kid and sandals in black. Summer shoes. Shoes to dance in. And tiny purses, a clutch in black satin and one in red leather. A small beaded one for evening. The shoes had scuffed bottoms but seemed barely worn, and there was nothing inside the purses except a crumpled tissue. At the very bottom of the box was a green quilted rectangular box, the kind ladies kept their silk stockings in, instead of rolling them into balls and tossing them in a drawer. I opened it — nylons and silk stockings, tumbled together. I shut the box, then opened it again. Underneath the stockings, I’d caught a glimpse of white.
An envelope addressed to Nate at his office address on Federal Hill. In Delia’s handwriting. But there was no stamp, no postmark. I opened it.
Do you remember the night of the hurricane, when you picked me up and carried me through the water — do you remember? We said we could never walk away from something so true. We did once and we found each other again and so we’d never leave again. That’s what we said.
Are you afraid of me now? Is that it? Do we have too many secrets to keep?
I thought my heart had been broken every Sunday afternoon we parted. Every Friday night you put it back together. My life was full of waiting.
And now it ends with waiting. I’m waiting for you here and you aren’t coming. I know that now. You’re shedding your mistress. You are making that clear. Yes, I said mistress. I know, I was never allowed to use that word. I wasn’t your mistress, I was your love. How many times did you say that to me over the years? How could I have known that the language was as false as the promise?
I wish I could take back every tear I shed for you. I wish I could take back every kiss. I wish I could take back the years.
Keep your money and your clothes. On my forehead, the words are written in ash, and I am wearing scarlet and purple and I am leaving because
The letter stopped there. I could see Delia writing it, maybe wiping tears away while she did it, putting down her pen and picking it up again. I had no way of knowing if Nate had ever read it. It seemed the kind of letter you’d tear up if you found it.
The air was so chilly down here. The light was dim. I was suddenly aware of how alone I was, and how much time had passed.
Turning to go, I saw something I’d missed. A trunk, an old one with leather straps. Pushed to the very back, with an old rug tossed on top.
I stared at the trunk. Suddenly, fear seized me, a hard, cold fear that made it impossible for me to move, or even think for a moment.
Are you afraid of me now?
Do we have too many secrets to keep?
What would his mistress know about his business that no one else might know? What part of his life could she threaten if she became emotional? If she showed up where she wasn’t supposed to show up, like in a theater when his wife was there? If she suddenly brought a legal proceeding against her own brother, what would she do to Nate?
I knew it from the movies, and I knew it from Fox Point, where windows and doors were flung open and fights were like opera in other houses — men were afraid of desperate women. They’d do anything to shut them up.
I needed somebody else to open that trunk, because I was too afraid.
I felt the screwdriver in my fist. I made my legs move. All I have to do is break the lock and lift the lid. Just glance inside, quickly, and put it back down. Don’t think about what you’ll see, just do it. Because you have to know the truth.
I walked over to the trunk. I fit the screwdriver in the lock. My hands were perspiring and the screwdriver kept slipping. The clatter of the noise made my heart pound. It took long minutes before I was able to pop it open with a clatter that made me jump back.
I put my hands on the edges of the trunk. I tried to find courage, but could only come up with some sort of tattered determination and the knowledge that I couldn’t go to the police with a story like this