Just turn, pull toward you a little, and push. You’ve been doing it for years.
“Not today,” I whisper.
Go in.
“I just…can’t.”
The furnace chooses this moment to whirr to life in the basement, and Noël’s—our—door rattles. I had replaced the doorknob, and it had never worked right after that.
Open the door.
I grab the knob, turn it slowly, pull back, push gently, and then hear the familiar creak as it swings inside. The curtains are still pulled back, light filtering in through the miniblinds, to reveal dust on the TV, on the mirror on Noël’s vanity, and on the candles resting on the headboard. I look up at the ceiling fan and see more dust.
You need to dust this room.
I know that.
On instinct, I tiptoe between the bed and the dresser, knocking a knee into a drawer that never would fully close.
When are you going to fix that drawer?
As soon as I dust; now be quiet.
I lift and push in the drawer, but it stays put. I never got around to fixing much in this house, and I never got around to building Noël that closet organizer she wanted. They make it look so easy on the box, proclaiming “simple, easy installation with only a few household tools.” It’s still in the box next to the washing machine. Maybe I’ll—
One step at a time. Dust and fix the drawer first.
Right.
I open Noël’s closet and see…twenty or more bags from various department stores, some with flattened white boxes.
Merry Christmas, Jack.
Most of them are for Stevie.
But some of them are for you.
I pull out all the bags, and arrange them on the bed, the receipts folded neatly in the bottom of each bag.
She always saved the receipts.
Stevie would have gotten a new wardrobe complete with four pairs of new shoes, a new church outfit, and…a belt. He used to take my belt and wrap it around him twice. He was such a good mimic of me. I remember one time—
Look in your bags, Jack.
I’m having a memory.
We are having a memory, but you have work to do.
I open the first bag and see some brightly colored “teacher shirts,” collared knit short-and long-sleeved shirts, with matching pants.
So colorful.
Before I met Noël, I only wore gray, blue, and brown Oxford shirts and corduroys. She said my outfits made me look “dispassionate.”
You did. You looked more like a funeral director than an elementary school teacher.
I wasn’t in a fashion show.
But the kids noticed the change.
Yeah. They did. They didn’t make as much fun of me.
Except for that Baxter kid. He could probably find something wrong with Jesus.
The second bag contains a new belt, two packages of underwear, and an economy pack of brown and black socks. The last bag contains…a watch.
She knows I don’t wear a watch! This has to be a gag gift.
You’re rarely on time.
I like being fashionably late, and now that I have new fashions…
But when I open the box and take out the watch, I flip it over to see an inscription: “Ecclesiastes 3: 1–8 I love you, Noël.”
There is a time for everything.
A time to be born and a time to die.
Still so negative! Why not “a time to mourn and a time to dance”?
All this…this is a mourning dance.
Put it on.
I put on the watch. I don’t fiddle with setting the time. There will be a time for that. Just not now.
I pull out a bright red and green shirt and put it on, wiping dust from the mirror.
Now you’re in tune with the season.
I look like death warmed over.
With claws, Mr. Claus.
I need a haircut, a shave, and about thirty pounds added just to my face. How did I get so skeletal?
You’re an anorexic Santa.
And wrinkled? Only my eyes are unlined, those hazel-blue eyes Noël liked so much. “Drink to me only with thine eyes,” she used to say. She liked that old-fashioned poetry. But would she like this old man in the mirror? Would anyone?
Get to work.
I’m getting, I’m getting.
And take off that wedding band.
Not yet.
You’re not married anymore.
I spin the ring around my finger, a nervous gesture I have been performing ever since we got married. I had never worn any jewelry before, and I’m constantly losing things, so I check often to see if it’s still there.
It’s still there, and it shouldn’t be there.
Lots of…widowers—what a crummy word—wear their wedding rings.
Lots of old widowers. You’re not old.
I feel old. I slide the ring up to my knuckle and see a calloused circle. I wouldn’t even take it off to do the dishes or work in the yard. Why would I take it off now?
You used to call it “the world’s tiniest handcuff.”
That was before I got married.
And you’re not married now, so…
I slide the ring back down, spinning it. I still feel married, so as long as I feel married, I’m keeping it on.
At least you feel something.
Yeah. At least I can still feel.
I hoist Noël’s clothes from the closet onto the bed, and for a moment, I feel guiltier than I’ve ever felt before. These are her clothes. These are clothes she spent hours shopping for, finding the best sale, getting the best deal, even waiting for the price to come down. Do I have the right to just…give them away? She would give them away in a heartbeat if she thought it would brighten someone else’s day, but—
It has to be done.
It has to be done.
I rip open all her drawers, tossing her clothing behind me, trying not to think of her wearing any of it…and failing. The tears won’t stop. Noël used to be inside these clothes, and I used to take these clothes off her, tossing them up into the ceiling fan, and they would shoot around the room while we—
She’s in a better place.
And where am I?
You’re here.
Yeah, I’m here crying over some clothes.
I leave the dresser, clutching a silk red robe Noël used to wear after a shower, and it still smells faintly of Dove soap and herbal shampoo. I look out the window at the backyard, clutching that robe. God, that swing set looks as if it’s going to fall down. I was never mechanical.
The backyard isn’t level.
Stevie didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t even mind sliding down the slowest slide ever built while Noël and I sat in the wooden swing and watched him…grow before our very eyes.