DOWNSIZING

 Frank Ternes was surrounded by boxes; almost claustrophobically surrounded by large and small corrugated boxes; the kind supplied by the moving company and a few scavenged from the local liquor store on Forest Avenue. Some he filled with what remained of his library, which initially was too large to fit into the two bedroom apartment into which he and his wife, Iris, would be moving the following Thursday.

 The move meant downsizing from a six-room house with a “family room” converted into an office, den and library; where most of the several thousand books that made up his library were shelved by category and author. The remaining books were upstairs in the front room. Like any bibliophile, he collected books because he enjoyed owning and eventually reading them. But now he was left with - - he guessed - - about a thousand books, most of which were reference works on various subjects. The bulk of his library went to Bridge College, where he taught English literature for eighteen years; the remainder he gave to his three friends. He felt as if he’d dismembered a beloved animal.

 He was still undecided whether or not to take several books on a shelf a few steps from where he sat. The largest of them was a faded green edition of Robert Burton’s THE ANATOMY of MELANCHOLY. He couldn’t recall the last time he used it; like so many other books in his library it was there in case he needed it.

#

 To help him make a decision about the book, he lifted it off the shelf and opened it. A Kraft envelope, somewhat larger than an ordinary business envelope, fell to the floor. Immediately he recognized it and knew its contents: a half a dozen photographs taken more than fifty years ago, while he was at Camp Lejeune waiting to be discharged from the Corps.

 For several moments he looked at the envelope and winced when he stooped down to pick it and winced again when he stood up. He accepted the pain without complaint; it was part his life, a constant companion. Tall and thinned by age, he still wore his white hair close cropped and attended the annual meetings of his unit whenever his and Iris’s health allowed.

 Back at his desk, Frank held the envelope in his right hand and gently slapped it against the palm of his left hand. There were times he’d forgotten about the photographs; and other times when he remembered he had them, though he couldn’t recall where he’d put them. It was never imperative he find them, so he never looked for them.

He moved the envelope under the glow of the desk lamp, as if the light would enable him to see into it, to view the photographs, all of them of him and Ruth engaged in various sexual activities. If he were asked why he’d kept them for so many years, he would not have been able to give a reasonable answer; but he knew reasonableness had nothing to do with it. He had done it,  that was all that mattered. There were other photographs of him in dress blues, in combat fatigues, and of his friends - - some of whom had been killed in Korea and others who, like himself, had survived. Places that he and Iris and their children had visited. Birthday parties. Graduations. All duly recorded and now downsized with rest of his - - more precisely - - their belongings. He knew that because of the many times Iris called his attention to a particular photograph or group of them that she wanted his opinion on which to keep or discard. But those in the envelope were his property; Iris never knew about them, though he did tell her about his meeting with Ruth years after it had taken place. By then they’d been married too long for it to matter.

#

He and Iris attended his high school reunion at the Marriott hotel on Lexington Avenue; she there because he cajoled her to come with him. Though they’d met at college they’d attended and had graduated from different high schools: he from Erasmus Hall and she from Lafayette. During his junior and senior years, he and Ruth were considered to be “a number.” He was also considered to be a “wild man” by his friends and teachers, many of whom had warned him he’d wind up in prison. He hadn’t; instead he wound up a college professor and the author of several successful novels and screenplays.

Ruth was not present  at the reunion, but he was surprised to find her best friend, Gloria and her husband Ron, seated at the same table as he and Iris. Somewhere during the evening he broached the subject of Ruth - did she still see her? A couple of times a year, Gloria replied; and went on to explain that after two years of marriage to Lee, her first husband, they separated, and Ruth, a year or so later married her present husband, Walter, who was a doctor, a surgeon. But she was never really happy with him. You were always her problem; Gloria explained,  she never stopped loving you.

What was he expected to say to that? He could feel the heat in his face. Though flattering to him, it was an inappropriate remark to make in Iris’s presence. But Iris stepped into the breach and with a smile said that he was a loveable man.

Gloria pressed even further; speaking not so much to him as to Iris, she said Ruth had told her about the last time he and Ruth had been together.

That was a long time ago, he said; adding that he moved on and was sorry that Ruth hadn’t. He spoke sternly, as if he was reprimanding a child and for the remainder of the evening there was hardly any conversation between him and Gloria. He and Iris were among the first few guests to leave.

A spiteful lady, Iris commented as they drove home. Of course she meant Gloria and he agreed and said that an explanation was in order. Iris said it wasn’t necessary, that as he’d said, what ever happened happened a long tine ago.

He said he couldn’t remember how Ruth found out he was in Le June. Maybe she never told him? But she was in Jacksonville and she wanted to see him. They met in a local cocktail lounge and wound up in a motel.

In a whisper Iris asked why?

He wanted to be flippant and say, because it was there. But he knew her simple question was deceptive; in it lay a universe of questions about him; their marriage and her self doubts. He told her that he couldn’t tell her why, adding after a moment, that he probably couldn’t have answered the question then. But he was being disingenuous. Even after all of the years that had passed there were still remnants of flattery left. The debris of excitement. And, oh yes, lust. He never mentioned the camera.

Iris remained silent until they were on the Verrazano, on the way to Staten Island, where they lived. She repeated that it happened a long time ago.

#

He had understood that she was hurt; he had also understood that whatever he might have said would only exacerbate the hurt. Silence became the balm; their lives continued without either of them ever mentioning the reunion or his confession, which was how he came to look at what he told Iris. And now, undecided what to do with it; he held a tangible piece of his and Ruth’s past in his hands.