John the Posthumous (8 page)

TEN

M
y wife arranged the knives in a tidy row. Sometimes a game is made of such formations—don’t you find? And so she collects the needles and he extracts the hairpins as—observe—the blanket turns black. Or so goes our conjecture, as quaint as the names of the places. Or the ax in the pattern of the house. It catches the light or dispatches a shadow—though this is more often the case for widowers, I think.

In certain histories of the romantic tale, ritual dictates a trembling of the hands.

Dowagers swallowed rings, silver and otherwise, on such occasions—though I have this point on poor author
ity. Th
ey would trace the initials and burn the pages. Sometimes they hung them on hooks. Yes—oh, well,
no. Hers sat—once, that I recall—on the windowsill. The panes and the blinds, a woman in a gown. A geometry
of nuptial detail. Which does put it grandly.

My wife kept the knife box. Caskets are also used for jewels—is this not pleasant to remember? Spinsters hung theirs on nails—though spikes were more
common, I take it. The wall is white, the table blue, the door as clean as a hatchet. To claim an old phrase. Set yours in
the drawer, please, or beneath the bedsheet. Wear the ashes, in the manner of a widow. Say the name.

In certain histories of ritual, romantic tales are nailed to caskets in the square.

The wife burns the husband’s clothing. The
husband stands at the end of the corridor, on every
floor. We do embrace our examples, sometimes, with undue devotion. The town—it had been founded by a
benedict. Commencing with burnt posts on a lawn. Our
house was quite plain, I am afraid. Pause here, at the door. Present yourself at the window, as she had, and
now remove yoursel
f
from view.

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