Wineglasses

She died nine months ago today. A flip of the Far Side calendar proves it.

The things you notice; the things you don’t. I never tired to count the days—didn’t want to be reminded. Except, that’s all there was to do. They said, “Take up a new hobby—garden, paint; cook. Call us if you need us. Take a trip; visit the kids.” Well, you can’t dig holes deep enough to bury grief. Flowers grow up to remind you of birth, and of course, death. Painting starts as landscape but ends up as black holes, spreading across the canvas with each frustrated stab. Can’t cook away emptiness; can’t spice it away. Can’t cook like she could. As for calling—never got past holding the phone in one hand, dialing one, area code, and the first two digits. Always the first two digits. And the kids look just like her—especially Rachel. Even has the same laugh.

Today they are coming because of the tradition she started. “Tom, now that you’re retired, we really should have a yearly party. The Bonfellows do it, the Verkausfmans, everyone does it. How would we look if we always went to their parties and never had any in return? I don’t want to be known as ‘that woman.’” I told her we’d look independent, and unique, and it didn’t matter anyway because she’d always be MY woman. She laughed at me dismissively, toyed with her earring.

That was seven years ago. Tonight, in pairs, they will come for the eight time. After the funeral they asked if I’d keep the party. Rachel answered, told them I’d love to. I suppose she thought it’d be nice for me to have a yearly pattern—give me something to do, some occupational therapy.

The first pair’s RSVP arrived a month and three days ago, when the winds were blowing sand into the mail truck. The mailman covered his face with a brown scarf and black glasses, his body with thick blue jeans, even though it was 90 degrees. The letter’s stamp seemed measured in place, perfectly aligned ¼ inches from the edges. The stamp was of a bird, scientific name written underneath it. The address was etched in fine script, each word spaced evenly from the other. The second letter, addressed in fluid, looping scrip and a casually adhered colorful stamp, came the day after the rain put the coyotes all on prowl mode. The last one had to be picked up last weekend. Registered mail, with eleven stamps showing the US flag. Came with a bundle of photographs of Helen, of Helen and Me, of Helen with the Kids, but Helen nonetheless, looking great. Took one look inside and left it, ensconced in tan bubble wrap, DO NOT BEND gashed across in red ink, on her nightstand and tu rned off the light.

The fine script always surprised me, coming from a doctor. I joked with him about it all through the years were roomed together in college, him hunched over biology books, hair being messed by one hand, writing neatly with the left. He said he’d start a trend. Who knows. Makes a damn fine living, though, in Palm Springs, catering to movie stars, men and women, afraid of the wrinkles. Second letter was written in black fountain pen. It was signed with the same fantastical “S” that hundreds of black-clad Vogue readers see on the chrome and glass doors of her gallery, New York New York. And the last, written slanting left instead of right, by the hand of the man responsible for alleviating the discomfort of hundreds, thousands, of lives in LA. At a price. Earthquake insurance.

The dining room lights haven’t been turned on since Rachel insisted we set out hors d’oeuvres “in case they’re hungry” after the funeral. I asked her plain and simple to tell me who’d eat after buying someone. Death isn’t the best appetizer. She said it’s what people did. Shawn looked at me to tell me to just let her act out her impulse. But the impulse is gone now, and the light fixture I loved but Helen hated collected dust, even though the antlers were covered by some old pillowcases. Bulbs didn’t burn out.

The china cabinet wasn’t opened since, since I’ve no one to entertain. Hinge needs oiling. Baccarat, Waterford, Orrefors, Lalique. She had good taste.

Baccarat. Bought those in Chicago for the 25 th anniversary. Her eyes told me I made a good choice. I like them. Simple, modern looking. They take the light and shove a little patch of it on your mouth as you drink. At dinner parties, Helen used to let that light wander slowly down her chest as I watched. If someone caught a glance, she’d shift the patch right back to her mouth. They’d be bad for the doctor’s wife—might shoot a ray of light up under her jowl and we’d see some scar he overlooked. No reporters here, might be OK. Thick four-sided stem. None of us has arthritis that bad we can’t grip smooth crystal—yet. Heavy; they might dampen the mood. Mouth of the glass is a little narrow; might keep us tight-lipped and make the silence drown us. Frosted, like winter windows. A little unseasonable.

Waterford. None of us is Irish. Better still, none of us is Catholic. Hallelujah. Wedding gift from her Catholic parents. Wrapped in white paper with a card that said something about God and our union, to last forever. Forever. Small flecks of light bounce off the cut stem. Might highlight someone’s liver spots. “These are the standard glass,” said the in-law, Maureen. “Everyone has them.” Maybe they’ll have them too, and think it a little slice of home. Then they might stay. A little stuffy, like the doctor’s office, burgundy leather overstuffed chairs, carefully selected store-bought art on the walls, and beige silk lampshades. Don’t want to add more discomfort.

Orrefors. We bought these—rather, she bought these while I was with her—on our trip to Sweden. Hell of a time getting those shipped back to the US. Look like little bits of candy in the stems, yellows, blues, greens. Look like the flowers in glass paperweights. Her eyes lit up in the showroom, watching the light invite the colors to dance over the black marble floors and white walls. She was beautiful, standing in a field of glass, radiant. She attracted the attention of Sven Palmqvist, the designer of that particular Ravenna pattern. After that point I knew we’d be walking out of there with new glasses. I didn’t mind. The gallery owner would love them. But she’d talk about them in conjunction with some art she’s showing now, lah-dee-dah. Get the conversation moving, at least. A little youthful for the collection of raisins and prunes tonight. Won’t go with the table, plates, scenery. It’ll look too out of place.

Lalique. Good for the insurance man. His wife’ll like the name. I won’t like the wife. She could tie them to her head and float them back to LA. Frosted art deco designs. Bought on the 30 th anniversary in Paris. She burst into the hotel room and dragged me to the store with her excitement. They were the same design, Eden, we saw on our honeymoon but couldn’t afford. Rachel said she wants them when we’re dead. Tick…tick… Two naked intertwined nymphs form the stem and hold up the glass, like Atlas under the weight of the world. Or Atlas under the weight of the conversation. Atlas shrugs. The earth topples. Insurance man might like that metaphor. ‘cept, he doesn’t know what a metaphor is.

Each works for some reason or other. Baccarat for me, bad for the wrinkled. Waterford for the doctor, bad for the conversation. Orrefors for the gallery owner, bad for the setting. Lalique, good for insurance, bad for existence. All of them for Helen.

She would walk in right about ten minutes ago, look at me, drop her shoulders, mock disapproval, then point directly into the cabinet. She’d know. Wouldn’t be standing here staring like an imbecile trying to figure out what kind of glass to use. It’d all be planned now, the whole thing, down to napkin holders and salt cellars, with time left over to nibble on hors d’oeuvre with red nails wrapped around a glass of Vouvray.

Out of the dining room window is a perfectly framed view of the Wyoming mountains meeting the flat prairie. I look at the exact spot where the rock meets the hard place. There’s nothing green, there’s nothing lush. The air tastes like dirt and the coyotes leave bones in the yard. The whole house is an extension of her, each pillow in the living room still smells like her perfume, each guest towel is still in place from where she put them, each dimple of her high heels still in the carpet in her closet. I paid for all of it, but it’s not mine. A few crumbs in my easy chair, magazines on the floor, socks on the bedroom chaise—these are mine. But that doesn’t count for much.

The Orrefors. Yes, definitely the Orrefors.