She is the only beauty in the room, and she is black and white. She is under glass in the center of a desk, the only place not cluttered with matchbooks, keys, coins, newspaper. Her face is round and serene, her hair black and wrapped in a tight bun on top of her head. She is and always shall be nineteen years of age, in 1958, and she is now a widow. I shake my head a little and turn back to the rest of the room.
My cousin David wanders aimlessly. One desires to put the affairs of the deceased in order, even when the deceased had no affairs. I desire simply to put his room in order, but there is little point to that. The Sunday newspaper lies strewn about, along with socks and other sundries; a Playboy peeks out from under the chair which sits facing the TV. The chair and TV undoubtedly got plenty of use.
"Right here, I guess, is where they found him," David says, standing next to the chair on the side leading toward the little bedroom.
"Hm," is the only response I can muster. My hands make fists inside my jacket pockets. David walks past me toward the kitchenette. He opens the cupboard above the refrigerator and lets out a loud laugh. It startles me a little.
"Well, the bastard had a well-stocked liquor cabinet!"
"And you're surprised?" I ask with a smile. David grins and closes the cupboard. "We'll have to drink a shot in his honor at the funeral."
"Really," David responds quietly. He looks at the floor. I turn back to the desk and under the pretense of putting Uncle Bob's affairs together I open a drawer. There is a phone book. I open another drawer; paperclips and rubber bands. I wonder for a moment why he needed such things. I close the drawer and look again at the pristine face under glass.
"Is someone going to call her?" David asks.
"I don't know. I suppose we should. Maybe Mom will."
"Do we even know her number or anything?"
I consider for a moment. "I don’t know. Mom will be able to find it." David nods and we stand for a moment, looking at her. Our aunt. It is strange that I have never even considered having an aunt to go along with Uncle Bob until now. Now that he is gone and she isn't even my aunt any more.
"Well, I suppose," I say and we turn toward the door. We walk out and turn out the light behind us. We both have knots in our throats and tears threatening to fall, and we both know that the other has the same, and we don't talk all the way back to Mom's house.
It's only five minutes' drive. The house is full, and the people smile quietly and sit at the kitchen table, fingers wrapped around coffee cups.
Mom is nothing if not together - even now, notebook open, a list of names for the obituary. It's not terribly important but I'll never know if she forgets to include the woman in the picture or consciously decides. It's just as well anyway – we never even think of it, and hardly anyone in town even knows. He was such a bachelor – not the kind with a girl in every port, but the kind who read a lot of Sports Illustrated and Playboy. Way too many people will ask us, and we will have to tell the whole story too many times, if the obituary says he is survived by his wife.
"Hi Honey," says my wife somberly.
"Hi," I say with a falsely chipper smile.
"How are things?"
"Oh fine. Nothing much to find."
"Except enough liquor to keep the whole damn Army drunk for a week," David says. We all laugh a little. Mom puts her hand on her chin and shakes her head, smiling.
"Not surprising," she says.
"I said we'd have to drink a shot to Bob's honor at the funeral," I say.
"Good idea," says my wife with a smile.
I take my coat off and sit.
"Well I think I'm gonna go," says David.
"Oh," I say and stand up. "Hang in there," I say softly and give him a big hug that he doesn't really want. He slaps me hard on the back twice and says, "You too," his voice choked a little.
"So long Millie," he says, and Mom responds in kind.
"Drive carefully," she says, and David is gone. I sit again.
"Now tell me if I've left anybody out," Mom says and reads off her list of survivors. I don't notice anyone missing.
"I talked with Mrs. Rosen, and you know the county can help cover…"
"No," says Mom curtly. "We will have none of that. None."
"OK," I concede and shrug. "That's fine."
"Did you see the dollar I won?"
"What?" I ask.
"There should be a laminated dollar in his apartment. We bet on the last Superbowl and I lost. One dollar. I laminated it and gave it to him." She smiles mischievously. I laugh.
"I didn't see it. I'll look for it next time I'm there." There is a moment of silence. "Um, Mom, is anyone…should we call….Atsuko?"
Mom is quiet. "I had thought of that. We ought to, but I'm not sure how. I have an address; it's old but I thought I'd send a card there."
"Would her last name still be…" my wife asks.
"I don't think so," says Mom. "It might be, you know, legally, but I doubt she still uses it. It's been forty years after all."
"Is there such a thing as a common law divorce or anything?" I ask. "I mean they are still legally married, correct?" Mom shrugs.
"As far as I know, yes."
"Why did she never come over here?" I ask, looking down at the table, not expecting an answer, just wondering. I've asked before. Suddenly I realize I never asked Bob.
"I think she simply changed her mind. I think, I'm not sure but I think they married on kind of a lark. Bob looked good in uniform, you understand." We laugh.
"And he was a sweet talker," I add. My wife grunts.
"Not to me he wasn't," she says and smiles.
"He picked on you because he liked you." I smile. One can't complain about the deceased without smiling; it is rude. "But anyway…she simply changed her mind. But I still don't understand…"
Mom raises her eyebrows and shrugs. She speaks quietly. "I hate to sound like a psychologist, but the car accident affected Bob very deeply. And I think moving in with us at 13 was no good either. At the time of course there was nothing else to do, but still…."
I shake my head and look down at the table. I can't imagine what he felt, in the back seat of the car that in an instant took both of his parents. And burying his 13 year old emotions to move in with big brother George and his wife and three kids, and suddenly playing big brother to me and my sisters, and marrying a pretty girl and leaving her in Korea never to see her again. A wave of sadness overwhelms me from the gut up, and I let out a low, long, deep sigh.
"Ah well," I say after an awkward silence. "What are you gonna do?"
"I'm not even sure that she's still alive," Mom says. I blink and look at my wife.
"Hm," I say. "I suppose she'd be, what, sixty? Sixty one? The only image I have is her at nineteen." Mom shrugs.
"That's all any of us is seen is that picture. But I suppose we ought to send a card or something."
The funeral is not in church since Bob never went to church, and in the cemetery they bury an urn full of his ashes. A few feet away I visit my father's grave and for what seems a long time I weep, my two sons standing near and remaining strong. We drink a shot in Bob's honor and it feels empty. It is a month before Atsuko calls, thanking Mom for the card and wishing us all the best.
