After Melanie

by Gloria Goldreich

  ‘Two dollars. Three dollars. Four dollars,’ he intoned in his deep baritone voice. Judith returned the favor by echoing his count.

  An elderly jeweler, his bald head shiny with perspiration, nattily dressed in a dark three-piece suit, a starched white shirt, sat at a low table, a loupe held to his eye, with which he examined small pieces of jewelry that he held in his trembling hand.

  ‘He comes every summer,’ Suzanne told Judith. ‘His shop is high-end and his regular customers travel in the summer so he has time to scrounge. He’s found some good pieces here and he always gives us a very fair price. Last summer he paid us well for a beautiful lapis necklace that was entangled in a mess of junk jewelry. People just don’t know what they’re giving away.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Judith agreed.

  An hour later the jeweler counted out crisp ten-dollar bills in payment for Sylvia Kahn’s amber necklace and earrings. Suzanne flashed Judith a conspiratorial smile and Judith smiled back.

  She acknowledged that she was beginning to respect Suzanne, even to like her. They occasionally ate their hasty lunches together in the cluttered rear room and spoke of going together to a new salad place that had opened nearby. Judith suggested a possible date and both of them consulted their pocket calendars, each aware of the danger of empty hours.

  The morning drifted into afternoon, her routine untroubled, her life unaltered.

  She was grateful that her days were so carefully orchestrated, mornings and afternoons divided into discrete assignments. Nothing had changed.

  She continued to spend the requisite afternoons at the Kahn house, she and Jeffrey extremely polite, extremely cautious.

  Her essay on literary approaches to grief had expanded beyond Eliot and Austen, and perhaps beyond an essay. She found herself rereading Edith Wharton, yet another childless woman writer with a deep understanding of loss. Wharton had lost family and friends, endured an unhappy affair and, finally, opted for divorce from the husband she had never loved.

  Judith took careful notes, not working at her computer but inking her ideas into the lined notebook she had scavenged from Melanie’s room. The smallest notation filled her with a sense of accomplishment. The vaguest insight comforted her. She made note of a moving letter from Wharton about the dissolution of her marriage.

  I am tired out, the author wrote to unfaithful, unreliable Teddy Wharton. I have done all I can … I now think it best … that we should live apart.

  They had been married for twenty-eight years. An odd coincidence, Judith thought. She and David had also been married for twenty-eight years. But she, of course, had not done all she could nor did she think that they should live apart. She could not imagine her life without David, who had been all things to her, friend and lover, husband, sharer of joy, silent hoarder of unshared sorrow. In recent days, David had spoken of wanting to talk, talk seriously, he had said, but she had resisted, now pleading a headache, now claiming she had to work on her research. She was not ready for a serious talk. She feared what he might say, what she might say. She sensed that David was relieved by the delay. He did not insist. There was no urgency, she told herself. They needed time, she and David; they needed patience.

  She said as much to Evelyn and the therapist nodded approvingly. She did not, however, tell Evelyn about that much-regretted hour in Jeffrey Kahn’s bedroom. It was an odd omission, she knew. Therapists were supposed to be secure recipients of such confidences. She did not speak of it, she knew, because such a revelation to Evelyn, who would surely want to explore it in depth, might vest it with an importance she struggled to deny. She repeated her mantra. It had happened. It was over. It would not happen again.

  Still, when Denise was searching for literary references to problematic marriage for her summer workshop on couples counseling, Judith showed her Wharton’s letter. Denise read it carefully.

  ‘Sad,’ she said, handing the book back to Judith. ‘The death of any marriage is very sad. My professor keeps insisting that marriages should not be taken for granted. She claims that couples have to work at them if they are to survive.’

  ‘There are some marriages that should not survive,’ Judith said. ‘Certainly, Wharton’s marriage to Teddy was doomed from the start. It probably lasted longer than it should have. Some marriages do.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Denise’s reply was tentative. She knew herself to be on dangerous territory. She feared that Judith might speak of her own marriage but dismissed that thought at once. Brian had often spoken of his mother’s penchant for privacy.

  ‘She lives inside her own head,’ he had said.

  Denise, who spoke to her mother and sisters daily, who giggled and wept through long lunches with a cadre of friends, who certainly did not live within their own heads, had nodded and shrugged. ‘Different strokes for different folks,’ she said playfully. ‘Still, your mom seems a lot more energized, less mired in misery. The best she’s been since Melanie’s death.’

  ‘Having a routine is good for her,’ Brian agreed.

  Judith herself acknowledged the importance of the routine she had established. She congratulated herself on her growing pile of index cards, on the new method of storage she had introduced at the thrift shop.

  At the Kahn house, the huge double closet in the dressing room approached emptiness, although the drawers and shelves were still full. Their contents too were arranged in seasons. There were Sylvia’s winter sweaters of fine cashmere and heavy wool, the cotton cardigans for spring and early autumn, and the loose sleeveless shirts she had worn during the summer. Judith carefully printed the name of each season with a black sharpie on separate cartons. Summer, Winter, Spring, Fall. She wondered if Sylvia had been aware of the passing seasons as she died her long and lingering death. It was not a thought she shared with Jeffrey.

  The rhythm they had established was scrupulously choreographed.

  The air of the dressing room was saturated with the scent of pastel-colored satin sachets filled with lavender which Sylvia had scattered in the drawers, her initials embroidered across each small fragrant sack.

  Sometimes they worked in companionable silence. Sometimes they talked quietly. It was, she assured herself repeatedly, as though nothing had happened.

  He spoke with gentle concern of his patients, with quiet pride of his daughters. She related small incidents from the thrift shop, told him of her affection for Emily, the pleasure she felt when she held Emily’s baby. He kept his radio tuned to the classical music station of the local university. One afternoon a Straus waltz played and he stood and invited her into his arms. They danced with great solemnity across the floor of the dressing room, gracefully avoiding the open cartons and the piles of clothing yet to be sorted. They glided away from the bedroom even though the door was closed. They would take no chances. She curtsied and he bowed when the music ended, and they both laughed.

  Late each afternoon, before she left, they sat in the kitchen. Always there was a pitcher of iced tea with sprigs of mint from Sylvia’s herb garden floating in the golden liquid. Always there was a bowl of summer fruit. Occasionally, Judith brought cheese or croissants. They ate with pleasure, pleased by their own restraint, their ability to have restored a sense of ease. And yet, she acknowledged, those afternoons were tinged with a dangerous, even a pleasurable, excitement. Often, as she drove home, she pulled the car over to the side of the road and sat quietly, allowing the rose and mauve shadows of early sunset to soothe her.

  It was an hour she and David had always loved. Often, during their courtship and the early years of their marriage, they had met at day’s end and walked hand in hand through the gathering darkness. She would suggest to David that they resume those twilight walks. The idea calmed her and erased all thoughts of Jeffrey.

  It pleased her that the work on David’s home office was almost completed. His books were arranged on the newly planed shelves, his diplomas hung on the paneled walls. The sand-colored area rug was stretched across the polished hardwood floor. Th
e furniture she had chosen – the beige recliner and the convertible sofa that opened into a comfortable bed – was in place.

  Brian had set up his father’s computer and Denise had contributed a mouse pad with a picture of herself and Brian. A wooden file cabinet had been donated to the thrift shop and Judith had purchased it and stocked it with file folders that remained empty. David had thanked her for her efforts.

  ‘You did well, Judith,’ he had said. ‘You thought of everything. But then you always do.’

  ‘You’ll be able to spend more time working from home,’ she had replied.

  ‘Yes. Of course. It will make life easier.’

  But he did not spend more time working at home. Two or three times a week he told her that he would not be home for dinner. A pressing deadline, a very late conference call, a very early meeting. Twice that month he did not come home at all. He was regretful. She was understanding. They needed time. That was something they both silently agreed on. His determination to be honest with her had not changed, but he wanted the time to be right, the press of work abated. That, at least, was what he told himself.

  David was not at home one evening when Brian and Denise arrived for dinner. Judith explained that he was working late. ‘You’ll have to forgive him,’ she told the young couple. ‘Things seem to be crazy at the office.’

  ‘Well, if you forgive him, we’ll have to do the same,’ Denise said lightly, but Judith saw that her son’s eyes were dark with worry.

  Denise called the next day. She had been given tickets to an exhibit at a small gallery.

  ‘Women painters. Mary Cassatt. Vanessa Bell. Frieda Kahlo. Judy Chicago. An esoteric collection. But I thought it might interest you. We could have lunch. There’s a great salad place, a café with a view of the avenue that just opened. I know Monday is your writing day, but why not take a break?’

  Why not indeed? Judith thought.

  It was a nice gesture on Denise’s part and the exhibit that seemed to span so many generations did interest her. It occurred to her that she might include women artists who had also confronted grief and loss in her essay. The idea intrigued her. She agreed. More than agreed. She looked forward to it.

  EIGHTEEN

  They met at the café, choosing a window table that faced the street. Judith relaxed. She studied her reflection in the glass and was pleased with herself. She wore her apple-green linen dress and carried the bag she had ordered to match it. She felt contentedly stylish. It was pleasant to sit in a room flooded with sunshine and cooled by a gently purring air conditioner. Denise was full of goodwill and eager to please, her auburn hair in an unruly cascade about her shoulders, her green eyes bright behind her red-framed glasses. Disorganized as always, books and paper bulging out of her faded brown book bag, a button missing on her rumpled white blouse, her wildly floral-patterned skirt too long, she discussed the menu choices.

  Judith had heard it said that men chose to marry women who resembled their mothers. It seemed to her that Brian had done the exact opposite. Still, she was beginning to like this very disorganized girl who would be her daughter-in-law.

  ‘Wine,’ she said suddenly, unexpectedly. ‘Let’s have a carafe of white wine.’

  The sweet-faced waitress nodded and swiftly returned with the wine. They lifted their glasses in silent toast and looked out of the window at the passing cast of pedestrians. Denise shared Judith’s penchant for people watching, for speculating about the strangers they would never see again, who were so briefly in their field of vision. An older man walking with a small boy was a divorced father, Denise volunteered.

  ‘Married a woman too young for him and now she’s left him and is living in a commune in Oregon.’

  ‘Maybe just a grandfather and grandson,’ Judith protested.

  Two well-dressed women walked by, one speaking angrily, the other looking miserable.

  ‘Sisters,’ Judith volunteered. ‘Arguing about who will take care of their sick mother.’

  ‘Colleagues at an ad agency accusing each other of professional treachery.’

  They laughed. The game was fun. Their imaginations soared. Neither had expected the other to be an active player in the whimsical game. Judith shared the Virginia Woolf story of a woman on a bus speculating about another passenger, convinced that she was a lonely spinster, only to discover how very wrong she was when the woman descended at her stop to be greeted by a swarm of affectionate children.

  ‘It must be wonderful to have so many literary references to draw from,’ Denise said. ‘I have only case histories.’

  ‘Fiction can offer only so much comfort. Poetry is actually more helpful,’ Judith said carefully.

  The very young rabbi who had tried to comfort her when he paid a shiva visit had suggested that she read Psalms, but she had turned instead to Dylan Thomas. Over and over she had read, Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

  Judith did not quote the Thomas poem to Denise. Instead, she suggested that she read Emily Dickinson.

  They continued to look out of the window as their salads arrived. And they were still staring, their forks raised, arugula dangling in a verdant string, when a man in a light summer suit and a woman wearing a pale-blue dress and broad-brimmed straw hat passed by, each holding the hand of a small girl who walked between them. The trio paused as the woman removed her hat. Her silver hair floated loose and she brushed it back from her face. Her companion turned to her and smiled. They walked on as Denise’s fork clattered to the table. Judith sat motionless, her own fork frozen in her lifted hand.

  ‘David. It was David, wasn’t it?’ she asked, her voice faint, her face blanched of all color.

  ‘Yes. Yes, it was,’ Denise agreed miserably.

  Their game was over. All pleasantness abandoned.

  ‘And he was with Nancy. Nancy, who works in his office. We gave her Melanie’s furniture. That was Nancy with him. It was her, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Denise replied. ‘I’ve never met her.’

  ‘No. Of course you haven’t.’

  Judith drained her wine glass and turned her attention to her salad. They ate too quickly and went to the exhibit. The paintings were interesting, the curator’s notes insightful. They paused dutifully before each picture. Judith clutched her moleskin notebook but she did not open it. They left the gallery and stood in awkward silence on the corner.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Denise said.

  ‘There is nothing for you to be sorry about,’ Judith replied. ‘Maybe it was for the best. We will have to talk now. David and I. Yes, we will have to talk.’

  A cab pulled up and she bent and kissed Denise on the cheek. An unusual gesture for Judith, Denise knew.

  ‘It was good of you to invite me,’ she said. ‘I appreciate it.’

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ Denise said in return.

  The cab pulled away. Denise took out her cell phone. She thought to call Brian but changed her mind. There was time enough for him to deal with the dilemma of his parents’ marriage, time enough for both of them to assimilate the lessons they might learn from it.

  Judith was in the living room when David arrived home that evening. Although it was still daylight, she had drawn the drapes so that the large room was dimly lit. Still wearing her apple-green linen dress, she sat in a circlet of light cast by a single lamp. He stood in the doorway, briefcase in hand, and stared at her in surprise.

  ‘Judith, are you all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ she asked.

  He put his briefcase down and sank into the chair opposite her. ‘You look tired,’ he said. ‘Do you want to go out for dinner?’

  ‘I had lunch in the city with Denise. I’m not really hungry. And I don’t imagine you are. You had lunch out as well, didn’t you?’

  ‘I did, as a matter of fact. But how did you know?’ He spoke with the slightest of stutters, that childhood disability, long conquered, recurring in moments of stress.r />
  ‘I saw you. You and Nancy. And Nancy’s daughter. Lauren. Denise and I had a window table at a café near the museum and we saw the three of you walk by. You made an appealing picture. A pretend charming, happy family, taking a leisurely walk on a lovely day.’

  She bit her lip. She had not meant to descend into sarcasm. She had not wanted her words to spill out laced with bitterness. She was newly suffused with anger, anger at herself, anger at David, but she would trade that anger for honesty. She wanted him to be honest about his relationship with Nancy Cummings. She would offer him honesty in return. Yes, she would dare to tell him about Jeffrey Kahn. It would be a mutual exchange, their confessional slate wiped clean, their self-inflicted silences at an end.

  She waited.

  He stared at her. ‘We were not pretending to be a happy family, as you put it,’ he said, his stutter gone, his courage ignited. ‘We are colleagues, Nancy and I. We are also friends, and we were taking her daughter to the children’s wing of the Met for an art class. An innocent enough outing. I would have mentioned it to you if I thought you cared. I come home late. I don’t come home at all. You ask no questions. Not about my work. Not about where I’ve been. You have been so remote from me since Melanie died.’

  He sank into the chair opposite her and leaned forward, his head in his hands.

  Her anger melted, warmed by relief. He had, at last, spoken their daughter’s name, spoken it full-voiced, in a sentence completed, to her. They were no longer stranded on their separate islets of grief, no longer restricted to the cryptic language of the bereaved.

  She understood, with sudden clarity, that they had been mutually paralyzed by their grief, choking on words they could not utter. They feared to speak to each other of the enormity of their loss. They had no blueprint for comfort. Closeness eluded, fatigue overwhelmed. Entangled in a web of sorrowful anger, furious and frightened, they had retreated into silence and solitude. But now, seated together in this lamp-lit room, staring out at the shadows of encroaching evening, Judith knew they had to speak, to share, to exchange revelations, however damning and painful they might be. And, watching David, as he dropped his hands and stared at her, his eyes soft, she saw that he understood.