You left me without your dress Loretta. We played house for two full years, when we were mostly happy, well I know I was happy, anyway, when I came home from the machine shop everyday you seemed contented, you kissed me and I believed in some spark was lighting, for me it was 4th of July rockets and blasting bombs of joy. Your kisses were like we were apart for weeks, years, as if I was your oldest and dearest friend. All there is in our town is the movies to go to, and I was almost afraid to let other men see your beauty. Thats why I insisted on sitting in the back of the movie theatre. Why am I talking to an empty dress?
I know you wanted to get married, and have kids. We talked about that enough, and you knew I wanted kids also. We never argued like my parents were prone to do. You were fine like you were, and you didn’t try to change me. Contented was a word I was sure to put on you, until today.
Of course if you started expecting we would have hitched right then. Or if you had insisted just a little bit, that would have got me going for the license.
We didn’t talk enough Loretta, you had been divorced from Rod Walscrean and lived with him in Houston. I met you the first day you got your job in the pharmacy. If you had not moved in my house with me I would have gotten fat drinking your moca milk shakes. I didn’t say you had to quit working, but you wanted to make dresses and shirts at home, and be a housewife. At first you didn’t want to get married, so soon after your bad divorce. I know your not going back to your ex. I heard all your horror stories. I’m playing with the dress, the fabric that your not in. Why?
You said more than once, ‘It was not good with him, like it is with you.’ You meant sex, and I thought that was good, as well, better than with anyone else, not that I’ve ever lived with anyone else, and I haven’t had sex with so many, to compare you with. We talked very well about sex, I thought, and I told you how good it was. I told you not to use birth control because I love babies. So we didn”t and I didn’t — and now I’m talking to an empty dress.
I came in the door with my key because you didn’t answer the bell. And the dress you were wearing the purple number you had on this morning at breakfast: eggs over medium, coffee, and strawberry preserves on toast, well the dress was in a big heap on the bedroom floor. I’ve been going over this out loud with the dress all I have of you now is its rumpled presence.
There was no note saying, ‘Jimmy I’ve had enough of you’, There was no note saying, ‘Jimmy remember when we were both drunk on my birthday and we both swore we would get married as soon as we sobered up, and we didn’t, and you never said, ‘I’m catching the Greyhound to Dallas.’ Or maybe you went to Pittsburg, or Ontario. Now my words to those sparkled, leather pumps. ‘Did you catch a bus without any of your shoes, without any dresses, or the suitcase?’ The suitcase that I carried from the room behind the pharmacy? I had a panic at the sight of the underwear that was not neat either, but on the floor.
I had thought of the worst, as I talked to the front door, it was closed, airtight, and mute. ‘Should I call the police?’ As if it could answer back. But first I had to check around. There were possibilities you think of in an hour. I searched the yard, the neighborhood. This had been my parents house. I lived there, now that their lives had ended. But had she gone Trailways, or Greyhound –wearing nothing? Or sweetheart you could have caught a ride, but who without your duds? Your closet and drawers are full like as always. Your wallet with my picture is on the jewelery box. It contains twenty seven dollars and seventy cents. Why is that still here? You could have other money. I would give you anything you asked.
Your dress is dead on the floor.
Nothing cooks in the kitchen.
Loretta I remember the day you bought all the dress material. It was your best job yet. Now the fabric feels cold in my hands. I wonder if you left over some lack. I have the briefest facts.
No you wouldn’t call your mother. She told you to leave when you were sixteen. Where even Dolly is with her bottle of alcohol, you wouldn’t know. Your brother Alex is still doing 20 to life. I never knew what it really was he did with his knife.
I keep playing with your dress, it is all I have left. I find nothing, no note in the pocket. I check today’s mail at the curb, and there is the electric bill, and a late Christmas card from Stokes Hardware Store.
Every pair of shoes you had is here, and strap jobs are lined up where you left them. You bought food yesterday, enough for a week, me and you, the right amount.
My appetite is all lost.
I am back, searched back to our home, searched the neighborhood, and more. Mr Jenkins on the corner never misses anything, and didn’t see you go. Old Betty in the green house that needs new paint spent all day in her yard, but you didn’t that way, she swears. At the bus station they don’t remember a blond on any of the departures. I showed the ticket man the picture of when we were at Daytona Beach. The one with the teddy bear. Teddy is still in the North Bedroom window, green eyes like new. I’m missing only you.
I took the dress out of the closet to show police patrolman Fish. He examined the whole house, he looked in the yard and when he saw your picture said, “Wow, she’s some dish!”
