JACK’S THINGS by Peggy Shinner

When Jack Kamin died, Cheryl thought she would get everything.
Instead she got his bag from the hospital, a plastic bag they supplied, with the clothes he was wearing when he had the stroke on the Dan Ryan Expressway but managed to keep control of the car, until his ladyfriend Eve could help him to the passenger’s side and drive all the way to the hospital instead of flagging down help because she thought it would be better to get him to this hospital, a hospital he was used to, instead of the nearest hospital, in some godforsaken neighborhood, which is where the ambulance would have taken him.
He’d been wearing a beige cable-knit sweater and every time he wore it, that is, every time he wore it and Cheryl was with him – which she wasn’t that night, not until Eve called and left a message on the tape machine saying Cheryl’s father’d had a stroke and then she drove to the emergency room at midnight – he’d ask Cheryl if she liked it and then tell her it was one of the ones he bought himself; he was so proud. Stuffed in the bag, the sweater and other clothes were labeled with pieces of tape, J KAMIN stuck across the fabric. They could have at least folded them, Cheryl thought. J KAMIN, that was her father. There was a long-sleeved cotton plaid shirt, Father’s Day present from Aunt Lil, very expensive Lil made sure to tell him, Lil who was not really his aunt but his wife’s aunt, his wife who had died seven years ago of bone cancer and the first year afterwards, especially the nights, was really tough; his gray wool slacks, in need of cleaning because he was always spilling something and that night he and Eve had gone to Phil Schmidt’s in Hammond, it was famous, even if he didn’t like frog legs, and it was perch this time, lightly breaded, that landed on his pants; his underwear, soiled, because after the stroke he lost control and was so ashamed, Eve said; his glasses and his dentures, the dentures in a green plastic dish, both marked with hospital computer printouts bearing his name and social security number, like the white laminated band he’d worn on his wrist moments after they wheeled him into the emergency room.
Cheryl got all this, not Larry. He would have taken it but she took it, what would he have done with it? He would have stashed it away somewhere, all the way back to L.A. where it would have probably sat in the backseat of his car. She washed the shirt and underwear, dry-cleaned the sweater and slacks, folded everything, there were places that wanted glasses but she kept them. She didn’t know what to do with the dentures.
Eve got his wallet, his wristwatch, keys and loose change; she took his valuables off his person as they suggested she do in the emergency room once they got him settled in a cubicle, monitored and tested. She was uncomfortable with these personal belongings but she took them, waiting for Cheryl, planning, when Cheryl arrived, to give them to her, because they were rightly hers since he couldn’t keep them, everyone said not to keep valuables in the hospital, but when Cheryl came Eve was distracted, she wasn’t thinking properly, she wasn’t herself – she’d been there for how many hours? – exhausted, shaky, but before she left she took Jack’s hand, called him baby, honey, he said I had a strake, stroke, I know baby, I know, you’ll be fine, and when she left she still had his things.
Call me anytime, call me in the morning, call me, okay? she said to Cheryl and Cheryl called in twenty minutes just to make sure she’d gotten home safely. Yes, Eve said, she was fine, she’d taken a Valium, because it was just beginning to hit her, they were lucky they didn’t get killed, I don’t know how we didn’t get killed, and then she mentioned the wallet, his car keys, she’d put them all in a plastic bag (another plastic bag), and Cheryl said fine, sure, don’t worry, that’s okay, I’ll call you when I know more what’s going on.
Larry got the phone call, what? what time is it? after he’d been out drinking lager, after he hadn’t talked to his father in weeks. At first he didn’t know who it was, he’d just dozed off, the phone was ringing, when Cheryl said Larry, something bad happened, something bad? Larry said, when Cheryl said Larry, Daddy had a stroke. What do you mean? Larry said, what happened? what time is it? where are you? while he turned on the light and made Cheryl repeat everything. She repeated what the doctors repeated, major bleed, (major bleed? Larry asked), fifty-fifty, is he stable? is he in any immediate danger? you might want to notify other family members, the resident had said, and Larry said but he’ll walk, right? and Cheryl said walk? they don’t even know if he’ll live. Larry got the phone call, he got the details, stroke on the Dan Ryan Expressway, dinner with Eve (how often do they go out? Larry asked), several cars rear-ended, no one hurt (no one else), his left side paralyzed, left arm, left leg, left side of his face, but he recognizes me, Cheryl said, he talks, his speech wasn’t affected, and Larry said I’ll fly in right away. After the phone call Larry got the plane reservation, he got down his suitcase, he got out his clothes, he got a glass of orange juice, and then went into the shower, where, Cheryl imagined, he tried to remember the last time he saw him. The last time he saw him, when his father said you never ask me for advice, just once you could ask me for advice, you don’t know everything, and Larry said I never said I knew everything, and Cheryl said, at the end of the phone call, before they hung up, have you talked to him lately?

Eve got the name of a rabbi, Cheryl asked her if she knew anyone, because they didn’t have a rabbi to perform the service, none of them belonged to a congregation, including her father, who’d said it was a crime to pay two hundred dollars for tickets on the High Holidays (prerequisite for belonging) and had refused to go, unless Aunt Lil, who could afford it, he’d said to Cheryl (you can afford it, Cheryl’d said), got tickets and gave him one. Eve passed the name on to Cheryl, who in turn gave the number to Larry, because Larry wanted to be the one to call him, to make the arrangements; it was his job. He was a young rabbi, Eve said, a fine man. How young? Larry said, because he didn’t want a rabbi who was too young, he wanted a rabbi who seemed like a rabbi (older? Cheryl said), who was older, distinguished, with gray hair or a beard; not someone they could have graduated high school with, Larry said; a rabbi, although he didn’t say it, good enough to bury his father. They met with the rabbi, he came over the day before the service, his suggestion, and in spite of the fact that he was young, probably just starting out Cheryl ventured, and his hair was red, which made him seem even less venerable, they were quite pleased. Did you notice he was wearing penny loafers? Larry said. Sitting in their father’s den, in their father’s couch, which looked so shabby, Cheryl noticed, and smelled – what was it? – of cigar smoke, even though he’d given them up months before (Eve insisted) – they talked. Tell me about your father, the rabbi said, and Cheryl had a list of the things she wanted to say. He’s – and Cheryl stopped – is? was? I don’t know, looking at the rabbi, at Larry, down at her hands – charming, funny, mischievous, loyal . . . very, Larry added, plain, Cheryl continued . . . plain? the rabbi asked, looking at Cheryl. I guess I mean not ostentatious, what do you think? she said, looking at Larry. Definitely not ostentatious. Frugal, Cheryl said, hardworking . . . a successful businessman, Larry asserted, contentious, Cheryl said . . . contentious? Larry interrupted, I wouldn’t say he’s contentious, I’d say stubborn maybe, but not contentious. Okay, stubborn, contentious, whatever, we’re talking about the same thing – how he didn’t know when to let up on something, how he could go on and on, how he could be so – and Cheryl was groping for how to put it – belligerent, Larry offered, and then wished he could take it back. The rabbi took notes, he wrote down everything they said, and after an hour and a half (he spent a long time with us, Larry said later), said he thought he could put together a very fitting eulogy. Ten minutes he said, he would limit his remarks, otherwise it gets too hard on the family (that’s us, Cheryl thought), and then several prayers, perhaps the Twenty-third Psalm (The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want), he would keep it simple (Jack was simple), and he would meet them at the chapel tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.

Cheryl got the contents of the safety-deposit box, she went down into the vault. The vault, she remembered how everybody said it, whenever anybody died, they lowered their voices, their eyes, they nodded their heads like they knew something; and she’d never been there, she’d never had the occasion; this was her first time. Go, they said, documents, valuables (valuables again), and she went. First she rummaged for the key in her dresser, for the small red envelope, which her father had given her years before, one night when they had gone out to dinner together, they were always going out to dinner together, and on this night, some night, maybe it was beef with pea pods at the Pine Yard, she cosigned a bank card, he’d asked her and Larry to cosign countless bank cards, signing, signing, signing, because he was always opening and closing accounts, maneuvering, shifting, he followed the stock market, he knew all about tax-free bonds, and he wanted their names on everything, just in case. Just in case what? she’d said, but he brought the cards, the certificates, whatever they were, to restaurants, her house, other people’s houses, he brought them out at the most inopportune times, Passover, he supplied her with a pen, and once she told him it was impolite, impolite? and he raised his voice, what’s impolite? tapping at the card with his finger, and she felt her blood rushing and her aunt watching, and she signed.
She wanted him to take a vacation; that’s what she wanted him to do. She wanted him to enjoy his money and go somewhere. Go to Florida, see some plays in New York – but what was she talking about? – she’d chastised herself, he didn’t go to plays, did she ever know him to go to a play? Only if Eve suggested it, and then rarely. And then disparagingly. Plays were boring, he said, unless they were musicals. If he went anywhere, he went to movies, where he was more than likely to fall asleep; where he snored. Go somewhere, she’d said, but he never wanted to take a vacation, he didn’t want to go alone. Go with Eve, she’d said, even though she wasn’t sure she meant it; but Eve wouldn’t do that, he’d snapped. Go with a group, but even as she’d said it, she’d know how unappealing it was, how unlike him, her father on a beach with other knobby-kneed old people. He just had no interest, and besides he couldn’t afford it, he’d said; vacations cost money and besides it would mean less for you, he’d joked, only he wasn’t joking; he wanted to leave his kids all his money, and in his old age he was tight. So she signed a bank card, and he gave her a small red envelope with the safety-deposit box key, in case you ever need it, he said, and he smiled, that sheepish, small smile of his, and what could she do but take it, what could she say – I won’t need it? I’ll never need it? because she knew she would probably need it, not soon, of course not soon, but sometime in the future she could not imagine. Five years, he’d said once. I’d like five more years.
When the day came, when she descended the stairs into the basement, the man in charge of the boxes checked her name against the name on the bank card, he compared signatures, to make sure she was who she said she was, that she was Jack Kamin’s daughter, Cheryl Lynn Kamin. She thought about getting back into her car, about driving somewhere, getting on the Edens or Lake Shore Drive, getting on the Dan Ryan Expressway, Eve never told her precisely where it happened, and she would have driven, she thought, if she could just figure out where to go. Follow me, the man said, and she followed him, into the vault. She slipped the key from the little red envelope, in case she ever needed it, her father’d said, and now she needed it, and she watched as the man put the key in the lock. It fit perfectly, just like she knew it would. He led her to a small cubicle with a tabletop and chair, and after he left Cheryl raised the lid of the box that contained all the things, all the detritus, her father had sealed away, locked up, hidden or protected, and one by one, article by article, lifted and removed the contents.

One month later Larry got the bill from the Holiday Inn, $82.79, which they agreed to split, since they were splitting everything, because their parents always said they played no favorites, and Cheryl and Larry knew that meant money. $82.79, for one night’s lodging (American Express), because the nurses had said it was just a matter of hours, hours? Larry’d said, but they’d already been there for over twenty-four hours, and he needed to sleep, he needed to eat, he needed, he said, to get out of there. So leave, Cheryl thought, take a walk, take a hike, and he suggested they get a room for the night, downtown Evanston, five minutes away (closer than your house, he said), and if anything happens, which it won’t, Larry said, Dad’s a fighter, he’ll hang on, the nurse can call us. For the night? Cheryl said, and Larry said, or whatever.
They got a room with two double beds, complimentary mints, a supply of toilet seat covers, they arrived from the hospital at eleven, and when they checked in – same last name, no luggage – the desk clerk gave them such a look, so smug, like he thinks he knows what we’re up to, Cheryl thought; if he only knew, and she felt like throwing it in his face. Do you ever wonder, Cheryl said when they’d settled down in the middle of their separate double beds, Larry in his tiger-striped boxer shorts, Cheryl under the covers in her jeans, if Dad and Eve ever slept together? What? Larry said, that’s gross, that’s disgusting, how can you even think such a thing at a time like this? I’ve thought about it before, Cheryl said, I’ve thought about it a lot, he once asked me when it was okay to have hanky-panky. Hanky-panky? did he say that? hanky-panky? Why didn’t he ask me? Larry said. Larry, Cheryl said, and she sat up, she held the covers under her chin, they see each other constantly (once a week? Larry said, once a month?), she buys his favorite ice cream, he gets her a Valentine’s Day card (he does? how do you know? it doesn’t mean anything), she calls him honey for god sakes; it’s not an unreasonable question. What about Mom? Larry said, and Cheryl said what about us? we’re his children.
At four the phone rang, and it was Cheryl this time who fumbled for the receiver, who heard the nurse say, as Larry found the light switch, it was time for them to come, and five minutes later they were there.

Together they got the casket, Larry, Cheryl, and Aunt Lil, they went to the funeral home, everyone but Eve, who didn’t partake in any of the funeral arrangements, who left it up to them, and when Cheryl asked if she wanted her name listed in the obituary (Jack Kamin, fond friend of Eve Oliner), declined, demurred, because of the implications, the possible suggestion of impropriety, how it might look. (How does it look? she’d said to Jack, the first time a neighbor saw him come down to her apartment.) This was a time for the family, Eve said, and she was Jack’s friend. So she made a kugel while they went to the funeral home, a kugel for the shiva, and then she made phone calls, people in the building, all the acquaintances, mutual friends, how long had they dated? one of them asked, three or four years, that’s all, still, she said over the phone to Ruth Braverman, it was a shock.
It’s hard to believe, Larry said, as they stood in the showroom (the showroom? can you believe it?), walking among the caskets, the various selections, the least expensive plain pine – not for him, Aunt Lil said, shaking her head, for the Orthodox, the funeral director explained – and then oak, walnut, cherry, mahogany (they preferred to stick with the natural woods, Larry said), all the way up to ten thousand dollars. How about the walnut? Cheryl said; it’s a hardwood, the director piped in; distinguished looking, Larry added; but he deserves better, Aunt Lil said, looking at the price. The funeral director stepped aside while they talked among themselves, while Cheryl said what do you mean? what are you saying? and Larry said she didn’t mean anything, she only means well, and Aunt Lil said I’m going to miss him so, then Cheryl said we all will, he was our father (my father), looking at Larry, the casket, motioning to the undertaker, I think we’ve made a decision, the walnut’s just fine. And of course you’ll need a vault, the funeral director said, leading them to another corner of the room, it’s required in the state of Illinois, a vault? Larry said, something to put the casket in, the director continued, to prevent it from shifting, and if you’re worried about an airtight seal, an airtight seal? Larry said, so he, so Dad, you know, Cheryl whispered, for a little more money I’d suggest this one. What do you think? Larry asked Aunt Lil, who was trailing behind, clutching her handbag. It’s not for me to say, she said, looking straight at Cheryl, it’s not my place; you’re the children.
Back in the director’s office – upholstered chairs, a matching couch – he went through the checklist, he itemized the expenses, one by one he enumerated all the goods and services, coffee or tea, he offered, and just in case a box of tissues on his desk. There are no hidden costs, he assured them, picking up his pen. Did they need a rabbi? we have a rabbi (Eve’s rabbi); death notices in the papers? (beloved husband, devoted father), fond nephew, Larry added, oh yes, Aunt Lil nodded, it goes without saying, Cheryl said, and the director added it to the text; what about a limousine? we’ll drive, Larry said, we will? Cheryl looked at him, to pick you up and take you to the cemetery, the director suggested, not necessary, Larry claimed, it’s not? Cheryl said, some people don’t want to drive at a time like this, the director observed, oh no, Aunt Lil concurred, besides, Larry said, he just wanted to; embalming? is there some reason . . . ? Cheryl said; it’s not legally required, the director confided, to be honest we don’t recommend it unless the customer insists, insists? Larry said, unless the family requests a viewing (he didn’t look his age, Ruth Braverman had told Eve), definitely not, Larry said, and Aunt Lil shuddered; how about flowers? Larry suggested, generally we don’t have flowers, the director pointed out, we don’t? Cheryl said, at Jewish funerals, he explained, why is that? Larry asked, it’s not our way, he elaborated, I like them, Cheryl said, but if you want them, the director said, yes, Larry nodded; I’ll take care of it, as for the death certificate, he continued, you’ll need ten to fifteen copies (certified and affixed), to notify all the agencies, what agencies? Larry asked, the IRS, Social Security, Medicare for instance (the banks, insurance companies, brokerage firms), of your father’s (Jack Kamin’s) death; (aren’t we done yet? Cheryl wondered), one more thing, the director said, was Dad a veteran? a veteran? if he served in the armed forces you might be eligible for a death benefit, there’s a benefit? pardon me? just a joke, Cheryl said, oh, he smiled, but not very funny, Larry added. How can you make a joke at a time like this? Aunt Lil stood up. Can you hand me a Kleenex? she said.

Aunt Lil got the check, she paid for breakfast at What’s Cooking? where they stopped to eat after making the funeral arrangements, Lil was the one who suggested it, even though she said she couldn’t look at food, oh no, she said, just the thought of it, but you’ll eat, won’t you, she said, squeezing Larry’s shoulder, and Larry said he thought he could have a little something, and Cheryl, sitting in the backseat, said fine, whatever, let’s stop here, just as they were driving past the neon knife and fork on the sign above What’s Cooking? where her father had regularly gone for coffee and an almond crescent, so they did.
Do we look as normal as they do? Cheryl said, and Larry said as who? as anyone, Cheryl said, scanning the various tables, while Larry followed Cheryl’s gaze and Aunt Lil stared out the window. It seems like we should look totally different, like everyone should be able to tell. Eat, Aunt Lil said, order whatever you want, but they couldn’t decide, while the waitress stood next to the table with a pad in her hand. What do you want? Larry said to Aunt Lil, you’ve got to eat something, but she said she couldn’t possibly eat at a time like this, and he said this is precisely when you need to eat – right? he said to Cheryl, right, she said to Aunt Lil – and Lil, buttoning the top of her cashmere sweater, said get me an order of dry toast.
Dry toast, Cheryl protested, is that all? because . . . We used to go out to breakfast, Aunt Lil said, twisting her fingers in and out of a buttonhole. Your father and I, every Sunday. I took him, he took me, that’s how we did it. We had our routine. He liked to order the lox plate. He piled up a sandwich, onions, tomato, you know how he liked to eat. He was an eater, your father. But he didn’t used to be, oh no. Your mother’d have to beg him to eat. But in later years, well, things changed. Everything changes. That’s the way it is, Aunt Lil said, as she wiped away a crumb. He used to tell me things.
What things? Cheryl asked. Like what? Larry said.
Everything, Aunt Lil answered, folding up her hands.
What do you mean? Cheryl said, did he talk about Mom? Eve? Did he talk about us?
He talked about a lot of things, Aunt Lil said, oh yes, and then she pressed her lips together and nodded but refused to say anything else.
Dry toast, Larry repeated to the waitress, and for himself he ordered blueberry pancakes, while Cheryl ordered a lox and onion omelet and instead of a bagel, an almond crescent on the side. She thinks she knows my father better than I do, Cheryl thought. Did you notice, she said, ignoring Lil and looking only at Larry, that the guy at Piser-Weinstein wore a diamond pinkie ring? And he said Dad, was Dad a veteran? like he knew him or something; it was disgusting. Do you think he does that with all the, the customers, Larry said, to make it more personal? to make it seem less like a business? While they’re raking in millions, Cheryl said. What was the bill? Aunt Lil asked; what were the total charges? because if you’re not careful . . . But we were careful, Cheryl said, yes, Larry affirmed, I double-checked everything, I went over the figures, and Aunt Lil said I know you did, I saw it with my own eyes.
I know what he’s thinking, Cheryl thought, watching Larry, he’s thinking that he was careful, he was always careful, but did he pay his bills on time? his father’d said the last time he saw him (the last time he saw him before the stroke). Dad blew up again, Larry’d told Cheryl over the phone, and she could picture it. The two of them sitting at his father’s dining room table, strewn with canceled checks and bank statements and a tape trailing out of the calculator, and his father’s voice needling did he have a monthly budget? a monthly budget? Larry’d said, what do you mean a monthly budget? and that’s when his father said, pushing back the chair, getting up from the table, you never ask me for advice, just once you could ask me for advice, and Larry said, as he put on his jacket, when I need advice, I’ll let you know.
Coffee? the waitress offered, but Larry shook his head. You’re not eating, Aunt Lil noted, looking at his plate of pancakes and pushing away her toast. Eat, she implored him, yeah, Cheryl nodded, taking a bite of the almond crescent, you’ve got to eat something, even if it isn’t any good. So Larry ate his whole plate of pancakes, he smothered them with syrup, and when he was done, when the sticky trace of blueberries still clung to his mouth, said to no one in particular, I know he meant well.

When they split up the cleaning, when they divvied up the tasks, Cheryl got the refrigerator because Larry said it was gross, he said it was disgusting, the smell wouldn’t bother her as much as it would bother him (you’ve got to be kidding, she said), and so he took the closets (the shirts, the slacks, the silk robe from Eve) and she the refrigerator (who knows how long that stuff’s been in there, Larry said) and looking inside at the jars and wrappers, at the bottles and bowls and cartons and bins, she thought, this is what my father was eating in the weeks before he died. He was eating Claussen Kosher Pickles, which she remembered him eating, he ate them at Cubs games, along with pastrami sandwiches and sour green tomatoes and peaches and plums and nectarines. He ate pickles, dripping on his pants and swiping at his chin, while she and Larry clamored for money for frosty malts and peanuts and watered-down Cokes and vendors shouted bottle a beer, and finally, in the heat of the seventh-inning stretch, the Cubs down by something, he bought one.
He ate everything, Cheryl thought, reaching for the milk, or used to, until three years ago when they told him, after he’d had half his stomach removed (it’s the Big C, she’d overheard him tell one of his poker buddies, Fox Williger), that he should cut down on carbohydrates. What’s a carbohydrate? he’d said. What do they mean by the major food groups? To him it was simple, there was breakfast, lunch, dinner; if he was hungry in between, a little nosherei. Dad, she’d pleaded, sitting on the edge of his hospital bed, looking at the untouched bowls of consommé and Jell-O on his tray, why don’t you listen to what they tell you, but he said he was tired of all their opinions, everyone’s got an opinion, he said. The nutritionist says eat pasta (but not too much, she says), the gastroenterologist protein, your brother no pastrami (it’s carcinogenic, Larry said), but when I ask the oncologist if I should take a multiple vitamin, what does he say? he says it’s up to me. He used to eat everything, Cheryl remembered, but after they’d opened him up and stitched him back again, he’d been instructed to eat in moderation and he couldn’t figure out what that was. Does that mean, he said, home from the hospital, that when Eve calls and invites me over for ice cream, I should say no?
Where did this come from? Larry said from the hallway, dragging in a maroon paisley robe on a hanger. He held the robe in front of him like he was modeling it, one arm pressed against the waist, the other at the shoulder, while Cheryl, holding her breath and emptying the carton of milk in the sink, saw swirls of milk and paisley curl together down the drain. Man, Larry said, it stinks in here. Does it? Cheryl said, releasing her breath, you could have fooled me. Okay, okay, Larry said, but going through Dad’s clothes is no piece of cake either, and then he put the robe over a chair for her inspection. Touching the silk, she pictured her father walking down the hallway of the hospital wearing it, the robe Eve gave to him after he had the surgery, remember? But Larry, shaking his head, didn’t remember a thing. You were there, Cheryl insisted, when Eve came, when Dad opened the box, and Larry, already on his way back to the bedroom, said no way, I’d remember, if I was.
He only remembers what he wants to remember, Cheryl thought, throwing out the last of the Minute Maid orange juice and shoving the carton in the trash. Does he remember that Dad didn’t like too much mayonnaise in his egg salad or that he preferred his steaks medium-rare and his hamburger topped with a slice of raw onion? Does he remember – Look at this, Larry said, coming back into the kitchen pinching a couple of sweaters by the collars, they’re filthy, and they were, Cheryl nodded, she agreed, they were streaked and stained with god-knows-what, maybe this beet borscht she was pulling from the shelf on the door of the refrigerator, which her father liked to eat cold with a tuna salad sandwich and boiled potatoes – does he remember that? – and now, as she poured it down the drain of the sink, splattered and turned her own fingers pink; or this, she thought, the Wishbone Italian he always doused over his wedge of iceberg lettuce (is it firm? her father’d asked her, is it crisp? when, helping her mother with dinner, she’d made the salad); or what about this mustard, the jar of French’s she held in her hand, purchased for the hot dogs – remember? – he learned how to boil on the nights he ate at home by himself during the last seven years. The stains could be anything, anything at all, and they probably were.
What do you think, Larry said, with a tilt of his smooth-shaven chin toward the sweaters, should I toss them? and Cheryl said toss them? they’re perfectly good sweaters, maybe they’ll fit, try them on. Try them on? he said, looking at her pink-stained fingers and balling up the crewnecks to stuff in the plastic garbage bag on the floor, why would I want to try them on? Somebody ought to keep them, somebody ought to wear them, Cheryl said, wiping her hands on a dish towel, and when Larry didn’t answer, she grabbed one of the cotton-knit sweaters and pulled it over her head. How does this look? she said, but she was already on her way to the bedroom to inspect in the mirror. There, against her parents’ king-size bed and the reproductions of Brueghel’s fat peasants which, for as long as she could remember, had hung above it, she saw a short, disheveled woman in a dirty sweater, the sleeves so long they hid her hands, and right behind her, in a silk shirt with trombones like notes waving across his chest, a thin, tired-looking man. It doesn’t fit, said Larry, it looks ridiculous, and Cheryl said, pushing up the sleeves, straightening her hair, I think it’s got possibilities.

Cheryl got the cards, all the birthday, Father’s Day, New Year’s, and Valentine’s Day cards Eve had given Jack and he had saved, and all the cards he’d purchased in advance, planning one day to give them to Eve. She got them when she went to her father’s apartment to pack up linens for the Salvation Army, because neither she nor Larry had use for more sheets, and surely someone could use them, Aunt Lil said, who offered to come along and keep Cheryl company, so it won’t be so depressing, Lil suggested. But instead of sorting through sheets, Cheryl went through drawers, opening and closing nightstand, desk, and dresser drawers, looking for something, Cheryl thought, but she didn’t know what, and there, in a drawer in the den, she found the rubber-banded pile of Hallmark cards.
Look at this, Cheryl said, holding the stack beyond Aunt Lil’s reach, they celebrated everything. The envelopes had been marked by her father with the month and year – he dated them, Cheryl said; he was always methodical, Aunt Lil noted – and inside the cards were personal notes from Eve. Lovely handwriting, Aunt Lil said, so legible. Cheryl read through each and every one – you give new meaning to my life Eve had written – you give new meaning to my life Cheryl repeated to herself, and then she arranged the cards in chronological order and read them all again. Did you notice, she said to Aunt Lil, that Eve only sent a Valentine’s card after they’d been dating a year, at first she limited herself to birthday and Jewish New Year’s cards – HAPPY 70!, May you be inscribed in the book of life – signed Best or Yours, and only later did she send Valentine’s Day cards and add Love, All my love, My dear Jack.
She loved him, Aunt Lil said, it’s all right there, pointing her polished nail at a metallic red heart. But did he love her? Cheryl said, and Aunt Lil said most naturally, most naturally what? Cheryl silently mocked, as she dropped the pile and a flurry of playbills, matchbooks, menus, and ticket stubs fell to the floor. It’s like his scrapbook, Cheryl thought, kneeling to pick up the mementos and pass them on to Lil, who, after murmuring Camelot, Cats, That Steak Joynt, smiled wistfully. They went everywhere, she said, they ate at nice places. What’s this? Cheryl said, pulling a card she’d missed from the bottom of the pile and reading out loud, To someone who is beautiful . . . all over. She scanned it front and back, how come Eve didn’t sign it? she wondered, but then it dawned on her, of course, this wasn’t a card from Eve but a card her father had purchased, one meant for Eve that he never gave her.
They had relations, oh yes they did, Aunt Lil said, I know the truth when I see it. What are you talking about? Cheryl said, as she reached in Lil’s lap to take back the ticket stubs and playbills. It’s in a man’s nature, Lil nodded, a man’s nature? Cheryl said, giving her a look, and besides Eve wouldn’t even set foot in my father’s apartment. A man needs a woman, Lil declared, that’s the way it is. She sounds just like my mother, Cheryl thought; my mother, who made me promise he’d remarry after she died. As if I had anything to do with it, and Cheryl stood up, rubber-banding the cards and envelopes together and putting everything back in the drawer. Shall we go? she said, We’ll leave the sheets and towels for the next time.

He had to get back to L.A., Larry’d said (go, Aunt Lil’d said, we know you loved him), and in the weeks and months that followed Cheryl got everything together, she lined everything up. She got boxes from the U-Haul, Magic Markers, plastic bags, and twist ties from the Osco, and dates and times from the various organizations – the Salvation Army, the Council for the Jewish Elderly, Amvets – confirming when they would pick up. She started with the things that were the most intimate, the things that had been closest to his person, and folded his jockeys; his sleeveless, scoop-necked undershirts, which revealed the small red freckles she and Larry’d called cherries as children climbing on his chest; his support hose, which he’d worn at night, while asleep, while he elevated his feet; the striped pajamas Larry’d bought while his father was in the hospital for the stomach surgery, because you can’t wear those, Larry’d said. Week by week she sorted, deciding what to keep, discard, give away. She kept a pink oxford button-down shirt to sleep in; to dream. A down coat in which to wrap herself up. A tie of floral silk, the tie that binds. No one can walk in his shoes, Aunt Lil’d said, so Cheryl threw those all away.
Then she tackled his toiletries, all his personal ablutions; she went into the bathroom, where she saw how he’d cleansed and combed and patched himself up. How could she throw away his toothbrush, but she did; his hairbrush, but she did; his shaver, but she wanted to open it and take out all the shavings, and did. This, she thought, is hair from my father’s head.
In the kitchen and dining room, dismantled next, some of Jack’s things were fragile; they had to be handled with care. Cheryl packed up the dishes in newspaper, she carefully wrapped each plate. These are the cups we drank from, the forks from which we ate. Do you want the silverware? she said to Larry over the phone, I’ll take the china, and then she stood in the foyer of her father’s apartment and watched as the buyer from the resale shop carted the rest of the boxes away. Consignment only, the buyer’d said, because an item like this – holding up a chipped coffee cup – doesn’t have much value. Watch out, Cheryl said, for the breakables.
Of course some things were too large to fit into boxes; they could barely fit out the door. How will they manage? Cheryl wondered, but, angling and shifting, the Salvation Army movers hauled her parents’ king-size bed from the bedroom, down the hallway, past the open door of his apartment, 1601. They’re taking his bed, she overheard one neighbor whisper loudly to another, and as Cheryl followed the movers to the freight elevator, why not? the other one said.
Why shouldn’t I paint? Cheryl thought, standing in the living room of her father’s apartment, when all the furniture was gone. Larry’d said it wasn’t necessary; pay someone, Aunt Lil’d said; and Eve, after she’d returned the plastic bag with his wallet, wristwatch, keys, and loose change, went back to her apartment on the ninth floor, and didn’t say anything at all. Cheryl listened to the rattle of the living room windows as she stood in the middle of the floor. She’d donated the clothes, sold off the furniture, tossed out the perishables, and, as best she could, kept track of everything. Now she would paint the walls. She would cover every surface, rolling away every shadow left by every picture frame in every room, and when she was done, when her father’s apartment was clean and white and perfectly empty, and the walls glistened, she and Larry, as Jack Kamin’s legal beneficiaries, would sell it.

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Peggy Shinner’s work has appeared in TriQuarterly, Western Humanities Review, Another Chicago Magazine, River Styx, Other Voices, and The Chicago Reader.