The Shawl

By Elizabeth Smith

My older sister, Trudy, left us all boxes. The evening after the funeral, Milo, her husband, invited us over and laid them out on the kitchen countertop. My daughters each received a small pastry box with oil stains. In Sophia’s was a jade necklace. Emily’s contained a filigree brooch. My daughter-in-law, Kate, received a stack of books in a box that once housed a blender. Arthur got a shipping box of old knick knacks that were once his grandfather’s: monogrammed hankies, an old watch in need of repair, a harmonica inside a metal case, a few neckties, and a pair of cufflinks.

My box was a glossy gray and smelled of Trudy—Chanel No. 5. I always thought it was the nasal equivalent of deafening, drowning out any other pleasant scent there might be in the world. It looked like the box had come from Nordstrom or Macy’s or some other department store that packaged delicate blouses in thin boxes.

It was so like her to fill these boxes before she passed. When we shared an apartment and a car and the milk in the refrigerator, trying to be independent from our parents by depending on each other, she kept pepper spray in the glove compartment and a chiffon dress in the trunk—just in case the wrong or the right man got curious—and she had a number of occasions using one or the other, or both. She insisted we keep our tips or bonuses from work in an empty peanut butter jar because what thief would look for cash in the pantry? If there was anyone who had thought of everything, it was probably Trudy.

I must not have wiped my face thoroughly during the service earlier that afternoon because the skin on my cheeks was tight. The lid rumbled as I lifted it. The box held what was already mine, a shawl Kate had made for me when she and Arthur were newly married. But I couldn’t recall lending it to Trudy. Had she taken it without asking me first? I glanced at Kate and only saw her back as she minded her two children. They had been whining incessantly since the moment their flight from Chicago landed, and at this particular moment, the complaints were about when they could get out of their stiff, black formal wear and when they could go to Chick-fil-A like Kate had promised earlier. To be honest, I couldn’t wait to get away from my own children and grandchildren. I closed the box before Kate turned around.

I ate dinner alone on the balcony of my condo that night. The warm summer air thawed my fingers, which were stiff from the over-air-conditioned climate in Trudy and Milo’s house. I opened the box again at the table between spoonfuls of canned soup. The shawl was just as awful as I remembered it: a triangle shape with tassels lining the bottom, consisting of a stiff, multicolored brown yarn entwined with a bit of tinsel, crocheted in a lacy pattern.

Kate had given it to me on Mother’s Day when she was still new to the family and new to crochet. The holes in the pattern were not uniform, and one side of the triangle was slightly longer than the other—and it was a shawl, of all things to give a mother-in-law. Have they ever been in style? The only woman I can recall who wore a shawl regularly was Mrs. Jasper, the crone who lived across the street when Trudy and I still wore our hair in pigtails. She watched us for our mother occasionally, and up until then, I hadn’t met a single creature who was more ancient. She complained of the supposed cold weather for three-quarters of the year, when she wore her shawl constantly, and then she complained of the heat for the remaining quarter, when she wore a sleeveless white dress, exposing us innocent girls to her spotted dried-apricot arms. She smelled of fish and licorice, and she sprayed her gray hair until it was so stiff it would crunch at the lightest touch. Who would want to become Mrs. Jasper? I thanked Kate for the gift and then stashed it away somewhere in the closet.

Upon opening the box for the second time, I noticed that underneath the shawl was a pile of torn envelopes, each containing letters Trudy had received from me years ago, before there was such a thing as email. I imagine we sent dozens of letters back and forth, but there were only nine in the box.

“Dear Trudy, You would not believe how green the Azores are. When John comes home from the base, we act like we are on vacation and walk along the beach…”

“Dear Trudy, I started volunteering at a local church. There are some pretty amazing folks who volunteer too, and there are so many people who need help around here…”

“Dear Trudy, John and I hired a tutor to teach us Portuguese. It’s become a silly game for us to flirt with each other in a new language. I’m sure the locals think we sound like cavemen…”

Why hadn’t Trudy tossed the letters? I threw her responses out long ago, because John and I moved around so much back then, while Trudy and Milo stayed put in that house that they hoped to fill with the cries of hungry babies, the patter of small feet, the smell of a teenager’s spray deodorant. But they never could. The letters were relics of a distant life, a life with friends and family who were either dead, estranged, or on the road to death and estrangement.

“Dear Trudy, We are excited for your visit…”

“Dear Trudy, I’m pregnant…”

“Dear Trudy, It feels nice to be back in California. Remember Jillian Tebbs? Turns out she lives just an hour away from us! We are getting together on Saturday…”

What was she getting at, digging up what I had long since abandoned? I only met with Jillian a handful of times. She started a women’s clothing line and became so focused on her career that she didn’t have much time or patience to spend with me and my babies. Her clothes were impeccable though, and I bought a dress or two from her. Beautiful and very over-priced.

“Dear Trudy, I’m looking forward to seeing you and Milo at Mom’s big birthday party…”

“Dear Trudy, Little Arthur doesn’t seem so little anymore. He’s already reading without my help. He even reads bedtime stories to Sophie at night…”

“Dear Trudy, You would not believe what John and I did to celebrate our anniversary…”

Of course she had to bring up my marriage. Maybe this stroll down memory lane was just some elaborate guilt trip, like when she would get after me for not gassing up the car after I used it back when we were roommates. Maybe she was trying to mentor me now that both our parents are gone, acting like some sort of surrogate mother. I divorced John because after a long deployment to the Middle East—his exact location was confidential—he never really returned. He came back to us but acted flimsy, like he was now merely a shell of the man we once knew. Nothing excited him, relieved him, or interested him. He never wanted to talk about anything, and so we didn’t. I didn’t wait patiently, potty training Emily, nagging Sophie to stop sucking her thumb, and coaching Arthur through geometry during that deployment just so I could have a shell in my bed instead of a man.

But none of these letters explained anything about the shawl, so how did Trudy get it? It had been several years since she had the strength for outings, and I knew I didn’t leave it at her home because my last visit to her place was last summer. I packed up the letters and went to the closet. The hangers screeched against the rod as I checked between each sweater and skirt. I opened all of the drawers in the dresser, even the one with the broken track. I stood atop my chair and ran my hand along the top shelf of the closet. I felt the smooth fabric of my extra sheets, the plush of an old pillow, and a soft yet slightly scratchy textile. It was the shawl.

I laid it out on the bed and compared it with the one from the box. They seemed identical, except that mine was saturated in a cloud of dust and the tassels were tangled. I placed Trudy’s shawl on my shoulders. A small piece of paper fell to the floor. It was in Trudy’s cursive.

“Kate made this for me for Christmas. Can you believe how beautiful it is?
Love, Trudy”