Purple Lace

A gust of wind blew through the open window, picked up the fifty-dollar bill from the dresser, and sent it flying over the lush, purple carpet that spread across the glass-walled room. The bill hit the white double door and fluttered to the floor. It wasn't until then that John noticed both her bra and sheets were color coordinated with the carpet. He traced the lacy edge of her bra with one finger, circled her nipple, and thought of his wife's graying cotton underwear. Judy couldn't wear nylon because it gave her yeast infections. When he suggested new underwear, any kind, Judy said, “What's the use. My periods would stain them, and I'd rather save my money for the black jogging suit with pink running stripes I saw at K-mart.”

* * * *

The ride home was mean. What had started as a mixture of light rain and snow in the early evening had now turned to sleet, and John had to pull off the road twice to loosen wipers from the windshield's icy grip. Thank god traffic was light. He'd passed two ditched vehicles in twenty minutes and didn't want his to be the third. John wrote a mental note to fix the defroster before his next road trip, and maybe replace the balding tires, provided the commission from his last sale came through this month.

He pulled into the driveway, reached to the back seat for his briefcase, and cautiously stepped through slush that was beginning to ice underneath. The back door light went on, and Judy opened the door.

“I timed it right,” she said smiling. “Bacon's almost done.” She kissed him lightly on the lips then walked to the refrigerator and pulled out two eggs. John slumped into a kitchen chair, too tired to remove his jacket, and started timing. In ten seconds, the eggs would crack against the side of the cast iron pan.

Bingo.

He listened to the popping of hot bacon grease as the whites sizzled their way toward a light, crusty brown.

“Jennie's play is tonight,” Judy announced as she slid two pieces of bran bread into the toaster. He hated bran bread, but Judy said they needed it at their age. “You can make it, can't you? She wants you there.”

“Sure,” he replied absently, as he studied his watch. Twenty seconds until pop-up time. Twenty . . . nine . . . two . . . she buttered the toast, scooped the eggs and bacon out of the pan, and brought over his plate. John took a bite of bacon then pushed the plate aside.

“I'm really tired, Judy.” He looked at his watch again. Ten seconds until her speech on his nutritional needs. Ten . . . five . . . he looked up, and she was gone. The egg was starting to congeal. He picked up the plate, walked to the counter, slid egg and bran into the garbage disposal, then searched for Judy. He found her seated on the stool in front of her bedroom dresser, searching through her underwear drawer.

“Damn, I can't wear any of these!” she exclaimed, pushing them back into the drawer then walking to the closet. Hangers flew off the rod onto the floor until she reached her only dress, black with spaghetti straps but no waistline, because she had been pregnant when she'd worn it to their ten-year high school reunion. She laid it on the dresser. “This isn't right either,” she mumbled.

John had quit looking at his watch, not knowing how to time this new sequence of events. She looked up at him.

“You did say you were going to Jenny's play?” Something in her look made him answer more affirmatively.

“Sure, definitely. I'll be there.”

“Good.” She walked over to the bed where he was seated, kneeled down, and gently ran her hand over the side of his face, over his lips. “I love you, John,” she said. He started to say he loved her too, but she silenced him.

“Go to sleep. I have to do some shopping.”

He watched her leave the room, then he fell on the bed fully-clothed and closed his eyes to the sun that was filtering through the blinds to announce a new day, too tired to examine further the strange twist in her mood.

* * * *

John picked red and yellow tulips from the back yard to place on her grave. It was Jennie's idea. She and her mother had planted the bulbs together the previous fall while he was busy peeling off purple lace. The black dress placed so carefully on the dresser two months ago was back in the closet, a K-mart bag attached to the hanger. He reached into the bag and pulled out lacy, pink nylon panties. Her note was attached: “I decided against the jogging suit. Guess I waited too long.”

He stared at the note and reread it. And read it again.

He looked at his watch. Ten . . . nine . . . eight. He could not smell the bacon. Seven . . . six . . . no eggs cracking. Five . . . four . . . no footsteps across the floor, no welcoming light. Three . . . two . . . no warm smile, ever again.

He dropped the pink nylon and walked to her dresser drawer. He pulled out gray cotton memories and held them to his face. Jennie walked in.

“Is this okay to wear, Daddy?”

He looked at her tear-stained puffy eyes, then down to her purple dress, soiled and wrinkled from play. Judy had always done the laundry.

“Sure, honey,” he said. “You look real pretty.” He turned away, wiped his own eyes, and placed the damp cotton in the K-mart bag. He wanted Judy to look pretty, too.