte looked around her large basement, at the stacks of boxes, shelves of old toys, tools, sacks of decorating items, an assortment of furniture that was in need of repair or refinishing, and a ping-pong table that she and Ellis had never seemed to use. Instead, its surface provided more storage space, covered as it was with an assortment of items acquired from assignments at the magazines: knockoff Noguchi-style lamps (the real ones were in the living room), small tables of unusual design, rustic and cottage-style items that never looked right in her sleek house, little-girl decorative items that Ellis grew out of as fast as they came in, large and small baskets in every conceivable material and color, and stacks of rug samples. Boxes of baby clothes and Ellis’ dolls, plus a few boxes from Charlotte’s own childhood were stacked against one wall. She hadn’t looked in them in years. The washer and dryer area was surrounded by baskets and bags of clothes that Ellis had either grown out of or didn’t want to take with to Paris, plus laundry Charlotte hadn’t gotten around to dealing with. There was nothing for it but to tackle it, go through every box and, well, just deal with it, even if it took all night. After all, this place, this stuff, would be gone once and for all in a matter of days.

   

  Charlotte woke in the dark, thinking the furnace was on full blast. But it was just another hot flash; she sat up and threw the covers off, took a sip of water from the glass on the nightstand. The digital clock said 4:17. And so it begins, she thought, the onset of old. Dammit, she swore to herself, I’m not ready for this!

  It had been a year and a half since her last date. She noticed less, for lack of a better term, feedback from men. She was becoming invisible, there was no split-second light of interest in their eyes anymore. Neutral and pleasant was what she got, if anything at all, or, at best, the half-joking flirtation of gay friends and much older men. Inside, she was still young, vibrant, and sensuous. But outside, invisible—even when she took pains to look attractive.

  As she lay back down, she thought about past relationships and Brian in particular, the six months they had, from meeting, to dating, to passion. She knew he was the one from the first kiss, even from just holding his hand, the charge of just being in one another’s presence. There was just something about the way he looked and moved, the sound of his voice, the way that he made her feel that he saw her—and connected with what he saw—that she had never felt before or since.

  And then his National Guard unit was called up to the Middle East. He was forty-four years old. Twenty years before, he had joined under pressure from his employer, along with several other mid-level executives at the company he worked for. All the things they’d planned to do, gradually bringing together their families, the beautiful future she knew they were going to have, all of it ended thirty-eight days after he arrived at the desert base. That was six years ago. She still had a drawer of his clothes that he’d kept there.

  For months she’d slept with the one sweater that still had his scent, crying herself to sleep. The scent had faded, finally. She moved on, insofar as she could, to the occasional date. And then no one. Forays into online dating services led to nothing, because she couldn’t bring herself to actually meet up with any of the people she met there.

  By this time the clock said 5:31, and Charlotte resigned herself to not getting any more sleep. One might as well get up and tackle the projects for the day. After making a coffee, she grabbed a box and put everything in it that was too personal to leave out for the estate sale crew: photo albums, mementos, a few journals, a teddy bear from her grandmother that she’d taken to college. To this she added the box of mementos of her months with Brian, and his beloved sweater. Was this why she’d faded so quickly? It was as if a part of her own life ended with his, and never came back. And she wasn’t yet fifty. Here I am in one big giant empty nest, empty of my child, empty of love, work, meaning, life.

  Charlotte broke down in tears, holding Brian’s sweater to her face, and as the sobs started to fade, she realized that the sweater now smelled like a mixture of mustiness and furniture polish. I’m an idiot, she thought. It was time to let it go. They hadn’t been married, after all, hadn’t yet built anything together, and even the flag on his coffin was handed to his mother. She realized she’d suspended her entire emotional life over him, widowed herself inside. It was time to let the past go, all of it. Keep the love, but let the stuff go.

  She pulled herself together, took a deep breath, and began tossing away everything that could hold back her heart from opening up to a brand-new life: lingerie she hadn’t worn in years, high school and college mementos, programs from concerts, birthday cards. A pressed corsage she could no longer connect to an event. The past had passed. She would no longer allow herself to become as musty as Brian’s old sweater, as dusty and frozen in time as the objects that filled Olivia’s house.

  Nine

  Wednesday, September 18th

   

  Helene was on her cell phone with Simon, striding like a woman half her age. Indeed, she looked like one in chinos, running shoes, and a man’s untucked tailored white shirt with a subtle “PLD” monogram on the point of one collar, which after a moment or two Charlotte realized stood for Paul Lucien Dalmier. Charlotte’s lingering concerns for her friend’s well-being dissipated as she found herself trying to keep up on the walk to Olivia’s house. The muscles in her legs were stiff and aching from the hours of moving and sorting through the boxes in her basement. She was also out of sorts from too many emotions and too little sleep; the three coffees at breakfast didn’t really help.

  Helene was bringing Simon up to date about the conference with the attorney earlier that morning, which clarified the terms of the will. “I can’t believe this, either. Charlotte and I are going there now to size up the job, and if at all possible I’d like your input, too. Olivia clearly had this project on her mind at least a month before she said anything to me, as that’s when her will was updated.” She paused as she listened to him. “Oh, that would be great! Thank you so much Simon, and see you soon.” She clicked off, took a deep breath, and turned to Charlotte. “Simon will come by in a few minutes. He’s wrapping up office hours.”

  By this time they’d gone up the porch. Helene unlocked the door and once again the heavy scent of roses made Charlotte feel sad and a little dizzy.

  Helene, however, was undaunted, and carefully made her way to the window surrounded by the bookshelves, raising the roller shade and opening the sash, bringing in sunlight and the crisp fresh air. The improvement was immediate. Charlotte wondered if Olivia would have been a nicer person, a happier person, if she’d only opened the windows. But perhaps she didn’t because she was not a nice, happy person in the first place.

  Helene saw that she was standing close to the blood streak and took a quick step back. “We need to get rid of this rug. Horrible.”

  “I’m glad one of us is on good form this morning,” murmured Charlotte.

  “Oh, I’m loaded for bear,” Helene said, in a growly tone that was as uncharacteristic as her attire, and Charlotte smiled to herself, enjoying this new side to her elderly friend. Or perhaps it wasn’t a new side at all, but something essential to Helene’s nature that wasn’t necessary in the years Charlotte had known her. Helene was clearly not going to let Olivia’s will defeat her the way that Olivia was defeated by Ronson or other elements of life. She couldn’t picture her friend giving up her music to go into a self-imposed exile.

  They looked over the rug, and at the books and papers still scattered around it. As Charlotte began collecting and handing them to Helene to place on the coffee table, she realized they were all part of a copy of Allen Ginsburg’s Howl. “This is a well-worn copy, but not a first edition.”

  Helene had turned to look over the shelves. “Most of these are not valuable, at least at first glance. Old, yes, but that doesn’t mean valuable.” She turned back to Charlotte.
“Of course if there really was something valuable, I’m sure whoever was here has taken it.”

  Charlotte found some old newspapers, which she placed over the blood stain. “I don’t want us to accidentally step in this for the time being.” From there she went to put the fallen table and lamp aright, and then the cup and crossword book.

  Helene wandered from room to room, shaking her head at the clutter, and at the way her sister had lived. “One thing we can do right now is get rid of the potpourri and open more windows—if we can even get at the windows.”

  They opened the back door and the kitchen and dining room windows, and tossed the potpourri in the trash, then Charlotte took the trash to the wheeled bins outside. Helene went out to the porch to sit in the swing, taking deep breaths of fresh air. Charlotte joined her.

  “I’m trying to think of how to make short work of this,” said Helene. “I do want to do the right thing and find those notebooks. Of course I still want you to do everything we’d talked about with Olivia, if you’re still interested, but please don’t feel obligated while your own situation is so unsettled.”

  Charlotte nodded her reassurance, while trying not to show too much relief. “I really