• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 4293 0

Sarah in his apartment. Since his divorce, he had reverted to his former bachelor ways. He wasn’t untidy—indeed, his white-walled apartment was simply and precisely arranged. “It’s almost like an art gallery,” she’d remarked, the first time she saw it. But it was spartan. There was hardly any food in the kitchen, because he usually ate out. She bought him pots and pans and implements which he didn’t suppose he’d ever use, and new white towels for his bathroom. She did it cleverly, however, and never in a way that was intrusive. And she seemed so pleased with the results, and so relaxed when she was there, that Charlie reckoned their tastes were very compatible. It hadn’t occurred to him before that he might have difficulty living with a woman who wanted to change his household or started putting up floral curtains when he wanted plain venetian blinds, but he realized now that he really didn’t want to go back to the conventional domesticity in which he’d lived when he was married to Julie.

“It’s funny, but I don’t seem to mind having you in the apartment,” he once remarked.

“Well, thank you for the big compliment,” she laughed.

“You know what I mean,” he said.

The only time he ever experienced a flash of irritation, and a moment of fear, it was over almost at once. He had come into his bedroom early one evening and found her going through his drawers.

“Are you looking for something?” he asked in a sharp voice.

She turned. “Caught in the act,” she said with a sheepish smile. “I need to see your ties.”

In Charlie’s experience, women never managed to give him ties he liked, and he was wondering whether to discourage her from attempting such an impossible task, when she frowned, and pulled something out from the back of the drawer.

“What’s this?” she asked.

It had been a while since he’d looked at the wampum belt. He took it from her and gazed at it thoughtfully.

“Any guesses?”

“It looks Indian.”

“It is.” He ran his fingers over the tiny decorated beadwork, which was rough to the touch. “It’s wampum,” he explained. “You see all these tiny white beads? They’re seashells. The dark beads make a pattern, as you see, and that’s actually a kind of writing. This wampum belt probably has a message.”

“Where did it come from?”

“It’s been in the family for a long time. Maybe hundreds of years. I don’t know how we first got it, but it’s supposed to be lucky. Like a charm.”

“Has it ever brought you any luck?”

“My father was wearing it the day he lost all his money—after the crash. He told me he had it on when he decided to jump off the GWB. But then he didn’t jump, or I guess we wouldn’t still have the belt. So that was lucky, you could say.”

“May I look at it?”

He handed it back to her. She took it over to the small table by the window and studied it. As she was doing so, Charlie thought about the belt and the process of making it. How long had it taken? Was it a labor of love, or perhaps just a tedious duty? He liked to think the former, but there was no way of knowing.

“Whatever it means, this is an amazing abstract design,” Sarah suddenly said. “Very simple, but strong.”

“You like it?”

“I love it. That’s a wonderful thing to have in the family.”

“I suppose it is.”

“It’s a work of art,” she said.

Ten days later, she had given him a tie. Needless to say, her choice was perfect—a rough silk with a dark red background and a faint paisley pattern. Discreet but elegant.

“Is it all right?” she asked.

“It’s more than all right,” he said.

“You’ll wear it?”

“Absolutely.”

She smiled with pleasure. “I have something else for you,” she said.

“Another present?”

“Just something I saw. But I can take it back if you don’t like it.”

She handed him a rectangular package wrapped in plain paper. It looked like a book, but felt too light. He opened it carefully. Then stared, amazed.

It was a drawing by Robert Motherwell.

“I thought it might go over there,” she said, and pointed to a space on the living-room wall. “If you like it, that is,” she added.

“Like it?” He was still staring at the drawing, almost unable to speak.