After Melanie

by Gloria Goldreich

  ‘Working on it,’ she wrote back and wondered when she would work on it – whether, in fact, she even wanted to plan her courses. It occurred to her that more than her marriage required urgent examination.

  She sipped her latte and munched the sandwich she could not remember ordering.

  David worked late that night. He called Judith from Grand Central but she was not at home and he did not leave a message. He refrained from calling her cell phone, from asking where she was, what she was doing. He feared her honesty. On the train, settled into his seat, he tried to remember why, in fact, he had tried to call her. Perhaps he had been repeating the long-abandoned habit of his graduate school days when he would leave the silent library after long and solitary hours, and call her, just to hear the sound of her voice. They had, he recalled, developed a formula for such purposeless calls.

  ‘You’re there?’ he would ask.

  ‘Of course I’m here. I’ll always be here.’

  That loving reassurance invigorated him, sent him back to his research newly energized. He could use a new bout of energy now, he thought, as he leaned back in his seat and dozed off. She was asleep when he arrived home and he did not wake her.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The heatwave swept through New Hampshire, subsiding briefly during the evening hours. Brian and Denise took a nocturnal walk through the copse of slender birch trees that bordered her parents’ property. The sultriness of the long day had vanished, but the air was weighted with a lingering torridity. They moved slowly, hand in hand, but Denise was suddenly aware that Brian’s breath came in labored gasps.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘Asthma,’ he said. ‘I had it as a kid and sometimes it acts up again when it’s very hot. I should have told you.’

  ‘Do you need an inhaler?’ Her voice was heavy with concern.

  ‘No. It’s not that bad. I used to carry one but I never needed it so I tossed it. I’m OK, except sometimes in the summer.’

  ‘It didn’t happen last summer.’

  ‘But last summer wasn’t this hot.’

  ‘Wasn’t it?’

  She did not remind him that there had, in fact, been a heatwave the previous year, but everything had been different then. Melanie had been alive, Judith and David contented and loving, she and Brian moving happily through untroubled days. She understood that it was fear and loss that clogged Brian’s lungs, not the heat-heavy air. She gripped his hand, her own chest tight with an unfamiliar rage. She was furious with Melanie for dying. She was furious with David and Judith for their inability to cope, for inflicting their unshared grief on Brian. Damn them! Damn them!

  Her anger blazed. It seared, it cleansed and then, mysteriously and gratefully, it subsided. She stared up at the star-spangled sky, suffused with a new calm, a new determination.

  They walked on, Brian breathing more easily, leaves and twigs crunching beneath their sandaled feet, the brilliant half-moon silvering the tree tops. A gentle wind cooled their faces.

  ‘If it stays this hot, we should leave,’ she said. ‘Go back to New York. Spend a few days with your parents. I could do with air conditioning.’

  ‘Would you mind?’ he asked, and she knew that it was what he longed to do.

  ‘I don’t mind anything as long as we’re together,’ she said.

  Her answer filled him with gratitude. He knew how important her large and laughing family was to her, how much she looked forward to their annual shared vacation in their shabby rambling summer home. He too loved being there, loved the mindless gaiety of her siblings, their foolish and swiftly resolved quarrels, the excitement of welcoming bands of relatives and friends who descended upon them with or without warning. Both his parents had been only children. There had been no extended family of aunts and uncles, boisterous cousins. He had been an only child for most of his childhood and now, since his sister’s death, he was an only child again. Again and forever. Living in the heart of Denise’s large and affectionate family was an experience that had amazed and delighted him, a vacation that he looked forward to each year.

  But this year had been different, pursued as he was by a lingering melancholy. He lay awake worrying about his parents, about what might have occurred between them in his absence. The heat was oppressive, their bedroom airless. At night he struggled to breathe, fell briefly asleep and then, soaked in sweat, was thrust into wakefulness by a rush of anxiety, amorphous worries, amorphous memories.

  Somewhere in the house a visiting child laughed in her sleep and he thought of Melanie. The soft voices of a man and a woman drifted through the darkness and he thought of his parents who had forgotten how to talk to each other. He fell asleep again and dreamed of his father sitting beneath an umbrella in an outdoor café with a silver-haired woman.

  He labored to conceal his sadness. He wanted to be fair to Denise. He knew that she suggested leaving New Hampshire and going to his parents’ home only because she understood his unarticulated anxiety, his desperate need to be with his mother and father, to know what was happening between them. Her generosity filled him with gratitude.

  They paused beneath a towering oak. He tilted her chin and kissed her very gently on the lips. Her heart beat against his and he wondered if his parents had ever stood together in the moonlight and felt the wind upon their faces.

  ‘No. We’ll stay. Unless it gets much hotter. I’m fine.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Sure. Would I lie to you?’

  She laughed. Breaking free from his embrace, she sprinted toward the house and he, his breath coming freely now, raced after her, his laughter matching her own. They were fine. They would be fine. They were immune to the contagion of his parents’ unhappiness.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The days passed but the heat did not abate. The temperature soared and Judith bought yet another fan for the shop and placed a pitcher of cold water and a pyramid of paper cups on the counter. Weary customers smiled at her gratefully, sweat glistening on their faces as they took delicate sips and counted out damp crumbled bills. Sunlight streamed through the grimy windows and formed pools of brightness on the scuffed linoleum. The volunteers arrived later and left earlier. Exhausted mothers fingered the almost depleted stacks of summer clothing while their half-naked toddlers crouched beneath the fans, small hands raised to catch the slightest breeze from the whirring blades.

  Judith and David ate hasty breakfasts. They discussed Brian who now called each of them every day, Judith in the morning, David in the afternoon. The frequency of his calls disturbed them. It was, they knew, symptomatic of his anxiety about what was happening between them, but they had no soothing words to offer. Not to him. Not to each other. Not yet. In the interim they shared their concerns. They had each heard a hoarseness in his voice and they worried that his asthma had recurred.

  ‘Denise’s parents should air-condition that house,’ David said irritably.

  ‘And the synagogue should air-condition the thrift shop. Or change its name from “Gently Used” to “Beastly Hot”,’ Judith rejoined.

  ‘Is it getting too much for you?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. His concern pleased her. ‘No. I can manage. But I think you’re working too hard, David.’

  She stared at him worriedly. He had lost weight and his shoulders slumped, as though surrendering to the burden of the stress he was enduring. She knew that he was juggling more than one complex arbitration, and because of vacation schedules, there was meager support staff. David’s personal assistant, Amanda, always pleased to share office gossip, answered a rare phone call from Judith and complained that David was at a meeting, and his desk was piled high with urgent memos. It was irresponsible for junior executives to absent themselves from the office at such a busy time, she added. Did Judith know that even Nancy Cummings had tacked extra days on to her vacation? Her question was sly, her tone righteously indignant.

  ‘Yes. I know,’ Judith lied. ‘She probably had a good reason. I’
m sure David is managing without her.’

  She had not known but she was at once relieved and annoyed to learn that Nancy was away. It explained David’s continued reticence. She speculated that he was waiting for her return and that was why he could not commit to their own vacation plan. It was a calming thought, but he might have told her. He should have told her. She thought to mention Nancy’s absence as they stood together in the kitchen, mutually concerned about their son, mutually concerned about each other, but she opted for the safety of silence.

  She drove too slowly to the thrift shop, reluctant to spend another sweltering day in its stifling confines. Alternatives occurred to her. She thought of the cool stillness of her carrel in the university library and smiled bitterly. She did not want to be there either. Nor did she want to spend the day at home.

  Where do I really want to be? she asked herself.

  The question teased. She thought of the redwood bench shaded by the maple tree in Jeffrey Kahn’s garden, cooled by the soothing scented breeze that wafted over the neat beds of herbs. Yes, she wanted to be there, but she knew that to be a vagrant fantasy. She had an obligation to the thrift shop and that pleasant garden was not her garden.

  She struggled with the heat-swelled shop door but finally thrust it open and hurried to turn on the fans and fill the water pitcher. She washed her face in the claustrophobic bathroom but did not dry it, unwilling to relinquish the brief relief of the moisture on her parched skin. She drenched her pocket comb and passed it over her dark hair, dampening it into a sleek dark cap that briefly cooled. She flashed herself a rueful smile in the sliver of a mirror and went into the shop.

  Customers were already drifting in. Judith smiled at familiar faces, helped a flustered young mother, whose two small daughters clung to her skirt, find a maternity dress.

  ‘Just what I need, another kid,’ the young woman said bitterly.

  Judith did not answer her. She smiled gratefully at Lois and Libby who had arrived earlier than usual.

  ‘Señora Judith. Buenos dias, Señora Judith.’

  She turned and was pleased to see Consuela. The Guatemalan grandmother who visited the thrift shop frequently in search of clothing for her many grandchildren was a favorite customer. She always smiled happily as she placed each carefully chosen item on the counter and proudly spoke of their antics and successes.

  Judith loved hearing her stories. She knew now that mischievous Jesús played tricks on the other children in the daycare center. Juanita, Consuela’s oldest granddaughter, had won a prize for her summer school science project. Héctor was the star of his computer camp.

  Consuela glowed at their small successes. She crossed herself vigorously. How blessed they were to live in America.

  ‘In Guatemala would they have had such chances?’ she repeatedly asked Judith.

  She was grateful when Judith found a floral-patterned sundress for Rosalita, the baby of the family. ‘Oh, my beautiful Rosalita. She will look like a princess. You are so good to find such a pretty dress for my bambina, Señora Judith.’

  Judith was always happy to help Consuela. Her words of appreciation, her beaming smile, validated the role of the thrift shop in the larger community. But on this hot morning Consuela was not smiling. Her narrow face was veiled in sadness. A silver tear drifted down her cheek and settled in the corner of her mouth. She did not wipe it away.

  ‘Consuela, what’s wrong?’ Judith asked anxiously.

  ‘I need a dress. A black dress. For a funeral. We have a death. Our family has a death.’

  Her words released the tears which fell freely, bathing her face in grief.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Judith said and held out a tissue which Consuela pressed to her face. She struggled to remember the names of the grandchildren. She prayed that it was not one of them. ‘Who?’ she asked hesitantly. ‘Who has died?’

  ‘Rosalita. My Carmen’s Rosalita. My bambina. Nina. So beautiful. So little. Not yet three years old.’ Her shoulders quivered. She held up three fingers. ‘Not even three,’ she repeated. ‘A fever. She had a fever. So high. She was on fire in my arms. The ambulance came. Then the hospital. The same ward where I clean. The doctor there, he knows me. A good man. He tried. That I know. One hour. Two hours. Nurses flew in. Other doctors came. We waited. We prayed. But he came out of the room, the doctor. He was crying. The doctor, he was crying. “Consuela, I’m sorry,” he said. It was the fever rheumatica. It took her to God. She was dead, our beautiful bambina. God wanted her to be His angel. So we have a funeral for our Rosalita. A wake. Then a funeral.’

  Judith thought that she too would cry. The nervous young doctor who told them that Melanie was dead had not wept. He had not said he was sorry.

  She put her arms around Consuela. Libby filled a paper cup with water and handed it to her.

  ‘Gracias.’ Consuela drank. She accepted another tissue and wiped her eyes. ‘I should not cry. The priest came. He told me that Rosalita is happy now. She is with the angels. She is in a better place, so I must not cry.’ But her tears came again.

  ‘I will find you a dress, Consuela,’ Judith said.

  She took her hand and together they walked to a rack of women’s clothing. Judith went at once to the simple black dress that came from Sylvia Kahn’s closet. It was almost new. Jeffrey had told her that Sylvia had worn it only once or twice because black depressed her. Judith handed it to Consuela, who carried it into the makeshift dressing room behind the shower curtain. She emerged minutes later and nodded. It fit her perfectly.

  ‘I buy this,’ she said. ‘I wear it now. I go to help with the wake. I must dress my Rosalita.’

  She did not look in the mirror. The floral-patterned house dress she had worn hung over her arm. Judith took it and put it in a plastic shopping bag, added a black headscarf and a packet that contained a pair of black stockings. Consuela fumbled in her purse for her wallet.

  ‘Please. Just take everything. Our gift to you,’ Judith protested.

  She tried to remember what she had worn to Melanie’s funeral and recalled that it had been Denise who had selected a black suit and rummaged through her closet for the right shoes and a scarf which, in the end, Judith had not worn.

  ‘No, I must pay,’ Consuela insisted. ‘How much?’

  ‘Five dollars will be fine,’ Judith said hopelessly. ‘I am so sorry for your loss, Consuela.’

  ‘No. Do not be sorry. The priest is right. She is in heaven, our Rosalita.’ She crossed herself, looked upward and forced a smile, although her face was frozen into the mask of incomprehension peculiar to the newly bereaved.

  She left, closing the door softly behind her. The shadow of her grief lingered in the heavy air, spangled now with tear-shaped sunbeams that forced their way through the grimy window panes and wept their way across the scuffed linoleum.

  ‘So sad,’ Libby said.

  ‘Awful,’ Lois agreed.

  A customer who worked with Consuela at the hospital told them that Consuela had occasionally brought Rosalita with her on days when Carmen, her mother, could not find a babysitter.

  ‘She was such a good bambina, that pretty Rosalita. She played quietly while her abuela worked. She had a doll. A doll with blonde hair. She played with that doll. A lot of hours she played with that doll. Poor Carmen. Poor Consuela. A terrible thing to bury a child,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ Judith said. ‘A terrible thing.’

  But the woman was no longer listening. She had moved to the rear of the store and did not see the tears that glistened in Judith’s eyes.

  Judith worked steadily for the rest of the day, willing herself not to think of Consuela, but now and again a wave of sadness washed over her. It occurred to her that she might have asked about attending the wake and realized at once how foolish and inappropriate that would have been. She was neither friend nor family. She could not invade their mourning. She would not impose her loss upon their own.

  She was relieved to see David’s car in the driveway when s
he arrived home. This was not an evening when she wanted to be alone. He was in the garden watering the lawn that had once filled them with pride and pleasure. She realized, with a flash of shame, that she now scarcely glanced at it, that she had ignored the gardener’s warning about a dying rose bush and overgrown back hedges.

  ‘I’m home,’ she called, struggling to keep her voice light.

  He was not deceived. Wheeling about to look at her as she stood in the doorway, his eyes darkened with concern. She was pale, her head lowered, her hands tightly clasped. ‘Are you all right, Judith?’ he asked, allowing the hose to puddle water at his feet.

  ‘Yes. Fine. It’s the heat. That’s all. I’ll make a salad, a gazpacho.’

  ‘Great. A gazpacho.’

  ‘You’re home early.’

  ‘I’m waiting for some documents to be overnighted. Tomorrow’s going to be a marathon. Double deadlines. I don’t know whether I’ll be able to meet them.’

  She saw the worry lines that creased his brow, the slope of his shoulders as though they were weighted by the unfinished work he had left on his desk. She knew how important it had always been to him to fulfill his obligations on schedule. She understood why it was especially important now. It offered him control over at least one part of his life.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘You’ll do fine.’

  She placed her hands on his shoulders, moved them to his neck and gently massaged it, waiting until she felt him relax before she turned away. He stared after her as she disappeared into the kitchen and then lifted the hose again.

  She worked quickly, assembling the ingredients, arranging the vegetables in a neat row on the counter, soothed by the orderly process that briefly dispelled the chaotic grief that had haunted her throughout the day. Who was it, she wondered, who had written that women loved their kitchens because there they exercised absolute control? Shirley Jackson, she thought, but perhaps not. Christina Stead? Possibly. She smiled at the vagary of the question, and as her mood lifted, she took pleasure in plunging neatly sliced tomatoes, slivers of cucumber, wands of scallions into the blender. Their emulsion canceled the last shreds of her melancholy and she submitted to a new determination. She would not think of Rosalita, three-year-old Rosalita, dressed in white, lying in lifeless innocence in a small coffin lined with pink satin. She was grateful that Jews did not have wakes, that her memories of Melanie were imbued with life. Pulling apart a clump of parsley, she began to weep, the tears flowing freely, her shoulders heaving in a paroxysm of grief.