A Widow's Story by Joyce Carol Oates

A Widow's Story by Joyce Carol Oates

Author:Joyce Carol Oates
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins US


Of the many things I did not tell my friends, I did not tell them of how, the day following Ray’s death, that night unable to sleep I cleared away approximately one-half of my clothes, from our bedroom closet.

Not Ray’s clothes! My own.

In a heap I threw dresses, skirts, slacks, shirts—sweaters—things not worn for a year or more. In some cases, a decade.

Dresses I had worn, with Ray, long ago in Windsor. In Detroit. Dinner parties, festive occasions. There are photographs of the two of us, in our dress-up clothes. Looking so happy.

In a fever to be rid of these clothes—clothes that had once been new—clothes I’d once took pleasure in wearing—on my knees with paper towels and Windex cleaning the dusty floor of the closet.

A kind of rage is smoldering in my heart. Why am I so angry—jeering-angry—You are alone now. All this is vanity, worthless. What a ridiculous person you are! This is what you deserve.

Clothes twisted into a heap, stuffed into a garbage bag, to be dragged out to the curb. So crucial it seems to me, to get rid of these things, not to give them a second glance, I don’t think to call Good Will, or the Salvation Army—or maybe it seems to me no one would want my clothes, no one would want me.

Next day, after the trash has been taken away, and the clothes are gone, and my closet half-empty—I’m stricken with a sense of loss.

Why did I do such a thing? Why, so desperately?

Ray’s clothes, I have left untouched. Ray’s beautiful gray wool sport coat, his camel’s hair coat, his shirts still in the Mayflower laundry wrapper, his khaki shorts neatly folded . . . But there is a bureau drawer stuffed with his socks, I think that I will give away Ray’s socks, there is a veterans’ service organization I will call—the Military Order of the Purple Heart.

Weeks later, I am staring at the Purple Heart card left in our mailbox. It can only be coincidental, I am thinking.

We need small household items and your usable clothes. We raise funds for service, welfare, and rehabilitation work in connection with the members of the Military Order of the Purple Heart of the U.S.A. Those eligible for membership are any wounded, disabled and/or handicapped veteran, his/her surviving spouse, orphan or other survivor.

Quickly I place Ray’s socks—(neatly folded after laundering, by Ray)—in a cloth bag. So many socks!—white cotton socks, black silky socks, checked socks. I can’t bring myself to give away Ray’s shirts, sweaters, jackets, neckties—but socks are minimal, lacking identity and significance.

In other bags and boxes, more articles of clothing (my own), random household items like plates, glasses, vases, coffee mugs.

None of these needs to be discarded but I think that I must donate more than merely socks to the veterans’ service organization. And when mid-morning a van appears at the end of our driveway and the driver comes to load things into his vehicle I feel a flash of terror, the



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