Happy Anniversary

The smell of detergent was making my nose burn.  And that combined with the drone of the machines was enough to make someone’s head spin.  Or it could have been my thoughts making it spin.  I absentmindedly flipped through the script I had written.  It was a dark, somber play, without a title.  Susan had always been better at titles.1

When I looked up, I saw him staring at me.  It wasn’t an intense stare, only curious, but it was still unnerving at first, and I looked away.  He didn’t.  I could feel his eyes on me.2

One load finished drying, so I got up to take them out and fold.  The clothes had a fresh scent, but it wasn’t hers.  Hers was flowers and vanilla and femininity.3

“I guess your wife sent you out here too, huh?” he said while my back was turned.  “I thought I might be the only one.”4

“Yeah, I guess she did.”5

I thought about that morning as I was getting her cloths together to be cleaned.  All her dresses hung pressed and smooth, as if they’d just come in from the dry cleaners.  They were color-coded in sections of those pinks and greens and blues that she called pastel.  Then the deep, midnight colors that always made her eyes so mysterious.  And that pantsuit she loved so much.6

I started to daydream.  The whir of the machines lulled me into one of those trances I found myself in more and more often, and I almost forgot the man was there.  It’s hard watching those slippery, sudsy clothes going around and around and around without letting your thoughts tumble around with them. 7

“What color is this?” Susan would ask every time she stood twirling in front of the mirror.  Sometimes she liked to admire herself.8

I always did.9

“Pink.”  Then The Look.  I’d try again.  “Purple?”10

She’d sight, exasperated-like, ever the drama queen.11

“It’s not hard to remember, Richard.  You can remember Henry V’s lines but you can’t remember the word magenta?”12

She had a point.  Sometimes I did remember, though.  I just liked the way magenta sounded when she said it, all silky and warm slipping between her lips and into my ears.  I couldn’t do that to magenta.  Maybe that’s why I forgot it so often.13

I remembered all the colors she’d taught me now.  Magenta.  Fuchsia.  Periwinkle.14

I had begun laying her dresses neatly in the basket.  It had been a long time since I’d done that.  I went straight from the whites to the blacks; I never messed up her order.  I’d emptied my change jar and rammed some quarters into my pockets.  The clothes weren’t dirty.  They couldn’t possibly be.  But it was one year ago today, and I figured it was time.15

A red nightgown slipped from my fingers and I remembered that this man had started a conversation.  I turned back to him to see if he had gone back to his book during my reverie, but he looked at me as if he were waiting for me to say something more.16

“I’m Rick,” I offered, taking a step toward the man and sticking out my hand.17

“Carl.”  He shook with friendly enthusiasm.18

At first, I thought we were alone with the washers and dryers.  But, as I looked around, I saw a woman sitting in the back corner, lost in the world of Cosmopolitan.  Her chair was a cracked yellow, and it squeaked every time she crossed and uncrossed her legs—which was a lot.19

“Your wife sick or do you always do the laundry at your house?” Carl chuckled, oblivious to the squeaking.20

I do now, I thought.21

“This is all new to me,” he went on before I could even respond.  “My wife, Carrie, she’s sick as a dog in bed at home.”22

Be glad, I thought.  Sick is better than the other option.  I wanted to say it out loud but knew he wouldn’t understand.  “I hope she feels better soon,” I volunteered instead.  “Men with laundry can be dangerous.”23

“You’re telling me,” he laughed.  “At least you look like you’ve done this before.  I bet your wife’s a slave driver.”  He said it good-naturedly enough.24

Susan.25

“When I met my wife, Susan, she could do a little bit of everything, it seemed,” I told him.  “And she wanted me to do everything, too—including laundry duty, dishes, interior decorating . . .” I paused.26

He looked interested.  There were just three of us in the Laundromat, and not much to do.  The woman in the back didn’t seem to be paying us much attention, but I lowered my voice anyway—almost as if I were sharing a secret with Carl.  “When I first saw her, I could tell that she was someone who loved life.  She knew how to live it, and, after a while, I began to live it through her.  To be honest with you, everything was so much more beautiful through her eyes.”27

“Sounds like you got the short end of the stick, then, so-to-speak,” he joked.28

Carl, if you only knew, I said silently.29

“We met in college,” I continued.  I don’t know why I kept talking.  Maybe I needed to and it seemed like he’d listen.30

“Actually, she was in college.  I was the professor.”  He eyed me with the same look I always got when I told our story.31

“So . . .” he began.32

I cut him off.  “No.  We didn’t officially date until after she graduated.  NYU.  Top of her class.”  God, she was so smart.  He looked relieved.  “But I was always interested.  I taught theatre and she was a wonderful student.”  Bright.  Enthusiastic.  Stunning.33

“I remember the first time I saw her on stage.  Theatre 101.  I never wanted her to get off.  The spotlight hit her hair in just the right way to make it smooth chocolate.  Her entire body glowed.  And there was this halo of light around her head that stayed there even after we turned off the spotlight.”34

“You sound like a writer, Rick,” Carl interrupted.35

“I am.”36

Outside, someone honked a horn.  Loud.  The squeaky woman picked up a plastic mint green basket full of white and pink towels.  She snickered at something on the pages of her magazine as she walked outside.  The car rumbled away, the sunlight gleaming off the windshield and sending a glare into the room.  37

“I write plays,” I continued after the pause.38

“I just know the way you talk about Susan sounds like you’re speaking some kind of poetry.  I couldn’t do that talking about Carrie if I tried.  Not that I have tried.  But you know what I mean.”39

“Yeah.  Well, she was an amazing actress—young, vivacious, and so determined.”  It felt good to talk about her like this.  No one talked about Susan anymore.  It was taboo to mention a man’s dead wife.  But Carl didn’t know.  And talking about her today, especially today, seemed to say that one year hadn’t made me forget.  Carl and I were keeping her memory alive.40

“With my prompting, Susan auditioned for A Midsummer Night’s Dream that spring of her freshman year.  She made the most beautiful Hermia.  I think that’s when she fell in love with Shakespeare.”  I was beginning to daydream again.41

His washer stopped its rhythmic churning and he moved to put his clothes into an open drying.  I stopped in case he had lost interest.  “Keep talking,” he encouraged me, waving his hand to urge me on.42

I could go no for days.  Poor Carl didn’t realize what he was asking.43

“Susan lived on the stage.  We both did, but she really lived there.  I mean, sure, she did school plays and community plays and that kind of thing, but her life was a play, too.  Her play.  It seemed like she was always acting.  Probably the most overly dramatic person you’d ever meet.”  I laughed.  “I created that in her, I suppose.  But, being a director and an actor myself, I thought it was wonderful.”44

“Carrie’s like that, too,” he interjected.  “But I didn’t find that out until we married.  While we were dating, she was sweet and mild, always accommodating.  Who knew she had such a fireball of emotion?  Came as a shock to me and my family.  But I’d do it again, cause God knows I love her.”45

I smiled.  “Women can surprise you, can’t they, Carl?  Luckily, I knew every side of Susan before I ever proposed.  She wasn’t the girl my family would have picked for me, though.  She was way too over the top.  When I was a teenager, my older brother was already in his 30’s and going through a pretty messy divorce.  After about five years of marriage, his wife was bored with him and ready for a different thrill, a young one.  But before she left, she was trying her hardest to take most of what he had. 46

“Ben would always tell me, when I dated the cheerleader or the prom queen or the leading actress in whatever play we were doing at school, he’d say, ‘Watch out for those flashy girls, the dramatic ones.  They’re trouble.  Why don’t you set your eyes on that mousey girl down at the church?  She always sits up front with her Bible and tat shy smile.’  Then I’d explain to my brother how any girl that sat that close to the preacher was not my kind of girl—and she didn’t talk, besides.  She might as well have been mute.  And he’s say, ‘That’s why she’s safe.  Those loud girls, they’ll drain your dry, Richie.’”47

Carl sat back down after his clothes were rumbling peacefully in the dryer, only this time he sat in the chair straight across from me.  “Wise guy, that Ben, huh?” he said.  I nodded.  “What about your parents?  They would have disapproved of Susan, too?”48

“Well, I wouldn’t know about my father.  He died before I was even born.  A couple of days before.  But my mom, she wanted me to find a nice quiet girl like she was when she was young.  She said that kind of girl would always treat me like a king, always look out for me.”49

“So Susan doesn’t treat you like a king and that’s why you’re out here doing her laundry,” Carl quipped.  I simply shrugged.50

“Susan did treat me like a king.  Ben had been wrong and so had my mother.  She acted like I was the most important person in her world.  I remember one time she took one of my scripts that I thought would never amount to anything.  She took it, made copies of it, and somehow got our entire community theatre to perform it for me.  She surprised me that night with homemade dinner and later cried as we sat there and watched my words come to life on stage—as if it were her own child.”51

I could still hear the applause from that night and I could see Susan glowing again.  She always glowed—always, from that first moment I’d seen her on stage.  I sat there for a minute just thinking about that night.52

Carl’s phone rang a “Mission Impossible” tune, and he excused himself.  It gave me a chance to think more about Susan, about what my life would have been like if I had gone to teach at that university in Connecticut instead.  I couldn’t fathom it. 53

A siren sounded somewhere down the street.  I looked outside and saw Carl leaning against the glass.  He seemed to be doing a lot of listening and very little talking.  The siren got louder as an ambulance approached and passed, the sound fading after a few seconds.  It reminded me of the night they’d come to get Susan.54

I tried to block out that memory and went back to my thoughts.  As a child, I’d always dreamt of writing an amazing play that would gain world renown and having a wife that would stand by my side.  I knew that wouldn’t happen where I grew up. The people there weren’t interested in the arts, and that’s why I’d left for New York.  My mother was sad to see me go and didn’t understand.  I thought about that little town in Alabama where I’d spent my first 17 years.  Then I thought about Susan, my all-around city girl.  What a difference.  She was made for a place like New York, or rather, it was made for her.55

Suddenly, I realized Carl had come back in.  I didn’t know how long he’d been back, but I knew that I hadn’t spoken in a while.  What were we talking about?56

“Rick, your buzzer just went off.  You were in your own little world over there, weren’t you?”57

“Yeah, I guess I was,” I responded.  I began folding my last load.  “Important phone call?”58

“Just Carrie giving me the rest of her “To Do” list.  So, you and Susan got any kids?” he asked.  That was out of the blue.59

“No.  Susan never wanted children.”60

He sounded as shocked as I’d been when Susan and I had first discussed it.  “You mean there’s actually a woman who doesn’t want any children?” he asked incredulously.  “Man, where did you find her?  Carried wanted about seven.  Drove me insane, all that baby talk.”61

“Susan thought a baby might interfere, in case she ever got discovered and we had to move. I told her I understood.”  I hadn’t understood, but I loved her.  “One of the few times she’d gotten upset with me was that conversation.  Her face had gotten all flushed and her voice started reaching that pitch that was almost like a screech.”  Carl nodded as if he knew that pitch, too.62

I tried to mimic her voice.  “I don’t want a baby!  I’ve never wanted a baby and I never will!  And you know that, Richard!  Don’t act like you didn’t know!”  I hadn’t known.  But I hadn’t wanted her to feel guilty so I’d dropped the subject.  And when Susan got sick, I knew there was no hope of it happening.  I desperately wished we’d had one.  If part of her were with me, maybe I wouldn’t be here washing her already clean clothes. 63

It dawned on me that I was finished.  All the clothes were washed and folded.  So what was I still doing there?64

“Well, Carl, it was good talking to you,” I began.  “Sorry if I took you from your reading.”65

“Not at all,” he replied, and his smile was genuine.  He pointed to his copy of Tom Clancy’s Patriot Games and the Sunday comics that lay on the chair beside him.  “That book’s been read enough, and those comics sure don’t qualify as educational.  Maybe one day I’ll see you in here washing baby clothes.  I will be in a few months, assuming Carrie sends me out to do it.”66

I extended my congratulations.  He was young, maybe mid-twenties—Susan’s age.67

“And tomorrow’s our anniversary,” he continued.  “I just hope she’s not sick for it.”68

“Happy anniversary in advance,” I said, trying to mean it.  “I hope she feels better.”  Today’s an anniversary for me, I thought.  I picked up the basket of Susan’s clothes and the pages of my script.  I wasn’t sure if I was ready to go back home alone today.  “Thanks for listening.”69

As I walked out, an older couple came in the “In” door.  I was glad Carl would have more company.70

I went to put the basket and script in my car and then thought I should walk around town.  Outside on the street, the sun shone bright.  It made me think of Susan.  The air was full of that thick warmth that glues your clothes to your skin.  Everything reminded me of her.  This was the type of day Susan would have pulled me along into every boutique on the street corners, looking for a certain hair clip or hat or pair of salmon capri pants.  A woman walked by with her pug dog and I smelled flowers and vanilla in her wake.  The scent hung in the air around me. 71

I walked into Lady’s Fancy, as I had many times that past year.  A purse dangled from the shoulder of a mannequin standing in front of me.  The fabric was woven with Susan’s color: magenta.  She would love it.  The magenta pantsuit and this purse.  I could see Susan wearing them both, smiling at me.  I found that same purse on the shelves and bought it.  The cashier had seen me many times before, when I sued to come in with Susan and probably even more since then.  She looked at me and smiled, as if she knew.  The purse was perfect—exactly what Susan would have wanted for herself on her anniversary.  72