What Can You Do?
Last December in a thrift shop in Silver City, New Mexico, I noticed among the dreggiest of dregs something red and sparkly. Immediately it occurred to me that I should not be interested in such a thing just two months into widowhood. But I was interested. I loved the tomato-red gauzy material, the thousands of sequins and beads glittering in a broad swirly pattern. I loved the wide zigzagging borders on both skirt and blouse, echoing the blouse’s low V-neck. I could picture it all on Bessie Smith, but also, maybe, on paler, more diminutive me.
“Fabulous,” Laura said when I held it up. We were both on a thrift store high, freed for an hour or more while our teenaged boys and her husband were roaming the streets in search of cheap cds and cowboy memorabilia. This impromptu vacation had been Laura’s idea, a way for my son, Sam, and me, and all of us really, to begin to heal from Sandy’s long illness and death. Sandy was my same-sex partner of twenty-one years, my legal “wife” of four months, Sam’s other mother since the day he was born. Our families, Laura’s and mine, had been friends since the boys were in day care.
“Try it on,” Laura said.
I think she was hoping it would be too big and she’d get a crack at it. But it fit me−well enough. The top had a tendency to slide off a shoulder, a nice touch, I thought. As for the skirt, the elastic waistband needed to be replaced and the whole thing taken in, but at four dollars (marked down from eight) I figured I could spring for some serious tailoring and still come out way ahead. And if nothing else, I could wear it to the “Red and Green,” the annual party our friend Kathy had been hosting for some nineteen years. Originally it was a Christmas affair, but each year, because of everyone’s jammed schedules, it was nudged further toward spring. This year, it was scheduled for April; even so, the food would be mostly red or green, and the getups−often retro, thrift store numbers−the same two colors.
October, November, December. The first few weeks and months after Sandy died, every glance into our shared closet was difficult. Her belongings . . . I thought maybe they’d exude some sort of sheepishness for having outlived her, but every skirt, blouse, scarf, belt, shoe presented itself exactly as before. Maybe that’s why I was so eager to get rid of most of it, relentlessly pondering which item would look well on which friend, which friend had the constitution to actually wear the thing, on whom could I bear to see it?
By January, when we returned to Massachusetts from our trip, only a handful of Sandy’s things remained in that closet: the boxy, black and white checked blouse she’d worn during much of our honeymoon to Venice; the soft, squirrel-colored “chemo-shirt” she wore for infusions; a couple of pairs of jeans too worn to give away but impossible to throw out, so filled they were with her shape, her sweat, her determined, responsible caulking and spackling, her joyful digging and planting, her patient weeding and mulching, her ever increasing hours on the couch without even a book, just the dog stretched out on her chest. Also, I kept the crinkly, lilac tunic she’d worn so radiantly for Sam’s Bar Mitzvah and again at our June wedding in the Cambridge City Hall. But when I hung up my new red dress and my eyes skimmed across Sandy’s remaining stuff, I was already pretty good at feeling nothing. I’d had a lot of practice in steeling myself. So many calls to make−insurance, mortgage, credit card companies; so many telemarketers asking for her. “She died,” I’d say. The hard thud of those D’s satisfied me in a way that the spineless “passed away” did not. Not for this Jew, the comforting notions of meeting again in a fluffy heaven or believing that somehow, somewhere, she knows all those things I find myself wanting to tell her. It seems to me, so far anyway, that death is simply this: the stark, colossal goneness of a once substantial, infinitely complex presence.
Feeling nothing? Almost nothing, I should say. Often, a few minutes after the phone call, or after seeing her handwriting on the calendar, I find myself wondering why I’m so tired and shaky. Really, it works better to court the feelings as I sometimes do, going through old albums, sinking my nose into her blue woolen hat. The tears come. And then they are over. It’s true, what they say: they come at the most unexpected times, but that doesn’t mean they don’t also appear at the obvious ones. Inhaling that hat, I wonder how long it will retain her smell−and then, when it is gone, what will be left.
This how long question has many permutations. How long will we call her place at the table, Sandy’s place? Her study, Sandy’s room? How long will we keep her voice on the answering machine? That was a particularly tough one. Sam saw no reason to change it, ever, and I loved her telephone voice, so much more inflected, and intimate, than the one she used when we were face to face. How long, I now wonder, will I remember the things I disliked about her? Her ways of keeping distance between us, her rigidity, her silences. Maybe even I with my fondness for hard truths will eventually be swayed by convention and ease into remembering only the good soldier; the brave, patient, and loving mother; the tender and generous heart.
January, February, March. I must have glimpsed the red dress nearly every morning and yet it wasn’t until mid-April, until the Friday before the Saturday of the Red and Green that I brought it to the tailor’s−which is just around the corner, is, in fact, the same place where we do our dry cleaning, and I’d gone there several times since Silver City. I don’t know why I waited so long. I only know that while carrying the spangly material from car to store, another one of those how long questions came to me:
How long am I going to keep using Sandy’s name here?
For about fifteen years, Sandy and I had been filing our cleaning jobs, or less frequent tailoring, under the same phone number and name: hers, Kanter−probably because her job required far more dry cleaning. This time−well−I don’t remember coming to a decision about the name question. What I remember was how delighted the tailor/cleaner was by my find−she with her blunt-cut hair and severe shirts and pants; she who was always there and seemed to have no other life, no other personality than that of efficient, eager-to-please shopkeeper. (All these years and I’d never even learned her name.) How surprised I was when her face lit up at the sight of my swanky (if a bit musty) dress!
“Beautiful,” she said. “Beautiful!” Behind those wire rims I’d always found entirely too big and round, her eyes were suddenly shining.
“You like it?”
“Yes. Yes.”
So of course I had to expand my pleasure by informing her that it was used, that I’d gotten it for practically nothing. This seemed to expand her pleasure too−it didn’t seem right to tell her about Sandy then.
“It needs some work,” I said, “but first, before I forget, I think you still have a blouse of mine. Under Kanter.” She nodded, as if of course she knew.
Of course, I thought, as she walked the few steps to the small revolving rack where she kept the alphabetized slips. She found the Kanter one quickly, then pressed the button that started the creaky carousel. For me, this was always a time of high drama. Would my item, or Sandy’s, slip past? Would the woman have to backtrack or go around all over again? I watched the woman’s finger on the button and her eyes on the passing numbers as I might watch an Olympic skier edging around a slalom flag−too much? not enough?−all the time worrying about the possibility that the item was lost, maybe gone forever−though that happened only once with a sweater I didn’t much like.
The carousel stopped.
Then lurched forward another few feet.
The woman reached for the hanger. Through the plastic I could see my burgundy blouse. She hung it on the rack above the counter and then returned to me and my dress.
“She died, you know,” I softly said. “Kanter.”
“No!” Her face turned ashen. “Didn’t know.”
I nodded.
“When?” she asked.
“October.”
“Terrible,” she said, shaking her head, her eyes on the puddle of glitter between us. I was surprised by how upset she was. “Did you know she was sick?” I asked.
She nodded. “Once came in, told me−bad news, some tests.”
I don’t know why I thought she might have known−that she did surprised me. Sandy was extremely private. How heartbroken she must have been that day. How undone. On her way home from the hospital, maybe? Or from work, that sometimes merciful distraction. More than once throughout the six years of her illness, Sandy accused me of not thinking enough about what she was going through. Not true, I thought. Not fair. I thought about it all the time but mostly had to guess, imagine. She reported the results of each test, each scan, and probably told me more than anyone else, occasionally, briefly, crying in my arms; but all these daily agonies, these little stabbing moments like telling the dry cleaner −there must have been thousands of them that she kept to herself.
With the tailor still shaking her head and making small gasping sounds, it seemed wrong, punishable almost, to get back to the business of the dress. But by then another customer had entered, a woman carrying a raincoat. It didn’t seem right to keep her waiting too long, and besides, the tailor’s upset was stirring up my own; I was touched by how moved she was, but also I kept expecting her to recover enough to extend her condolences to me. I’d gotten accustomed to hearing them−from people close to us but also from those with whom we did business, the ones who had clearly figured out our relationship, but also the ones who knew only that I was the executrix, or that we shared an address. I’m sorry for your loss. That’s how almost everyone put it. The frequent use of these exact words irked me and yet I couldn’t help feeling that they were as good as any−brief, direct, fitting−and even when I heard them from customer service people obviously instructed to use them, I appreciated the acknowledgment, no doubt appreciated it more than most because, as a couple, Sandy and I so often felt invisible.
I didn’t understand what was taking this woman so long. Surely she’d figured us out after all these years of dropping off and picking up for each other! Maybe it was the jazzy dress that threw her? Or perhaps it was a cultural thing: she knew but thought it rude to let on that she did? Or maybe . . . (the boyish hair and clothes!) she was simply too threatened by the L-word to acknowledge our relationship in any way? Whatever the reason, via some tortured rationalization I decided that since she doesn’t seem to get it, I don’t have to feel the slightest bit embarrassed about wearing this dress!
I proceeded into the cubicle next to the plate glass window, and put on top and bottom both−just to get the whole picture. When I came through the curtains the tailor was still shaking her head, her distress so apparent that the lady with the raincoat extended her arm. “Are you okay?” she asked, resting her hand on the tailor’s shoulder. It was a touching gesture, yet I couldn’t help feeling that even after all these months it was my shoulder that needed it more.
I’d been gathering the stretched-out waistband and now the tailor took it from me, asked if this was how tight I wanted it. I nodded. “Now what about this?” I asked, grabbing all the extra material at my hips. “Can you take this in?” She shook her head, pointing and explaining how the pattern of jewels wouldn’t match up. I felt foolish for not having realized this myself.
In my street clothes again, approaching the counter, I thought, Now. Now she will express her sympathy or at least give me some kind of feelingful look.
But she just kept shaking her head.
“When do you think you can have it done by?” I finally asked.
“Wednesday,” she said. “Wednesday okay?”
I sighed. How could I have thought that tomorrow was a reasonable request. “Is there any way . . .” I began, losing nerve, then rallying again. “You see, there’s a party−tomorrow.”
She shook her head firmly, then paused and shrugged. “Maybe Tuesday.”
I took another deep breath, then did something I’d never done before and never liked when I saw anyone else do it. I asked, “What if I pay a little more?”
She shook her head. “Not the money. Time! Other customers!”
I nodded.
“Needs ironing too,” she announced.
I hadn’t considered this. Wasn’t convinced. If there were wrinkles they were barely visible beneath all the sequins and beads. Besides, I thought, if I can’t wear it tomorrow I just might never wear it, or by the time I do, the hanger will have fallen many times and the whole thing will need ironing all over again.
“Are you sure?” I asked, referring to the ironing. “This party isn’t really fancy. It’s just for fun.”
“Still needs ironing,” she said, seeming to enjoy her superior knowledge on this point.
“How much?”
“Fifteen dollars.”
I did a quick calculation. Four for the dress, twelve for the waistband, and fifteen for the ironing. I nodded my consent and was cheering myself up with the thought that there was always next year’s Red and Green when she startled me.
“I try,” she said.
I was confused.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “Not promising, but I try.”
“Oh!” I beamed. With this sudden opening I forgot everything else. “I would really appreciate that. What should I do, call tomorrow?”
She nodded.
“Around three? Four?”
“Four,” she said. “But remember,” she wagged her finger. “Not promising!”
On Saturday, I wasn’t holding my breath; still, I had it in my mind to call around four. When, at around three, the phone rang, I was thinking about something else. The voice was unfamiliar. Accented. “Excuse me?”
“It ready. The dress!”
The tailor! I could hear the pride in her voice.
“How wonderful! Thank you! I’ll be right over.”
It was a happy reunion−the woman looking as pleased as I felt; the dress looking radiant, even under plastic. I paid my thirty-one dollars, briefly considering a big tip but rejecting the idea as insulting. “Thank you so much,” I said again and again. Then I took the hanger.
“Did it for Kanter,” the tailor declared just as I was about to turn away. I stood there for a moment just taking it in−her smile broad, her
eyes glistening behind her glasses, focusing, finally, directly on me. “What can you do?” she added, slowly shaking her head. “What can you do?” I repeated. “Have to go on,” she said, and I nodded.
Here’s the thing. When I got home and tried the outfit on, the waist fit fine and the ironing indeed brought the whole effect up a notch, but instead of looking smashing as I had envisioned, I looked frumpy. The excess material around the hips and thighs bunched and sagged. I turned this way and that in front of the mirror, but there was no getting around it. I began to wonder about a substitute. The first thing I tried did the trick. And that’s what I wore that night to my first Red and Green without Sandy− sleek coal-black pants and flickering red. Everyone said I looked smashing. No one seemed to disapprove.
April, May, June. I gave away a few more of Sandy’s things−a camisole to my sister; to her brother, an antique print of their hometown harbor. I chewed to death a petrified piece of Trident I found in the leather bag she used years ago; I availed myself of the car wash coupon in her glove compartment. Still, I didn’t have the heart to throw out her half-drunk bottle of iced tea, the stuff she lived on when she could no longer eat. As Sam and I were getting ready for our summer adventures−he going to camp and I, again, to the same spot in New Hampshire where Sandy and I had had so many happy times−he gave me permission to take her voice off the answering machine. This I did when he wasn’t home, but not without first recording it so it would never be totally lost−if, that is, I remembered where I kept it.
While packing my bags I briefly considered bringing the whole red outfit, top and bottom, frump notwithstanding. Standards in New Hampshire are looser, and there are, after all, those weekly contra dances. Then I came to my senses. Those dances are folksy affairs. Some women dress up, but in homespun cotton numbers.
Even if I wanted to go against the grain, the Town Hall has no dimmers, no spotlights or strobe lights to tease out my dress’s magic.
Of course it was difficult to return to the cabin−Sandy’s bathing suit hanging on the post of the mirror above our dresser, all her medical paraphernalia in a basket, her running shorts in the drawer. But what could I do?
I added new windows. I splurged on an antique rug and rearranged the furniture. I hung up one of her watercolors−two oaks and a portion of a third, beautifully composed and rendered with such a light touch. I walked in the rain with the dog, remembering how she told me she would often look at him and think, He’s going to outlive me.
And so he has. He who lay contently across her chest hour after hour, month after month though surely the scents of the street or meadow called, he who after she died, kept walking from room to room in search. These days, oblivious as her orphaned clothes, he bounds through the woods with renewed élan. And now, almost on cue as I write this, he appears at my screen door, scraggly and drenched. “Oh, I was just thinking about you,” I tell him, letting him in, drying him off with her old fleece jacket.
June is always firefly month in New England, but this June, the rainiest I can remember, the bugs are more bountiful and dazzling than ever. That isn’t just my perception, either. It was mentioned in the local paper, and New Hampshire Public Radio devoted several minutes to a discussion of bioluminescence. I don’t remember much of what was said, only that the lights−so various in intensity and duration−are part of a complex courtship behavior.
A few nights ago, when the rain stopped just long enough, I stepped out into the mowing, as the vast meadow here is known, and I watched the show in the mist, at first trying to discern some sort of pattern or rhythm to the flare-ups but soon, realizing it was hopeless, I just stood there transfixed. For the briefest of moments then, it came to me that here, at last, was Sandy speaking to me. But the next night when I stood there again and saw just as many flies dancing just as jazzily, it came to me with the same certainty that they were just bugs calling to each other in the dark.
Copyright 2007 University of Nebraska Press. All rights reserved.
