In the East Bay apartment of my Aunt Jeannette several days after her death, I found remnants of her life—a black silk evening coat with pleated shoulder detail in the style of the forties, a
dozen of her high school graduation photographs in which she was wearing glasses with round metal frames and a large Velveteen Rabbit of silky plush. I wondered—did my aunt, a seventy
year-old woman who had never married, leave these objects as clues to her life or were they a random collection of souvenirs of another era?
The manager of the building had made it clear that the rent was paid for only three more days as he gave me the keys. Picking up the mail scattered on the floor below the slot in the front
door, I saw that my aunt had opened several envelopes before going to the hospital. I read the messages: “Haven’t seen you all day—miss you. Love, Martin.” “Until tonight—with much love,
Martin.” Now I understood why my evening telephone calls were never answered.
It was too late to ask the questions that flooded my mind about my aunt, about my family, about myself. Why hadn’t I guessed the truth? In the twilight I paced, looking at the familiar
Oriental rug, the two Victorian lamp tables, the photographs of my young daughter who wore a clown costume and rouged cheeks in celebration of Purim--as if I had never seen them before.
Dazed by my discovery, I forgot my task. My instinct was to flee to my own orderly life where things were what they seemed, to call my husband to say—what?
I shivered. a sharp December wind with the promise of a storm shook the eucalyptus tree outside the sliding doors of the balcony. I turned n the lights, then turned them off. Then, as if on
command, I walked to my aunt’s closet in her bedroom. In the half-light I opened the door, took the black silk coat from its hanger and put it on over my wool skirt and sweater. A faint fragrance
surrounded me. Jicky, by Guerlain. I looked at myself in the long pier glass. There was just enough light filtering through the east window. The coat fit me perfectly.