Treasure

1.

There was fancy, unfamiliar soap in the basin dish—a long yellow bar, stamped CLINIQUE. I stepped out of the bathroom, queried my wife. A funny look crossed her face—the expression of someone who has a secret. I waited and gradually the truth came out. The soap was 14 years old. She'd purchased it in her early 20s, while living alone in a studio apartment on Atlantic Avenue. College was over but nothing else had begun. A kitten for company. Cheese and crackers for dinner—six Stoned Wheat Thins and two inches of sharp cheddar. Such self-imposed regulation, however absurd, gave the long nights structure and purpose. Then there was the occasional soul-soothing splurge. On a good bottle of wine. An article of clothing or jewelry. A special shampoo or imported soap. An hour wandering the boutique aisles, trying to decide whether to make the plunge, a slow approach to the register, a fumble for the credit card, a little shiver as the number was injected into the system, and a big smile of relief as the item was handed over. Worry vanished then. Thought too. All that remained was the thrill of possession. The sound of the crinkling bag. The weight of the clutched object and the victorious rush toward the door. But once on the sidewalk the good feeling would immediately start to fade, the fix wearing off at the edges, a fist balling nervously, a mild pain in the gut or the head—guilt taking hold. Sometimes the object was returned. More often, however, it was hoarded like a shameful family heirloom, hidden in a closet or drawer. This, she said, was the last. And what had caused her to take it out this morning? She wasn't sure—it was just, well, that we were out of soap and suddenly CLINIQUE came to mind. I reentered the bathroom, picked up the soap. I'd long known some of the details of her exile on Atlantic Avenue but nothing about the splurges. Eight moves CLINIQUE had made with us in 12 years. Little else predating our marriage had survived those transitions. We were on our second set of dishes and pots. The third old couch. The fourth futon. Our wardrobes had totally turned over and our library too. Hundreds of books lost or sold for desperately needed cash. The vortex of departure swallowing everything but CLINIQUE. I turned the faucet handle and while waiting for the water to heat, noted the soap was the length and width of a Fort Knox gold bar, at least the kind used in that James Bond movie.

2.

Then I remembered the story she'd once told about the life-size marzipan peach in the window of Balducci's gourmet market in Greenwich Village. Since the age of 12 she'd been stopping to admire the fruit. Presumably not the same one. But a succession of peaches, enough by this juncture to fill trees, maybe even a whole orchard. A few days after this revelation, I'd gone to see the candy myself. All the other fruits on the tray (bananas, apples, oranges) were thumbnail-sized. The peach loomed like a mirage, the coloring so perfect it was wrong, an orb outside the defective realm of materiality. What role had this ethereal object played in her life? Inspirational evidence of the transmogrifying power of Art? Or was the peach her forbidden fruit, representing the sweetness of youth—the good times that did not come easy to one so reserved and cerebral, growing up in an apartment where words counted too much and laughter not enough? Behind the tray, women in aprons shuffled to and fro, serving customers. I wondered if I should surprise her, buy the peach so she could ponder it whenever she wanted. But after a few steps toward the door I reconsidered. One wants loved ones to have everything they desire. But there are gifts too delicate to give. My merely touching the...