Chapter 5 - The Geography of an Empty Drawer
By Friday evening, Clara had packed two garbage bags with his clothes. Martha stood in the doorway of the master bedroom, arms folded across her chest, watching her daughter methodically take wire hangers off the rod.
There was no fury in the movement. It was almost reverent, which frightened Martha more than screaming would have. Clara folded Ryan’s work shirts—the blue oxfords, the ironed linen—with crisp, squared corners before dropping them into the black plastic.
"Leave the rest for his brother to fetch," Martha urged softly. "The detective said he can send an escort on Saturday."
Clara didn't stop. She opened the top dresser drawer where he kept his watches, collar stays, and receipts from hardware stores. Beneath a stack of clean handkerchiefs lay an unopened birthday card she had given him three years earlier. It showed a vintage bicycle against a brick wall, blank inside except for her handwriting: To many more miles together.
She didn't tear it up. She placed it back beneath the handkerchiefs, shut the drawer with a soft, decisive slide of wood on wood, and sat down on the bare mattress. The sheets had been stripped; the ticking of the mattress was striped with faded blue ticking, looking like an abandoned hospital cot.
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"I thought if I was just a little quieter," Clara said to the empty closet, "he would stop being so afraid of everything."
Martha stepped forward, knelt on the floorboards, and pulled Clara’s head down against her shoulder. The smell of Martha’s skin—witch hazel and lavender—had not changed since Clara was seven years old, sick with the measles in a bed with blue sheets.
