Wracked Blue Suitcase

I need him to help me lift it down from the closet shelf—the wracked blue suitcase I bought forour honeymoon. It has maternity clothes and baby things—sweaters knit by his mother and a crib quilt.And as always—even though he doesn’task, I feel a need to explain:“It’s got maternity things. I want to give themto Andrea.” (She’s our daughter-in-law,pregnant with their first one.)

“OK,” he says. “But only if they’ll look good.”—which hits me like something falling froma shelf when you open a closet. “Oh no,” I snap back,“they’ll look ridiculous. Just like they did on me!”Now we’ll stew for an hour as we usuallydo on weekends. He says I’m cranky every Sunday.I say, “It’s only because you’re home. And besides,you’re testy every Saturday.Testy,” I repeat, “as in ‘testosterone.’”

He wanted me to ride with him to the riverto see the snow—the first storm of the winter.Instead he storms downstairs and putsthe TV on too loud. I lug the suitcase to the bed,undo the pitted latches and lift the lidas if I’ve just gotten back from a whirlwind tripthat’s left me exhausted. I take out the sweaters:the smaller two yellow—knit beforewe knew—the other three blue.

Below them are the clothes I wore the year I turnednineteen, and again when I was twenty—keeping my jacket on in class, hoping no onewould notice, but they did, of course—I remember being ribbed by some jackass boys in math.I should have gotten rid of them long ago,but every time I asked, “Do you wantanother?” he’d ask me back, “Do you?”and, as usual, we never got beyond our parrying.

But I’d forgotten about this—the tiny blue dress,sent by Florence Smith before she heardabout our daughter. It’s grayed and faded now.And Florence is dead too. I’ll give that one away,I don’t want him to see it—it might shred hisheart again. But here’s the quilt he boughtwhen our son was born. It’s frayedfrom use—though not too fragileto lend its old security to someone new.

I want to do the washing now (I even boughtsome Ivory Snow). But he’s calling from belowto say the car won’t start—he went out andbrushed it off to kill some time,and the battery light came on. He says he needs meto crank it while he looks under the hood.I leave the clothes stacked on the bedwhere we’ve slept more than half our lives.I get my coat from the closet. Nothing falls.