Single Wife

by Nina Solomon

  “He used to love to write letters,” Grace told Griffin. In the top drawer of her dresser she had a stack of letters tied with silk ribbon that Laz had sent to her even though they were living together at the time. She read them often, especially when he began to feel remote to her. She sometimes even saved messages from him on the answering machine to play when he was away on a trip.

  Inside the metal container were letters he’d sent home from camp and boarding school and college, as well as letters he’d written to his father over the years that had come back unopened. Laz’s mother had once been on a cleaning binge and had come across the tin. When she had asked him what she should do with it, he’d told her to throw it out, but Grace had salvaged it from the discard pile and brought it home without telling him. Neither Grace nor Griffin spoke as they emptied the contents of the tin. Blue, green, and orange envelopes fluttered across the desk.

  Griffin picked up one of the unopened letters and pressed the envelope between his palms. Each letter was thick, comprised of several folded pages. Laz’s handwriting was visible through the envelope. Without having to say anything to each other, Griffin and Grace gathered the letters together and placed them back in the tin. There would be plenty of time to open them, if they ever felt the need.

  Griffin shoved his hands in his pockets. Grace went to the closet, pushing aside a shopping bag, and placed the tin back on the shelf. Just as she was about to close the door, she saw a sealed plastic bag containing a block of clay. It had probably been in there for years. She knelt down and lifted it up, setting it on the floor. Amazingly, the clay still felt cold and moist.

  “I had completely forgotten about it,” she said. She could easily imagine the feeling of working the clay with her hands to get the air out, and the way that the dry, silky dust would remain on her fingertips for days afterward.

  She glanced at the clock. It was nearly seven. She realized that she’d been so engrossed in their explorations that she hadn’t even offered Griffin anything to eat or drink.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  “Starving.” She was about to mention the spinach lasagna with tofu filling that she had waiting in the kitchen when he said, “I’ve been really craving meat. It’s been nothing but gerbil food since I got here.” Feeling very Francinesque, she decided to freeze the lasagna for another time.

  The only meat she had in the house were the two dozen or so containers of sweet-and-sour meatballs. She made a mental note to call the butcher, then went into the kitchen, thankfully able to stop herself before she uttered the words, “Dinner will be ready in ten minutes and thirty seconds.”

  FRANCINE WAS RIGHT—the meatballs seemed to be as fresh as the day they were prepared, whenever that was. Grace set the kitchen table with two woven place mats, cloth napkins, and the William Morris dishes that she and Laz had bought at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. The image of Francine at the Food Emporium was still vivid her mind. It had been a strange encounter, almost as uncomfortable as when she was a teenager and had bumped into her parents in the East Village, wearing their matching dungaree leisure suits. Her father still spoke about those leisure suits with great nostalgia, yearning for a bygone time. Francine had been quite ill at ease, as if she had been caught in a compromising position.

  As Grace stirred the meatballs, she realized that she’d forgotten all about Mr. Dubrovsky’s book, which was probably still on the floor of Flik’s Video, when the telephone rang. The machine picked up and she heard Mr. Dubrovsky’s voice. Mrs. Brookman, it is vital that I speak to you . . .

  Just then, Griffin walked into the kitchen, and Grace rushed over to turn down the volume. Mr. Dubrovsky’s voice trailed off. Grace wiped her hands on a paper towel and motioned for Griffin to sit down, placing the steaming bowl of meatballs on a trivet. He spooned almost half the contents of the bowl onto his plate. By the time Grace had taken a second bite of her grilled vegetable/soy burger, Griffin had all but cleaned his plate.

  “These are amazing. What’s in them?” he asked. Again, she couldn’t tell him even if she’d wanted to. Francine never would have divulged her culinary secrets, however fond she was of Griffin’s father.

  “I’ll try to get the recipe for you,” she lied. “I actually didn’t make them myself.”

  “Well, they’re really good,” he said again, reaching for the bowl. “Aren’t you going to have any?” Grace shook her head, so he proceeded to spoon out the remaining meatballs.

  “What would you like to do tomorrow?” Grace asked. “I could show you around the city a bit, if you like.”

  Griffin reached for a slice of peasant bread. “That sounds great, but I’m going up to Vermont for a couple of days to go skiing.” Grace watched as he spread a thick layer of butter over the bread, salted it, and took a huge bite.

  “Alone?”

  “No. Some girl I met invited me. She goes to the acting school in the building. A group of them are driving up in the morning, and they asked if I wanted to go with them.” Grace had seen the acting students in Laz’s building. They were always dressed in black and carried huge bags slung over their shoulders.

  “When will you be back?” she asked, not wanting to sound intrusive but suddenly aware of a Stepford-like feeling of protection over him.

  “Thursday late afternoon, I think.”

  “We’re going to Chicago on Friday,” she told him. Griffin put down his bread and looked up. Grace knew what he was thinking. She took a deep breath before she spoke. “But Laz is flying directly to O’Hare.”

  As soon as she’d uttered the words, she paused and tried to think of anyone over the course of the last six weeks to whom she had not lied, and realized that with the exception perhaps of Pete, the bartender at Tap A Keg, there was no one.

  Grace brought a plate of cookies and a pot of chamomile tea into the living room. Griffin turned the Christmas tree on and off from the dining room light switch with glee, like a small child let loose at the planetarium.

  “Cool light show,” he said. Grace sat on the couch with her legs folded beneath her, sipping her tea.

  “Glad you like it,” she said.

  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, Grace went to prepare Griffin breakfast and found a note on the kitchen table. He hadn’t wanted to wake her. The radiator hissed and clanked like someone knocking. Grace walked through the apartment and into the den, looking for remnants of Griffin’s presence, some proof that he’d really been there. The least he could have done was to have left some traces—a half-empty glass of water on the nightstand, a paperback book, even a wet towel on the doorknob. Griffin, in this regard, was nothing like his father after all, who left evidence of himself whether he was in the apartment or not. Griffin had seemed to all but vanish. The bed was made, as if no one had inhabited it. Even the rug she and Laz had brought back from Morocco, which was constantly inching toward the window, was in its place, undisturbed.

  She noticed that the light in the bathroom was on. She went to turn it off and saw Griffin’s Dopp kit on the sink. It was wide open like a fish about to swallow a hook, and Grace looked at the contents: a tube of toothpaste, a double-edged razor, deodorant, dental floss, a nail clipper, and shampoo. Luckily, all the items inside were easily replaceable, although, with a blizzard about to hit, replacing them might prove difficult. She was about to zip the bag up when she noticed a familiar-looking white business card sticking out of the top. She reached for it, and as soon as she read Mr. Dubrovsky’s name, she stuffed it back inside, turned off the light as if that would obliterate the knowledge, and fled the room.

  Later that morning, she telephoned Flik’s Video, but—as if they were Grace’s willing accomplices—they claimed that they had found no evidence of Oblomov among the videos.

  23

  FREQUENT FLYER

  The snow arrived late Monday evening and continued through Wednesday morning. It was indeed a blizzard of immense proportions, some snowdrifts reaching as high as the parlor-floor windows of bro
wnstones. With all the snow, which was considerably more than Milton had predicted, Grace imagined Laz couldn’t have gotten home even if he’d wanted to.

  The snow presented Grace with an early holiday gift of excuses to abstain from almost all daily activities, including teaching her class and attending any family functions during the week. She was thus exempt from the biweekly “ancient Chinese” facials on Mott Street that her mother swore by, which incorporated ground-up pearl powder and shark cartilage exfoliant, and which left Grace’s skin sensitive and prone to breakouts, lunch at Ratner’s, and the requisite quick peek in at S and W’s discount clothing store in the garment district, as well as a charity meeting with Laz’s mother. Nancy Brookman, not heeding the advice of her riding instructor, had gone out riding and fallen when the horse lost its footing on a patch of ice, spraining Nancy’s ankle in the process.

  The one appointment that Grace could not get out of was with Dr. Gaylin, and so she set out midafternoon on Wednesday, traversing the snow-covered park on foot. The sun shimmered off the unmarred white hills, a short reprieve as more snow was forecast. The park was silent, all but unpopulated, with no wind. Grace trudged through the surreal stillness.

  As Grace neared the East Side, the park suddenly became animated—cross-country skiers threaded their way between benches and trees, then disappeared through covered overpasses; dogs trotted through huge drifts, in search of squirrels, occasionally chasing children whizzing by on Flexible Flyers and plastic saucers.

  Almost without thinking, Grace walked along the twists and turns of the paths, as the synthesized activities continued around her. Fifth Avenue loomed ahead, the impressive limestone facades in deep shadow. Grace gazed back one last time at the idyllic snow-covered scene before crossing the street and heading toward Dr. Gaylin’s office.

  Once inside, Grace sat down on a leather club chair and opened a magazine. There were several women in the waiting area. One, who looked at least eight months pregnant, smiled at Grace, who smiled back politely.

  “You don’t recognize me, do you?” the woman said. She was wearing a black headband, and her auburn hair fell just to the nape of her neck. Her scarf, folded in a triangle and tied off to the side, was imprinted with horses and riding scenes. “I’m Patsy. Laura’s daughter. Nancy and my mom ride together. I met you at last year’s Historical Society auction.”

  “Oh, of course,” Grace said. “I’m sorry. I was just a little preoccupied.”

  “Me, too,” she said, patting her stomach. “How are you?”

  “Fine, thanks. When are you due?” In the background, the radio was tuned to WQXR. A female journalist was discussing hoaxes in the media. I’ve been a journalist for twenty-five years, and never before have I come across a case of such blatant fabrication as with the case of the Kosovo prison impersonation. . .

  “Hey, isn’t that your husband’s—”

  “Shh,” Grace said, raising her finger to her lips. The woman must have thought the gesture indicated Grace’s desire to listen to the broadcast. Just then, the nurse came in to escort Grace into the examining room. The voice of the female journalist trailed off as Grace followed behind the nurse.

  The results of the hCG test confirmed that the blood levels had returned to normal, as if nothing at all had ever inhabited Grace’s uterus. After spending a few moments with Dr. Gaylin, Grace headed for home.

  Her mood and the weather had changed dramatically. The sun was obscured by thick, gray clouds and the park was virtually deserted, as if all the activity of just an hour ago had been a figment of her imagination. She shivered in her red parka. It felt like dusk. As she approached the park exit nearest her street, Grace thought about her empty apartment and then continued north on the park drive toward the yarn store.

  She rang the buzzer and waited. Just as she was about to leave, she heard the door click and went in. Penelope was not dressed in one of her usual floral outfits, but was wearing a formfitting, blue pinstriped pants suit with exaggerated shoulders and a peplum waist. Her pants were tucked into white, fur-lined boots.

  “Grace!” she said, walking toward her, arms extended. “We haven’t seen you around lately.”

  “I know. I got caught up with family stuff,” she said. This was not a lie. She had lost a child, found a child, and her father had been hospitalized all in less than a week, not to mention her husband’s ongoing unexplained absence.

  The sight of the shelves newly stocked with yarn was reassuring. Grace touched the soft skeins. Each one contained the possibility of a new creation. Some were more suited to one type of form than another, and there was the variable of the person working the yarn, but still, the basic characteristics were innate, as if the light gossamer weave of a fine angora had only one option. Grace was drawn to a pale lilac yarn with flecks of white. She pulled a skein off the shelf.

  “That’s a very fine yarn,” Penelope commented. Grace squeezed it. It felt almost like nothing in her hand.

  “It’s wonderful,” Grace said. For the first time since she began crocheting, she felt the need to have a pattern. “What should I make out of it?” she asked.

  Penelope’s eyes widened. “You never had to know before. Why now? Take the risk, let go of the result,” she answered. Just then, the young man with the crocheting workshop stopped by to pick up a package of labels to sew into his creations that read Made expressly by Scott. He was wearing a nubby yellow sweater he’d obviously knitted himself, tucked into a pair of tight, black ski pants. He looked like a bumblebee.

  “Hello, hello,” he said, greeting Grace like an old friend. She sat down at the long oak table and set to work. She hadn’t discussed the offer for the part-time job that Penelope had made her, but it seemed as if no answer was required besides just showing up.

  Grace assisted three customers with choosing yarn, and she demonstrated a scallop stitch to another. By the time she was ready to leave, it was dark out. As Grace put on her coat and packed up ten skeins of the lilac yarn, Penelope brought over a large plastic bag and set it in front of her on the table.

  “It’s your grandmother’s afghan. I did a few repairs. Not like new, but it will hold up. I hope you like it.” Grace had not forgotten about it. In fact, quite the opposite. It was like Laz’s leather jacket, which was still at the tailor’s—she simply had no use for it now. She reached into the bag and pulled out the afghan. There were no more gaping holes or frayed ends. The afghan was whole and intact, as perfect as the edition of Twain that her father had rebound for Laz, and inasmuch, utterly unfamiliar to her. This was not the same afghan that had kept her warm the nights Laz went to his hockey games. The holes were gone and with them the memories —the proof of being well loved and well used—the tenacity of fibers holding tight in spite of weaknesses.

  “Penelope, thank you so much,” she said, trying to hide her disappointment.

  “My pleasure. But I told you you’d be better off starting over. It can never be the same. I’m closing up early today. I’m meeting someone,” she said, batting her eyes. “A blind date.” She lowered her voice. “Actually, I met him on the Internet. He’s a linguist. We really hit it off. Who knows? He may be the one.” Grace wished her well and closed the door behind her on the way out.

  IT WAS SNOWING heavily when Grace walked out onto the street. At least another three inches of fresh snow now covered the parked cars. She pulled her hood over her head and steadied herself against the wind. The lights from the cars blended into one glaring stream as she crossed the street to find a taxi heading downtown. There were several people searching for taxis ahead of her, arms laden with packages.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man in a black parka leaning against a mailbox, his head buried in a newspaper. It wouldn’t have seemed out of the ordinary, except that people don’t usually read newspapers or wear business shoes during blizzards. She knew those shoes. They were the same sort of wing tips that Mr. Dubrovsky wore. As she approached the man, she saw him turn his head away
quickly, as if he didn’t want to be identified. Instead of waiting for a taxi, she began walking, quickly. She looked behind to make certain he wasn’t following her, but in the bracing wind and with the glaring headlights, she could no longer even make out the mailbox where he’d been standing.

  Grace quickened her pace, rushing around the corner, then stopped briefly to catch her breath. All for a book. It seemed so ludicrous. Then she remembered the card in Griffin’s bag, thinking that everything was somehow related, but she couldn’t connect the dots at the moment. She ducked under the awning of the synagogue that her family went to on the high holy days, just off West End Avenue. Brushing the snow off her coat, she went in.

  Her father had once led her through the synagogue on a rainy day. They had gone into the sanctuary and down a flight of stairs and through a neighboring church, miraculously emerging several blocks south, right in front of the crosstown bus stop—without getting wet. She wondered if she could reconstruct the route. She proceeded toward the sanctuary while trying to keep an eye out for Mr. Dubrovsky. Could he actually be following her?

  An archway that was covered in small, brilliantly colored tiles led into the sanctuary, two large doors flanking it on either side. Each door was emblazoned with a seven-pronged gilt menorah and a colorful, fanning mosaic pattern, along with other symbols of Judaism with which Grace was not familiar. She pulled at the ornate brass handle of one of the doors, but it was locked. She tried the other. After a heavy tug, it opened. She glanced over her shoulder and thought she saw a hooded figure enter the synagogue just as she slipped through the door.

  She descended a flight of unlit stairs until she reached a musty-smelling basement. An eerie orange glow emanated from the single bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. The bulb, covered with a thick layer of black soot, looked as if it hadn’t been changed in forty years, clearly surpassing the Duro-Lite record for longevity.

  Looking ahead and seeing only murky shadows before her, Grace had the urge to turn back. Harnessing her courage, she forged ahead down the maze of dark corridors. She traveled for what seemed to be several blocks, then she finally entered a brightly lit boiler room with an assemblage of pipes and gears, beyond which was a door with a lit red exit sign above it. She pushed the door open to find another flight of stairs. At the top of the landing, she came to a fire door, which she opened slowly, careful not to set off any alarms, and found herself standing in the church entryway.