3.
EVEN THOUGH HAGIT was leaving the next day and hadn’t yet decided what to pack, so that she swore she would do “anything” for her husband if only he put off closet-cleaning until her return, he was determined to have his way. And so at 10 P.M., two chairs were set up in their bedroom, one for the clothes whose fate had been sealed and one for those granted a temporary reprieve. Hagit hated parting with her old things, which were an inseparable part of the self she felt comfortable with. Not surprisingly, the Rivlins were at loggerheads at once.
“First of all, what about this?” He grabbed a faded gray coat by its fur collar as though it were a beggar caught panhandling in the closet. “The last time I wanted to throw this out you promised to wear it, but I’m still waiting for that to happen. All it did was spend two more years growing moldy in the closet and infecting everything else.”
“You can’t blame me if we haven’t had any real winters.”
“You wouldn’t have worn it if we had. A heavy coat with a fur collar is an absurdity in this country.”
“But I love it.”
“Strictly platonically. The time has come to part.”
“We’ll regret it the first cold winter that we have.”
“Bye-bye, sweetheart,” Rivlin said, depositing the folded coat on the first chair. “And now, before we do anything else, the moment has come, ten years after her death, to pay our last respects to your mother’s woolen skirt.”
“Don’t you dare touch it!”
“But why not? You’ve never worn it, and you never will. Give it to some new immigrant from Russia.”
“Don’t Russia me. It stays right here.”
“Why?”
“I’ve already told you. It has sentimental value.”
“I’ll be damned if I understand what sentiments an old black skirt of your mother’s can arouse.”
“You would understand better if you had ever felt any sentiments for your own mother.”
“I certainly never felt any for her old skirts. How long does this skirt have to hang over us like a black fate?”
“What’s fateful about it? It’s a memento.”
“It doesn’t look like we’re going to get far tonight.”
“I told you we wouldn’t. I’m tired. Why do we have to do this now? I have to be up at three in the morning. I promise to go through everything when I get back.”
“I’ve heard such promises before. You’ll come back exhausted, and that will be the end of it. Here, let’s give it one more try. Fifteen more minutes. I deserve a less cluttered house. Look at this embroidered blue blouse. It’s lovely, but it’s reached the end of the road. It’s much too tight on you.”
“Do you remember when we bought it?”
“In Zurich.”
“No. In Geneva. In a little store near the lake. It cost a fortune, and you were against spending the money.”
“I wasn’t. I just had my doubts.”
“That was so long ago. And look how alive this purple embroidery still is! Do you have any idea how often I’ve worn this? How much use I’ve got out of it?”
“Of course I do. It’s one of your uniforms.”
“Then let’s spare it. For a blouse like this, I’m ready to lose weight.”
“Hagit, you know you’ll never lose weight. Bye-bye, blouse. It’s been good to know you. Now lie down and let yourself be folded like a good girl.”
“I can’t stand giving it away.”
“And now, Hagiti, look this brown suit in the eye and admit that it’s been five years since you last touched it.”
“No, it hasn’t. I wore it to the party you were given by the oriental Society.”
“So you did. But my partying days are over.”
“It’s not my fault if it’s out of fashion.”
“That’s what you said the day you bought it.”
“It could come back in.”
“Not a chance.”
“You’re a hard man. What’s it to you if I own another suit?”
“I told you. It clutters up your closet and hides the clothes that are wearable.”
“Then let’s put it in your closet.”
“Are you out of your mind? Come on, bite the bullet! This suit will make a perfect gift to some poor, penniless woman who can’t afford to be in fashion. And she can also have these old velvet pants of yours….”
“Never!”
“But there’s a hole in them.”
“I can wear them around the house.”
“With a hole? I don’t deserve the honor.”
4.
YET THOUGH YOU knew you would have trouble sleeping the night before she left, you never thought such desolate sorrow would chip away at you, slowly and dully, minute by minute. Already at ten-thirty, feeling the impending signs, you hurriedly put on your pajamas, threw another pillow on the bed, turned off the lights, and lowered the blinds to shut out the moon, as if in it lay the threat to your sleep. And even then, still not reassured, you preemptively swallowed a blue sleeping pill to stun the day’s anxieties and the morrow’s premonitions. Not that you were reckless. Afraid of sleeping through the alarm, you divided the pill in two, taking half for yourself and giving the other half to the guileless traveler, a stranger to worry and insomnia. Excited by her adventure and protesting the loss of the newspaper that you snatched from her hands while switching off the reading light, she kissed you gently and curled herself, to the serenade of her musical snores, into her usual, peaceful ball of sleep.
How could you have been so slow then to recognize the poison dripping into you as you tossed for a whole hour in bed, dozing fitfully, rumpling sheets and kicking off blankets, until you went to lie down on the convertible couch in your study, the royal bed from which you vainly tried to shake the leftovers of your fragile sister-in-law’s sleep, until at midnight, with a desperate hope, you swallowed another sleeping pill, this time a whole one ingested with a glass of brandy that, though it hit you like an uppercut, merely poured more fuel on the stubborn flame inside you?
Can it be that your beloved’s folded clothes, now lying resigned to their fate in a higher pile than you had counted on, reminded you of happier times? Because Hagit, after fighting tooth and nail for each item, suddenly reversed course and joined your clearance campaign with such ardor that you had to stop her in a panic, uncertain whether this was a shrewd ploy to make you back down or a genuine decision to prune her wardrobe, which would inevitably be followed by a demand for its massive renewal.
And so, fatigued and confused by new and old desires, you return after midnight to reconsider the old dresses, skirts, and blouses. By the glow of the reddish night-light between the two floors of the duplex, you run your hand over worn velvet, finger beloved embroidery, caress light wool, and sniff at a never-worn pair of red high-heeled shoes that you called “whorish” because you thought their provocative nature would bring a blush to the cheeks of defendants and plaintiffs alike. Their straps shamelessly seductive, they have fled from drawer to drawer, closet to closet, and apartment to apartment before being apprehended at last and added to the pile of castaways waiting to be sent to some charity.