‘Mrs Mandell. I mean, Doctor Mandell. It’s so nice of you to volunteer,’ Libby said.
‘Judith. Please call me Judith. How is Mitchell?’ she asked, pleased that she remembered the child’s name.
‘He’s fine. In school today, thank heavens. It was nothing serious. It was so great of you to help out. And we’re so glad you decided to volunteer. Let me show you where to put your bag.’
Judith followed her to a small room in the rear. Two purses were on a table beside a pile of empty Whole Foods shopping bags. An Eileen Fisher poncho, clearly not a donated item, hung on a wooden hanger.
‘Our stuff – Lois’s and mine. Lois is working with me today. Do you know her?’
Judith nodded and placed her purse next to the others.
‘Suzanne wants all our personal stuff in here because the door can be locked,’ Libby explained.
‘She’s afraid that there may be thieves among our customers?’ Judith asked wryly.
Libby did not return her smile. ‘Suzanne’s actually afraid of a lot of things,’ she said cryptically, as they went back into the shop. ‘Things haven’t been easy for her.’
Judith said nothing more. Suzanne’s life did not interest her.
Lois was at the cash register in earnest conversation with her customer. She nodded at Judith and turned to Libby.
‘We have a bit of a problem,’ she said softly. ‘This is Mr Jameson. He lives in the new housing project on Prospect Avenue and he’s found this suit that fits him perfectly.’
‘Terrific. It’s sometimes hard to find that good a fit,’ Libby murmured. ‘Then what seems to be the problem? Is it priced too high?’
Judith leaned forward. The handwritten price tag read fifteen dollars.
‘No. The price is fair. Very fair. But the thing is I don’t have any cash. They broke into my apartment last night. Kids. I think they were kids. The cops don’t know and they don’t care. Anyway, they got all the cash I had – a hundred bucks hidden in my fridge. Smart little bastards. They knew just where to look. But worse than that, they took my two suits – the only ones I got. I’ve been out of work for two months now, but I got an interview this afternoon and I gotta go to it in a suit. I thought maybe you could let me have this one on credit and I’ll pay you back from my first paycheck. I don’t like to ask but I got no choice. I’ll understand if you can’t do it, but I’d sure appreciate it if you could.’
He stared down at the floor as though afraid to meet their eyes, afraid to hear their refusal.
There was no refusal.
‘Of course we can give it to you on credit,’ Libby said without hesitating. ‘But do you have a shirt, Mr Jameson? And a tie?’
‘My neighbor’s gonna lend me a shirt and tie. And they left my church shoes. That’s why I figure they were kids. I got really big feet and the shoes wouldn’t fit them.’
He laughed and Libby and Lois smiled. Judith stared in admiration, startled by his good humor, by their kindness and gentle generosity.
‘I’ll give you gals an IOU,’ Mr Jameson said. ‘Just give me a pad and a pen.’
‘No need,’ Lois objected.
‘Yeah. I got a need to do it. I ain’t no beggar,’ he replied.
Libby nodded and slid a pad and pen across the counter. Laboriously, he wrote out an IOU for fifteen dollars and signed his name.
‘Enjoy the suit, Mr Jameson,’ Libby said. ‘And good luck on the interview.’
‘Fingers crossed,’ he muttered. ‘Gotta go through this life with fingers crossed. Thanks, ladies. Thanks a lot.’
He left and Libby opened the cash register and slipped the IOU beneath a pile of single dollar bills.
‘Best if Suzanne doesn’t see it,’ she said. ‘We kind of broke the rules here.’
She turned to Judith who nodded, oddly pleased to be included in their benevolent complicity.
‘Fingers crossed,’ she repeated to herself. ‘Gotta go through life with fingers crossed.’
Suzanne Brody breezed in minutes later, impeccable in a pale-blue sweater and sharply pleated beige linen slacks, her arms laden with empty plastic bags which she tossed on to the counter.
‘We were running low,’ she said, flashing a proprietorial smile and disappearing to deposit her oversized handbag in the locked room.
Back at the counter, she set out pads and pencils, two calculators and a neat pile of smaller shopping bags. Judith recalled that Suzanne had been a successful investment banker before marrying the very prominent Dr Brody and becoming a professional volunteer, chairing fundraisers for the synagogue, community charities and the PTA. Her son, Eric, had been Brian’s classmate, but the boys had not been friends. There had been some unpleasant gossip about Eric Brody, but she could not recall what had been said. It had been unimportant to her then and it was unimportant to her now.
‘Get ready for the onslaught,’ Suzanne said. ‘Welfare checks arrive today.’
It was not an onslaught that began but rather a slow parade of weary men and women. Exhausted young mothers, their lank hair framing narrow faces crenelated with worry lines, clutched their children’s hands as they rummaged through stacks of clothing. African American women drifted in, some too thin, some morbidly obese, all of them so soft-spoken that Judith strained to hear them as they asked their hesitant questions.
‘Where are skirts for girls?’
‘I’m looking for sleepers. You had a bunch last week.’
A Latino woman, her narrow form weighted by the protuberance of a pregnancy she seemed barely able to support, whispered her question. ‘You got any boys’ shoes, miss? Size nine?’
Judith moved quickly. She found one item, then another, held them out for inspection. A plaid skirt was tossed aside but an almost new pale-blue sleeper was snapped up. She found a bin marked Boys’ Shoes. She bent over it, repelled by the acrid odor of sweat mingled with powder, although Suzanne had been careful to explain that all shoes were cleaned and, like everything else in the shop, ‘gently used’. There were no size nines. The pregnant woman sighed, knelt beside her and plucked out a pair of laced shoes, size ten.
‘He’ll grow into them,’ Judith said, feigning optimism.
‘Maybe yes. Maybe no. But at least he won’t be barefoot,’ she replied and looked down at her own feet where a toe poked its way through a very worn brown oxford.
‘We have lots of women’s shoes,’ Judith said.
‘Maybe next week. Today I’m worried about my boy.’
Judith turned away and helped a pale young woman, who held an even paler whimpering infant, search for a stroller. They found a battered Maclaren. The relieved mother settled the baby in it and smiled gratefully.
Waves after wave of shoppers came and went in a steady flow. The cash register rang open, rang shut, cheerful tintinnabulations that sounded over the voices of complaining children and crying babies, soothing voices and angry exchanges.
‘Hush now, don’t cry, baby.’
‘Hey, lady, I had my hands on that sweater. Give it over.’
‘I’m looking for a blanket. A summer blanket. They used to be on that table. Why do you keep shifting stuff around?’
‘Sorry,’ Judith said. ‘Blankets and linens are over there.’
The topography of the shop was easily managed. Judith supposed that Suzanne shared her proclivity for order; perhaps she, like Judith herself, saw it as a defense against the inevitable and irrational chaos of life itself. It shamed her to think of how often she herself sought comfort by cleaning out a closet or alphabetizing her spices.
Even now, experiencing a sudden unease, she wandered over to an untidy shelf of women’s sleepwear and, with gratifying mindlessness, soothed herself by folding the scattered garments. A soft voice interrupted her.
‘Excuse me, miss. I’m trying to find a nightgown. The kind that’s open at the front? You know what I mean.’
Judith turned and smiled at the sweet-faced young Asian woman who held her baby very close. Her high
-necked blouse of turquoise silk was tightly buttoned, but breast milk had seeped through the fabric and formed damp aureoles which the infant licked, her tiny tongue whipping about the stains.
Judith nodded. ‘You need a nursing nightgown,’ she said.
She rummaged through a pile of sleepwear, triumphantly pulling out a pink gown that buttoned down the front, similar to the delicate batiste negligees she had worn when she nursed Brian and then Melanie. She had consigned two of them to the bottom drawer of her bureau, placing them beneath the long white gloves worn on her wedding day, the lace mantilla David had bought her in a Spanish market, the scarf that had draped her doctorate gown – her private archive of tender souvenirs.
The young mother smiled gratefully and brushed her child’s cheek with the soft fabric of the nightgown. The infant’s satin-smooth hair was jet black and her skin was the color of sunlight. She was, Judith thought, perhaps three or four months old, that sweet postnatal age when a baby’s body gathered weight and smiles formed on tiny lips.
She closed her mind against the memory of the infant Melanie’s weight upon her body, of the thrust of the rosebud mouth as it sucked at her breast. Melanie had always nursed with her eyes closed, dark lashes brushing cheeks as soft as the petals of wild flowers.
‘What is your baby’s name?’ she asked.
‘Jane. And I am called Emily.’
She smiled. ‘Can you come again tomorrow? I have two other nightgowns at home and I’ll bring them in. I think you’ll find them helpful.’
A grateful nod, a shy smile. The baby cried. Three single dollar bills were pressed into Judith’s hand.
‘Enough?’ The question was shyly asked.
‘More than enough. Come back tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow.’
Judith watched as she hurried out, holding the baby close, the plastic bag that contained the nightgown dangling from her slender wrist.
Smiling, she helped one customer and then another. She straightened counters, folded sweaters, placing the brightest colors atop the soft pyramids that would soon be destroyed by grasping hands. The tide of customers did not abate. Plastic bags were exhausted and Suzanne replaced them with the pile of Whole Foods carriers.
Lois left, apologizing. ‘My daughter. A three o’clock dentist appointment,’ she explained and hurried out.
New volunteers arrived, worked for an hour and left. Fewer and fewer customers entered. By four o’clock the small shop was empty and Suzanne Brody hung the ‘Closed’ sign on the door and opened the cash register, carefully sorting the bills into piles and counting them.
‘What’s this?’ she asked and held up a slip of paper, tucked between two dollar bills.
Libby looked up. ‘I let a Mr Jameson take a suit without paying. He’ll give up the money when he gets his paycheck,’ she said.
‘That is not our policy,’ Suzanne said icily. ‘You can be sure you’ll never see your Mr Jameson again.’
‘And I’m sure that we will,’ Libby replied, her color rising.
‘Who makes policy?’ Judith asked daringly.
Suzanne did not answer. She tucked the bills and change into a large manila envelope.
‘I have to get to the bank,’ she said, ignoring both of them.
The envelope disappeared into the maw of her handbag and she left, closing the door very softly.
Judith looked at Libby, who shook her head and sighed.
‘She’s tough,’ Libby said forgivingly. ‘But she’s very dedicated. I come in only two days a week, but she’s here every day. She totally reorganized the shop and made it really profitable. She works very hard. And things aren’t easy for her.’
‘You don’t have to apologize for her,’ Judith replied. ‘Things aren’t easy for any of us.’
Libby blushed. ‘Yes. I know. I didn’t mean – I know …’
Her voice trailed off and her face was flushed. She could not say what she did not mean, nor could she speak of what she knew.
Judith understood her sudden confusion. She put her hand on the younger woman’s arm. ‘It was very sweet of you to bring that fruit platter when my daughter – when Melanie died,’ she said softly.
Driving home, she realized that she had spoken with astonishing ease. When Melanie died, she had said very calmly. She wondered whether Evelyn would approve. Would she congratulate her? She smiled at the thought and stopped at a roadside stall to buy the small red potatoes that David especially liked. They could have dinner on the screened porch and talk quietly. Yes, tonight she could battle the silence between them. She had ammunition. She could tell him about her afternoon, about Mr Jameson and the sweet-faced Asian mother. She would confide that she thought Suzanne Brody was a real bitch. A Jewish American princess playing Lady Bountiful. David had always been amused by her caustic assessments of casual acquaintances. He might smile. That would be good. That would be restorative.
She let herself into the house, set down the bag of potatoes and listened to the messages on her answering machine. The carpenter had changed the hour of his appointment. Denise wondered if she and Brian could come for the weekend. A neighbor had left the names of painters, glazers. And David had called to say that he would definitely be delayed. A conference call scheduled for the morning that would require research and preparation. No need for her to worry about dinner. Disappointed, she dialed his cell phone. It rang four times before he picked up.
She heard music, murmuring voices, a woman speaking very softly, David’s hissed shush.
‘I left a message, Judith,’ he said. His office voice, cool, controlled. The music stopped, the voices were stilled. ‘I have to prepare for this conference call.’
‘I know. I just wanted to know how late you would be. I can hold dinner.’
‘I’ll grab something in the city, maybe order in,’ he said.
‘All right, then.’
She waited for his reply, perhaps for a regretful apology.
‘Don’t wait up for me,’ he added.
She heard a child’s high-pitched voice in the background and then the sharp click as he snapped his phone shut.
She stared at the silent receiver. It was the voice of a small girl, she knew, a child clamoring to be heard.
‘Lauren. Of course, it was Lauren,’ she said aloud.
Lauren Rose, silver-haired Nancy’s small daughter, who slept in Melanie’s bed and studied at her small white desk.
She willed herself to calm. There was no reason why David should not be at Nancy’s apartment. She was perhaps helping him prepare a presentation and they were working at her apartment because she could not get a sitter. Perhaps there was material stored on Nancy’s home computer which David did not want entered into the office system. A variety of explanations occurred to her, all soothing rationalizations which failed to soothe.
It was ludicrous, she knew, to suspect David – her quiet, quiescent David – of infidelity. He abhorred the very concept, spoke with fury and contempt of men who betrayed their wives. His own parents’ marriage had been poisoned by his father’s brief and never-forgiven affair. She was certain, then, that his presence in Nancy’s apartment was work-related. She decided that she would ask him, when they next spoke, how Melanie’s furniture looked in Lauren’s room and whether the candy-striped curtains fit across her windows.
She recalled suddenly how he had hung those same curtains in Melanie’s room, obediently following her sweetly uttered imperious instructions. ‘Too high, Daddy. Too close together.’ Melanie had clapped when they were properly hung and flung herself into his arms.
Did David remember that when he stood in Lauren’s room? She closed her mind against her wild imaginings. Instead, she called Denise to tell her that of course she and Brian could come for the weekend.
‘How is the thrift shop working out?’ Denise asked hesitantly.
‘I think it’s going well,’ Judith replied. ‘It’s actually interesting and I am kind of enjoying it.’
She smil
ed and realized that it was indeed interesting and she was, in fact, enjoying it.
‘Good,’ Denise said, a congratulatory, almost maternal note in her voice.
Denise would make a wonderful mother, Judith thought, the sort of mother who exulted over a child’s drawing and admired small initiatives. She herself had tried to be that kind of mother – generous with praise, lavish with concern, her maternal exuberance tainted by the guilt she felt for the long hours she spent at the university. Still, she had tried. That was what women like herself did. They tried.
‘Give Brian my love,’ she told Denise and hung up.
She made herself a cup of soup, went up to her room, opened her bureau drawer and found the maternity negligees. She shook them free of their fraying tissue paper cocoons. A moon-shaped milk stain on the pale-blue fabric had resisted laundering. She lifted the nightgown to her mouth and foolishly, crazily, licked the stain. It did not taste of milk; it did not taste of Melanie.
She carried it into the bathroom, washed it with great care, succeeded at last in rubbing it clean. She hung it on the towel rack. She would iron it in the morning.
She went to bed, overcome by a fatigue so weighty that she could barely lift her hand to turn off her bed lamp.
SEVEN
She feigned sleep when David arrived home late that night and yet again when he left the next morning. She dressed quickly for her early-morning appointment with Mike Andrews, a much sought-after carpenter. She greeted him, holding her half-empty coffee cup, and led him upstairs. He was a pleasant-faced, burly man who strode through the newly empty bedroom and pressed his very large hands against the bare walls.
‘Well built,’ he said. ‘They’ll sustain built-ins if that’s what you have in mind.’
‘Yes. I thought built-in bookshelves. Maybe a cabinet of the same wood. It’s going to be a home office for my husband.’
He looked around. ‘A nice-sized room,’ he said. ‘I guess it was your daughter’s. Your husband’s not going to want pink walls.’ He laughed conspiratorially and scraped away a fleck of paint. ‘It’s great when the kids move out and you get to fix the house up for yourselves,’ he continued. ‘My wife turned our Lucy’s room into a sewing room when she got married. She and her husband live in Pittsburgh. Costs us an arm and a leg to fly out there. Is your daughter close by?’
After Melanie Page 7
