Joy

The shell-pink envelope arrived with the morning’s mail, and Connie felt instinctively it was bad news. She placed it, unopened, on the kitchen table, leaned it against a vase of irises she’d cut earlier that day. But as she brought her hand away, she caught a drift of fragrance that almost made her cry. It was evanescent, a trace of something sweet and piquant, and with it came an accompanying sensation of a memory or a feeling or a time she could not place. She picked up the envelope and studied the handwriting, if you could call it that—printing, really, almost like a child’s.

Connie frowned and thought to return the envelope to the table, but she was aware again of the subtle scent and instead brought it toward her face. She was conscious of a fleeting melancholy, an elusive lift of delight and sadness. Holding the letter closer, she anchored her feelings by looking out the window to the backyard. Early spring, a cycle begins as another ends. She lingered on the thought a moment, then suddenly recognized the scent, and couldn’t imagine why she hadn’t realized it immediately. It was Jean Patou’s Joy.

Her parents had given her a bottle years before, when she graduated from college. She had worn the perfume all through her courtship with John and the first years of their marriage, until finally it was used up. That was decades ago. But the scent’s association with those early years was still poignant and strong.

It seemed odd the letter’s author wore the same perfume she had worn all those years before, especially as it had been discontinued and was not easy to come by. But there it was, the pink envelope, the careful printing, a scent with which she was more than intimate and that had an immediate impact on her emotions. That intimacy, that peculiar connection with someone she assumed a stranger, made her feel strangely violated, although she wasn’t sure precisely why.

She leaned the envelope back against the vase. She was tempted to rip the seal and read the contents there and then, but she couldn’t get past the idea something unpleasant was inside, a secret or admission likely to engender discomfort or pain. She closed her eyes and focused on the mental list of chores she needed to complete that day. She’d come back to the letter later, when she and the day felt more organized. But then again....

She could just read it now.

She frowned at her indecisiveness and looked at the letter one last time before pouring a mug of coffee and taking it out to the backyard. She sat at the green bistro table John had bought a few days before he died. “Great sale,” he’d said, as justification when she disapproved of the cost. Now, like so many things, it seemed a memento, a piece of history, another reminder he’d been on this earth for a time and now was gone.

Despite the sunshine, the air was chilled, and she pulled her cardigan more tightly around her shoulders. She looked across the yard, feeling suddenly vulnerable, and wrapped her hands around the mug for extra warmth. Since John’s death, a sense of vague unease was not uncommon.

He’d been opening a bottle of California Zinfandel, gabbing about a picnic they’d been on years before. He’d mentioned the picnic several times over the preceding weeks, and his frequent retelling of the event annoyed Connie, mostly because his reaction to her not remembering it was decidedly accusatory. This time, she’d simply ignored him and taken the napkins and glasses into the dining room.

But as she walked back into the kitchen, she saw him falling, and she heard the shatter of the wine bottle as it smashed on the Saltillo tiles, and the scrape of the chair he’d bumped against skidding across the floor and toppling, and she saw the dark stain of wine spread and flow—looking, she thought later, like blood from a sacrifice—and the ceiling lamp swinging dramatically by its single cord, the entire scene shifting between defining light and obscuring shadow. Even as it happened, she knew he was dead, his ashen face slick with sweat, a fleeting look of profound surprise that vanished almost as quickly as it came, the life washing from his eyes and the impenetrable glaze that replaced it, blank as a stone. It all occurred in an instant, but to Connie each moment was distinct and clear, as though the shock of their happening had sharpened her perception and distilled her awareness.

What she didn’t know, and never could know, was that John was alive when he hit the floor and was alive several seconds afterwards, and his eyes, though blank, watched her bend over him and they saw the intensity of her fear.

And she did not know he saw her drift—or perhaps he drifted?—or was it a dream?—and the light remained, but her face shadowed over, the features veiled and indiscernible. Nor was she aware John found himself sitting next to her on the blue checkered tablecloth of their first picnic, together and alone for the first time, in the green meadow, her light-cotton dress the color of sunflowers, and the hum of the silver-winged dragonflies near the aspen trees where they sat with their basket, and the California Zinfandel and the stemmed crystal-glasses John had packed so carefully, hoping to impress her. The fragrant summer grass rolled out before them like an endless possibility. She leaned into him and kissed him and put his hand on her breast, and because the gesture was both erotic and innocent, his feelings were conflicted, and he felt his responding kiss somehow too much and too little.

And Connie did not know, because he’d never told her, it was, and would always be, the happiest moment of his life, and he’d kept it locked in his memory the way a sommelier tucks away the tastes and sensations of an extraordinarily rare and delicate wine. When the kiss ended, he rested his head on her shoulder and closed his eyes, the throb of the silver wings closer than before, the sun’s warmth on his face.

And then, like falling into sleep, he fell into sleep forever.

Connie hadn’t adjusted easily to life alone, and even now stayed away from California Zinfandel. If, inadvertently, she saw a bottle in the market, she immediately turned and walked away. It was foolish, of course, and she knew it, but the wine’s association with his death, and the blood-like surge on the kitchen tiles, and the memory of the rich, jammy bouquet that permeated the air for days afterwards was still strong and persistent. And, of course, he’d been going on about that silly picnic.

How strange he’d fixed on something of such little importance, to her at least. But now, that long-gone afternoon with the Zinfandel and the dragonflies was just another source of guilt, something filed away somewhere and carelessly forgotten.

She sipped her coffee. For her, guilt and death were tightly woven, and John’s death was a jarring catalyst that had given renewed power to the guilt she still carried for their son, Michael. Not that it had ever stopped, or that she didn’t often relive the agony of his passing. But she’d managed over time, slowly, painfully, to staunch her emotions and put them, finally, in uneasy perspective.

A small breeze rustled the branches of the pear tree and stirred the bloom of daffodils. She shivered, took another sip of coffee and went back into the kitchen. The phone rang, but she allowed the machine to take a message. It was her best friend, Barbara. Connie knew from the tone she simply wanted to gossip, and she wasn’t in the mood. More importantly, she was hesitant to tell Barbara about the shell-pink envelope, with its stirring fragrance and promise of disruption.

She sat at the table and looked at it. It had a completeness, a self-contained satisfaction she found irritating. She picked it up, and was aware again of the subtle fragrance. She walked to the counter, took a sharp knife from the wooden block, and slipped the point into the gap along the flap’s crease. The blade slid smoothly, accompanied by an even shred of sound. A stronger version of the perfume’s essence—roses, sandalwood, jasmine—floated from the envelope as she pulled the folded page away.

Connie took a deep breath. She felt lightheaded, and moved back to the table and sat. She put the letter down, and closed her eyes a moment, concentrating on the soothing darkness. She debated whether to follow her initial instinct and read the letter later, but finally she picked it up and unfolded the page. It was written in the same childish print.

Dear Connie,

I hope you don’t mind me calling you Connie but Mrs. Richards seems too formal given the circumstances and anyway John always called you Connie and I’ve always thought of you that way. John’s been helping me out financially but now he’s gone. I read his obituary in the paper and I’ve waited hoping things would get better or something would come along but now I’m in a bind and I wondered if you could help out. John and I were fond of each other. He was funny don’t you think? I’m sure this all sounds strange given the circumstances and normally I wouldn’t ask but I’m really in a bind with things the way they are and have no one else to turn to. I could come to you or you to me either way is fine. Whichever is easiest. But maybe you don’t want to meet at all. I understand if that’s the case.

The writer included a phone number, and the letter was signed Susan.

Connie put it back on the table and stood, pushing the chair away with the backs of her legs. She picked up the knife, returned it to the counter and looked out the window at the backyard. At least there, she saw order and familiarity. Had someone asked, she’d have said her mind was blank, but actually the opposite was true. It was crammed with thoughts, thoughts and images, all colliding with each other, all competing, all demanding her loyal and undivided attention. She turned and looked back at the letter.

“Oh, John.”

Two phrases coalesced in her mind: John and I were fond of each other, and He was funny don’t you think? She walked back to the table and checked those were the exact words, in the exact order. John and I were fond of each other. Fond of each other. Fond. What did fond actually mean? John and I. John and I. They sound like a couple. But we were a couple. She looked at the second phrase. He was funny don’t you think? Apart from the lack of a comma, it made complete sense, and anyone who knew John knew he was funny. Anyone who ever met John could say that—the mailman, the mechanic, the pharmacist, anyone. Still, there was something in the wording that inferred intimacy, and the missing comma only added to it, an implied, casual indifference, a tacit level of comfort—particularly when coupled with John’s and Susan’s apparent fondness for each other. John and I.

She slapped the table in sudden anger, then stood still, closed her eyes and allowed herself to relax. She wanted to keep her feelings in check before deciding what to do. She needed a cool head.

But maybe the whole thing was a hoax.

She’d heard of people cashing in on others' grief, checking obituaries, inventing a story, concocting an angle, and then ingratiating themselves, or making claims, fantasies so well researched and rehearsed they were bound to illicit the desired response. Susan said in the letter she’d read John’s obituary, and that’s how she knew of his death. It was almost a confession. She could have easily found the survivor’s address. Connie’s address! Perhaps Susan had come to the funeral, mingled, or just looked Connie up online. Instead of responding directly, she should call the police, give them the letter, let them handle it. The more she thought about a con, the more likely it seemed.

Except for the perfume.

She kept coming back to that. It had to be more than coincidence that the writer wore the same fragrance, a fragrance linked so intimately to John and to their early years together. If it was some common scent, she’d not have thought about it twice. But Joy was different. It was expensive. Far too expensive for someone like Susan, someone in a bind. People in binds don’t buy expensive perfume.

Unless John had bought it for her. But that seemed impossible, more than impossible, a violation, a vulgar intrusion into their intimacy, into their lives together. She felt angry and helpless. She wanted to cry. She wanted control. She wanted to tell John to go fuck himself. But that was hardly fair. Not without proof. Not without evidence. She picked up the phone and dialed.

The conversation was brief. Connie introduced herself and Susan said, “Oh” as though pleasantly surprised, as if she’d been expecting the call all along, but never really believed it would happen. Susan told Connie she was sorry for her loss. Connie wondered if it was appropriate to return the sentiment, but doubted she could say it without sarcasm, and settled instead on a simple thank you. They arranged to meet Wednesday, two days later. Connie would go to Susan. She didn’t want Susan in the house, and she was curious about what sort of place Susan lived in, particularly if John had been footing the bill. It was within walking distance. How convenient for John, she thought, with a sliver of anger. She’d found the building on Google Maps, an apartment complex.

On Wednesday, she decided to walk. She needed to put a lengthy interval between leaving her house and arriving at Susan’s, time to get her thoughts in order and allow the apprehension she was experiencing to dissipate. Anyway, it was a pleasant afternoon and the sun was bright. She followed a path along the lake. It wound through a small, grassy area called The Meadow, and as Connie entered she heard a small boy’s excited squeals as he and his father successfully launched a kite. She watched it rise swift and high into the air. Further along, a young mother picked up her crying toddler. Connie thought of Michael.

Tumors had been present even before he was born, neuroblastoma cancer cells that metastasized to other parts of his body. He was classified a high risk, stage-four patient at fourteen months. The doctors tried chemotherapy, then surgery, followed by more chemo. But the passage of his tiny life already was encoded in his genes, a foregone conclusion. She smiled sympathetically at the young mother, who smiled back at her.

As she neared the complex, her anxiety increased. It was in view now, and she sat down inside a glass bus stop to review her thoughts and feelings. She suddenly felt the timing was off. Or she needed more time. Or maybe there was no good time. Or maybe this was just a bad idea she should never have acted on. She was sorry she hadn’t told Barbara where she was going. She hadn’t even mentioned the letter. What if her first instinct was correct, and Susan was part of a scam involving others, hardened criminals, and here she was, just moments away from a perilous encounter, closed off in a strange apartment without any backup, without anyone even knowing she was there. It wasn’t too late to change her mind. It wasn’t too late to call Barbara.

But she did neither. Instead, she walked to the entrance of the building. Susan had given her the entry code, and the door clicked and opened when she entered the numbers. She walked to the mailboxes, checked them, and found Susan Smith, a name so generic Connie wondered again if she was walking into a setup. Well, detective, she told me her name was Susan Smith. She could almost see the jaded officer rolling his eyes, another sucker who got what she deserved. She took the elevator to the second level.

The corridor was bland and gloomy, the floor covered with green industrial carpet, the sort designed to withstand heavy foot traffic at the expense of any redeeming aesthetic qualities. The walls, too, were green, lighter in shade, but equally unappealing. There were no windows and the light from the wall sconces was losing its battle against oppressive opacity. Connie assumed the owner was too cheap to install decent-sized lightbulbs. She imagined, without humor, it was the sort of thing John would do if he’d ever owned apartments.

She followed the numbers until she reached the end of the corridor and stood in front of door 213. She rang the bell and waited. She heard brief activity on the other side, a sort of swishing sound. She assumed Susan—or someone—had crept to the door and was looking through the peephole. Connie was tempted to step aside, out of range, but decided it probably violated an unwritten social contract regarding peepholes.

When the door opened, Connie was immediately struck by Susan’s appearance. She, Susan, looked almost exactly as she, Connie, had looked 40 years before. For a moment Connie felt an odd sense of embarrassment, as though she’d run into someone she knew and ought to remember, but just couldn’t put a name to. But the moment passed, and she was jolted by the resemblance. It was uncanny, unnerving. Bizarre.

What am I getting myself into?

Her impulse was to turn and leave.

Susan smiled. “Thanks for coming,” she said. “Come on in.” Her voice was low and pleasant.

Connie was aware of the fragrance of Joy.

“Interesting perfume,” she said drily.

“It was from John.”

“Ah.”

“I guess that sounds weird, me saying John’s name, I mean.”

“This whole thing is weird.”

Susan smiled, obviously uncomfortable. “Would you like something? Juice or a Coke?"

“Water’s fine.”

“Have a seat.”

The apartment was small but comfortable and filled with light from several windows. Connie looked through the largest, and from it could see the lake and the path. Straight ahead, a single kite floated high above the tree tops, and she wondered if it was the young boy’s. Susan returned from the kitchen with two glasses of water, and they sat at the table.

“I usually like coffee this time of the day,” she said, “but I’m off it right now.”

“Ah, yes, coffee, the mixed blessing.”

“That sounds like something John would say.”

“He probably did,” Connie said, with more edge to her voice than intended. She tried to lighten it with a smile, but her face felt tight and uncooperative, so instead she took a sip of water.

“I know this can’t be easy,” Susan said.

“I’m not sure what you want.”

“John was looking after me.”

“Yes, well, John looked after me. For a very long time.”

Susan smiled, suddenly radiant. “He loved you. He told me.”

“You talked about me?” Connie said, sharply.

Both were silent, then Susan said, “Only with him dead now, I’m in a bind.”

“I’m not sure how it’s my problem.”

“I was hoping you could help.”

“You mean money.”

There was a prolonged silence, and Connie took another sip of water. She was surprised how dry her mouth had become.

“How did you meet?” she said finally.

“I was a waitress, and he came in one day, and I knew he was attracted to me, you know how it is, but I didn’t think anything about it. I mean, he was pretty old.”

He was a year younger than me, Connie thought, but she said, “And then you went out together?” Went out together seemed an odd choice of words, even to Connie, but to say dated was absurd. And, finally, what did it matter what you called it?

“Not at first. I mean, he started coming in regular, and we got to know each other. I had money problems, and John helped, paid some people off.”

“People?”

“People I got involved with.”

Connie weighed the implication but decided against asking for clarification.

“And you were grateful.”

“Sure. Who wouldn’t be?”

“And you were fucking him.”

“Not really.”

“Well, I think you really were, or you really weren’t.”

“It wasn’t like that. He wanted to look after me, so he told me to quit my job and he’d pay for a place and give me something to live on, and that’s what happened.”

“No strings?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“He said I reminded him of someone.”

Looking at her younger self across the table, Connie thought about that for a moment.

“Anyway,” Susan said, “there was this one time. He bought me a yellow dress, and we went on a picnic, out to the country, and we were sitting under some aspens and there were all these dragonflies, and that’s when John gave me the perfume and asked me to wear it. Then, while he was opening a bottle of wine, he looked over at me and started to cry. I don’t think he planned it, I know I didn’t, the sex, I mean, but I felt so sorry for him, and he looked so hurt and lonely that I held him and it sort of just happened.”

Connie’s mind immediately flashed to images of the scene, the same scene John had described on multiple occasions, the dragonflies, the Zinfandel, the trees, but instead of being with her, he was with Susan. She imagined his awkward hands pushing up the yellow dress, the heat of their union, their bodies stretched in the cool, fragrant grass.

She realized she could easily cry herself but was determined not to. This was betrayal on a grand scale. He had betrayed Susan by pretending she was Connie, and betrayed Connie by pretending Susan was her. It was smoke and mirrors, sleight of hand. But the betrayal went deeper. He’d given Susan her perfume. He’d relived a part of their lives with someone else. He’d fucked a substitute, a character he’d created, based on the original, some perverse reenactment.

“I see.” She stood, as if to leave. “I’m still not sure how this my problem.”

Susan looked down at her hands resting on the table, then up, her gaze not quite meeting Connie’s. “The thing is,” she said, “I’m pregnant.”

Several seconds passed. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“And it’s John’s?”

“I saw the doctor. I was going to tell him, but he died.”

“He didn’t know?”

“I never told him.”

Connie looked at the pattern on the carpet. She ran her hand across her forehead and pushed some loose hair behind her ear.

“It’s a boy. I’m already calling him Little John,” Susan said, smiling, without any trace of irony or guilt.

From outside, Connie heard the blast of a car’s angry horn. She walked to the window. A seagull swept by, probably on its way to the lake. Further away, The Meadow was green and vibrant, the lake a brilliant shimmer of silver light. The kite still bobbed above the tree line. She thought again of the young boy and his father, and wondered at their future, all the hope and possibility.

Michael’s memory stirred suddenly. Her husband was to be the father of a new child. John. Little John. A flush of blood rose in her cheeks, and she was filled with a feeling she’d known once, but assumed she’d forgotten. Joy.

“I’ll need to think about this,” she said. And she turned to Susan, her eyes bright.