After Melanie

by Gloria Goldreich

  Judith smiled at an older woman who placed a man’s Harris tweed jacket on the counter.

  ‘My husband’s,’ she said. ‘Almost brand new. He wore it twice, maybe three times. I hope you can sell it.’

  ‘I’m sure we can,’ Judith assured her.

  She carried the suit to the rack of men’s jackets. To her surprise, the youth who had entered earlier in search of a leather jacket was still there, fingering the cuffs of one garment, the collar of another.

  He stared at her nervously. ‘I’m still looking,’ he said.

  ‘That’s fine. No problem,’ she replied calmly.

  It was not unusual for itinerant shoppers or browsers to linger. The shop was a refuge for the unemployed, for those with too little money and too much time, for young people seeking sanctuary from a world that had no place for them. She smiled at him and found a hanger for the tweed jacket.

  An hour later, Suzanne arrived. Judith followed her into the storeroom.

  ‘Anything unusual happen?’ she asked, her voice edged with anxiety.

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ Judith assured her.

  She decided against telling Suzanne about the early voiceless phone call. It could have been anyone. A prankster. A wrong number. A telemarketer.

  ‘But we have too much cash. Over six hundred dollars and we were too busy to send anyone to the bank,’ she added.

  ‘I’ll go,’ Suzanne offered. ‘You’ve been keeping an eye on the register?’

  ‘Yes. Lois is covering it now.’

  They went into the shop but Lois was not at the register. She waved to them from the corner where she was helping two laughing young women examine a pile of vintage evening dresses. They left without buying anything just as Suzanne opened the register. With a cheerful ring, the drawer slid open.

  They gasped. The metal compartments were empty. Loose coins clattered and two lonely dollar bills were in the rear tray. The neatly banded wads of larger bills were gone.

  ‘Lois!’ Suzanne called angrily.

  Lois rushed over and stared down at the emptied drawer. ‘I’ve only been away from the counter for a second. Two seconds. I thought it was all right. There was only this one guy still in the rear. He’d been here for a while. I didn’t think I had to worry about him. He left maybe a minute after you came in, Suzanne.’

  ‘I remember him,’ Judith said. ‘He came in very early. Very thin. Almost handsome, actually, except for a scar on his cheek.’

  ‘A scar? A zigzag scar?’ Suzanne’s voice was faint. ‘On his cheek? His right cheek?’

  ‘Yes. I think so. No, I’m sure. His right cheek.’

  ‘Eric,’ Suzanne whispered. ‘Eric.’ The whisper became a shout.

  She rushed to the door and stared out into the entry way. ‘Eric! Eric!’ She screamed the name, her face raddled with tears, her shoulders quivering. ‘Eric!’ The scream became a shriek interrupted by the rush of footsteps.

  Frightened, Judith moved toward her but paused when she heard the sound of a muffled voice, an awkward muttering of barely audible words.

  ‘Mom. Mom. Please don’t cry. Please don’t be angry. I’m sorry. Here’s the money. All of it.’

  Judith watched as he waved the clutch of bills, as his arms, his very thin arms, opened wide and Suzanne collapsed into them. Moving as one, each supporting the other, they limped into the shop and disappeared into the storeroom. The door remained ajar. Judith turned to Lois.

  ‘I think it’s best if you leave.’

  Lois nodded. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she murmured.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault,’ Judith said.

  She smiled reassuringly. She wanted to tell the younger woman that no one was to blame, that sad, inexplicable things happened without fault or reason. A son might go astray. A daughter might die. She thought to repeat the Yiddish proverb that lingered so stubbornly in memory. When children are little, they sit on your lap. When children are grown, they sit on your heart. Instead, she hugged Lois, who hurried out.

  Judith hung the ‘Closed’ sign on the shop window and sat on the high stool behind the register. Suzanne would want her to stay, she knew. The partially opened door was an invitation to bear witness, perhaps to offer intervention.

  She heard their voices. Eric’s soft and broken. Suzanne’s soft and comforting, at once disappointed and forgiving, latent anger muted by hesitant hope. Eric was weeping, weeping and talking, his every utterance thickened with shame and grief.

  ‘I wanted to come home. I wanted to see you. To see Dad. I was so tired of my life, so tired of being me. I wanted to stop running. I wanted to stop using. I tried detox once and then again. Finally, I went cold turkey, did it on my own. And it worked. It was so terrible that I knew I would never touch drugs again; I never wanted to feel what I felt, holed up in a crummy SRO in LA, shaking and vomiting and wanting to die. That was two years ago. I’ve been clean ever since, Mom. I swear.’

  ‘I believe you.’

  Judith marveled at Suzanne’s calm.

  ‘I wanted to come home right after that but I got sick. Pneumonia. They said at the clinic I went to that a lot of ex-addicts come down with it. I didn’t want you to see me looking the way I looked then. So I waited. I worked some lousy jobs. Custodial stuff, burger flipping, but I made enough money for a bus ticket home, enough to get some decent clothes, get a haircut.’

  ‘You should have called us. We would have helped. Your father and I. Surely you knew that.’

  ‘I couldn’t. Not after what I put you through. I was too ashamed. I wanted to show you that I’d changed, that I got cleaned up on my own. But I fell asleep on the bus to New York, and when I woke up, my wallet and my backpack were gone. I had just enough cash in my pocket to get up here. I crashed at a shelter one town over, where they let me use the phone. I called you, just to hear your voice and then I hung up. Once. Twice. I don’t know how many times. When you added the thrift shop number and address to your voicemail message, I guessed you had figured out that it was me calling. I got up the guts to come to the shop, but you weren’t here. I waited. But the longer I waited, the more scared and ashamed I got. I thought if I had some money, I could get myself cleaned up, get something to eat so I’d stop shaking, get a haircut and then maybe you wouldn’t be so shocked. So, bum that I am – bum that I was – I took the money from the register.’ His voice broke.

  Judith shivered. Poor boy. Poor Suzanne.

  ‘But you didn’t run. You waited. And when you heard me call your name, you came to me. You didn’t spend the money. I don’t think you could have. Because you’re not a thief. You’re not a bum. You’re my boy. My son.’ Suzanne spoke slowly, each word heavy with relief and pain.

  Silence, broken by the whispering murmur of sobs – whether his or hers, Judith could not tell. She slid off the high stool. Through the half-opened door, she saw Eric kneeling before Suzanne who embraced his trembling body, her head bent so that her cheek rested on his tousled hair. Judith closed the door. Against all odds, Suzanne’s son was restored to her. She needed neither witness nor protector.

  Breathing deeply, she left the thrift shop and was startled to see Emily at the door, staring in puzzlement at the ‘Closed’ sign. She turned to Judith, still rocking the stroller in which Jane slept, her silken black lashes brushing her golden cheeks.

  ‘Did I make a mistake?’ she asked. ‘Did you change the hours? I thought the shop would be open.’

  ‘We had a special situation so we closed early,’ Judith explained. ‘Did you want something in particular, Emily?’

  ‘No. I actually came to see you, to thank you. James is so happy to be working for your friend, Doctor Kahn.’

  ‘I’m glad I was able to help.’

  ‘He is such a nice man, my husband says. Your Doctor Kahn. There is an apartment at his hospital, a small apartment for doctors’ assistants. He said he would try to arrange for us to live there. Oh, how kind and nice he is.’

  ‘Yes. H
e is very nice, very kind. My friend, Doctor Kahn.’

  She felt a pang of guilt. He was indeed her friend and she had promised to call him. She would – of course she would. But not yet. She was not ready. Not after David’s rejection. She was too vulnerable to his kindness, his niceness.

  She glanced at her watch. With the closing of the shop, the empty afternoon stretched out before her.

  ‘I go to the park now,’ Emily said shyly.

  ‘I have some time. I’ll walk with you.’

  ‘How nice. How good of you.’

  They smiled at each other. Walking together, their pace unhurried, they crossed one street, then another, until they reached a small park. Judith pointed to a bench shaded by a red maple tree. They sat side by side.

  ‘I used to come here when my daughter was a baby,’ Judith said.

  ‘Your daughter?’ Emily asked.

  ‘Yes. I had a daughter. Melanie. She was called Melanie.’

  She looked skyward, surprised that she had spoken those words with such ease, that her voice had not broken when she uttered them.

  ‘She died,’ she said softly. ‘A few months ago.’

  Emily turned to her, her dark eyes lucent. She took Judith’s hand and stroked it gently. Her understanding was implicit in her touch, her sympathy eloquent in its silence. They sat hand in hand as a soft wind rustled the branches of the tree that shaded them. A star-shaped leaf fluttered on to the baby’s cheek. Jane’s rosebud lips parted in a smile and her dark eyes opened. Emily lifted her daughter out of the stroller and placed her in Judith’s arms. Gently, gratefully, Judith cradled her. She bent her head close and inhaled the baby-sweet scent, pressed a finger lightly against the smooth rose-gold cheek.

  That delicate aroma triggered a memory of a long-ago twilight hour, when she and David had bathed the infant Melanie together, smiling in wonderment at the softness of her skin. She recalled how their fingers had met to form a tender crown upon the child’s head. David had lifted Judith’s hand, wet and soapy as it was, and pressed it to his lips and then held it for the briefest of moments. She smiled and placed the baby in Emily’s outstretched arms.

  ‘I must go,’ she said. ‘But this was so nice. Come to the shop soon. I’ve put aside some nice autumn outfits for Jane.’

  ‘Thank you. I will.’

  Judith hurried away, anxious suddenly to drive home, to turn to the book she had left open on her desk. She had refrained from reading Dickinson’s poem, with its monitory warnings, in its entirely. You cannot make Remembrance grow … nor can you cut Remembrance down, the poet had warned.

  But Judith did not fear to read it now. On this day, at this moment, she no longer feared remembrance. She had seen Suzanne set aside all memory of years of pain and reclaim her son. She had remembered the touch of her husband’s lips upon her hand. She was newly ambushed by hope, hope nurtured by remembrance, remembrance ever fragile, ever enduring, remembrance that, as the poet assured her, cannot be cut down.

  TWENTY-SIX

  During the last days of an ending summer a heatwave swept over them. Exhausted and enervated, David and Judith agreed that they could not recall an August when the temperatures had rocketed to such a dangerous high. They hoped that it was cooler in New Hampshire. Judith recalled that Denise’s parents’ summer home was not air-conditioned.

  ‘Brian has a low tolerance for heat,’ she said worriedly. ‘His asthma. Those attacks were always during the summer.’

  ‘He knows he has to be careful. And it’s been a long time since he’s had an asthma attack,’ David replied reassuringly.

  ‘We all have to be careful,’ she said wearily.

  He nodded in silent agreement. They were careful. They kept their conversations in check, refraining from trespassing into dangerous emotional territory. There would be no further discussion of a vacation. They remained in limbo, both of them adhering to frenetic schedules, despite the sweltering heat.

  David’s office was understaffed. Nancy had not returned – had, in fact, called to tell him that she was extending her time away. Did he mind? He did not. He was, in fact, relieved, despite the demands of the new and complex arbitrations he was negotiating. The conversation that they had to have would be difficult, he knew, and he was glad to postpone it. Determined to cope, he arrived at the office earlier and stayed later. Judith said nothing about his absences. It occurred to him that she might, in fact, welcome them. He dismissed the thought. She herself was extremely busy.

  Suzanne curtailed her hours at the thrift shop and, apologetically, asked Judith to fill in for her.

  ‘So many arrangements to be made for Eric,’ she confided over a hasty lunch as she explained the logistics of the thrift shop operation, which Judith would assume. Funds to be transferred to the synagogue account, bills to be paid, donations to be recorded, stock to be sorted and organized. ‘It seems complicated at first, but you won’t have to do it for long. Just until I get things organized for Eric, for myself.’

  ‘How is Eric doing?’ Judith asked cautiously.

  ‘Some days are better than others. He’s come a long way, but there’s been a lot of damage. There’s a great deal to be arranged. I’ve been researching support groups, talking to therapists. He does want to go back to school. There’s a course that would qualify him to work as a substance abuse counselor, but I don’t know if they’ll accept him. He’s twenty-four years old and he doesn’t even have a high school diploma. It won’t be easy, but I think it’s doable. He’s motivated. Most days at least.’

  ‘And how is it for you, most days?’ Judith asked.

  Suzanne sighed. ‘Some days are harder than others. But everything is easier for me than it was. At least I know he’s alive. At least I know where he’s sleeping, what he’s eating. My heart doesn’t stop every time the phone rings. I’m coping. With difficulty, but I’m coping. Look at this.’

  She showed Judith her pocket calendar, every hour of every day crammed with the demands of motherhood resumed. Appointments with counselors, with therapists, with tutors.

  ‘What about Eric’s father?’ Judith asked.

  Suzanne shrugged. ‘Stan is supportive. He’s helpful, generous. We’re in close touch and he’s doing what he can, but there’s not going to be a fairytale ending for us. We’re not going to be a united family, living happily ever after. He has his new life and I have mine. We have Eric but we don’t have each other. We don’t want each other. Maybe we never did. I read somewhere that the unexamined life is not worth living. I would say the same thing about the unexamined marriage. Not worth saving.’

  ‘Aristotle,’ Judith said. ‘Aristotle wrote that. About life. He didn’t mention unexamined marriages.’

  She twirled a piece of lettuce about on her fork and wondered whether her own marriage, after careful examination, would be worth saving. Would remembrance be enough to guarantee its endurance? How odd that she had come to rely on Dickinson, that white-gowned vestal virgin of Amherst. A strange source of comfort.

  She turned her attention back to Suzanne who was fumbling in her bag for a sheaf of deposit forms and earnestly explaining how the bank balance of the thrift shop could be reconciled. ‘I want to thank you for taking all this on, Judith,’ she said.

  ‘Actually, I’m glad to do it,’ Judith assured her.

  Her answer was honest. The additional work granted her a reprieve of a kind. Amorphous concerns about her undefined future were buried beneath the demands of the present. Decisions she was not yet ready to make could be deferred. She managed the thrift shop and scavenged time for her research.

  As she transcribed her notes, she wondered when she would be able to weave them into a coherent essay. Emails from the chair of her department and her editor arrived regularly and with increasing urgency. She offered evasive excuses. She could not, after all, explain why she prioritized sorting through gently used clothing over writing a learned paper on the essays of George Eliot or the poems of Emily Dickinson. She could not explain it
to herself.

  On a heat-heavy night, she walked down the hall to the room where David slept. She willed him to awaken, but he was lost in a dream. His lips moved soundlessly and she returned to her own bed. She wondered what she might have said to him if he had awakened. She did not know. She lay awake, juggling competing fantasies, and wondered which of them she might allow to fall.

  She called Jeffrey Kahn the next morning and explained that, given Suzanne’s absence, she was spending more time at the thrift shop. She had not forgotten her promise and she would call him soon, very soon.

  ‘I understand,’ he said.

  She wondered what it was that he understood even as she acknowledged that the muted disappointment in his voice gave her a frisson of pleasure.

  Jeffrey had not hung up. She heard papers rustling. She heard the intake of his breath.

  ‘Are you still there?’ he asked, and she imagined a wisp of hope in the question.

  She remembered that David was working late that night and it occurred to her that she might ask Jeffrey if he wanted to meet for dinner. She immediately rejected the idea. That was a line that could not be crossed. Not yet. Probably not ever.

  ‘I will call soon,’ she said again and hung up.

  The day she spent without interruption at the shop seemed endless and she was grateful when the closing hour arrived. She switched off the fans that did little to mitigate the oppressive heat and straightened stacks of sweaters. They had set out fall clothing too soon, never anticipating the blistering spell of heat. She slammed the windows shut. They had not admitted the slightest breeze.

  She dashed to her car, gratefully switching on the air conditioning and then, unwilling to return to her empty house, she went to a diner where she flipped open her laptop and read yet another email from the department secretary, asking about the syllabus for her fall semester course.