The Wig

(photo by Molly Broxton)

From the moment she first saw the old hatbox, Elizabeth felt drawn to it. She found it in the back of her mother’s closet, sitting on a shelf above Aunt Dot’s wedding dress. Elizabeth was only eight when Dottie committed suicide, just two weeks before her wedding day and under circumstances that had never been fully explained to Elizabeth. Her mother had rarely spoken of her aunt and Elizabeth never imagined that she would have kept the gown. But seeing it there, with Dot’s name written hastily on a faded receipt stapled to the garment bag, Elizabeth realizes that the dress must have served as a protective totem, warning all those that entered the closet to stay away. Certainly, her father would not have ventured any further after seeing the dress and knowing the significance attached to it.

Her father had always avoided any activity that might result in confrontation or elicit strong emotions. Every step he took, every word he uttered, seemed carefully calibrated. Elizabeth cannot remember a single instance in which he so much as raised his voice. Before retiring last year, he had spent 30 years as a postman. She wonders if he ever missed a day of work. She liked to imagine him delivering the mail. Of course, he would take the same route every day, taking slow, deliberate steps under a hot sun. He would stop occasionally to notice a flower in bloom or to make small talk with Mrs. Nelson, who could always be found waiting anxiously at her mailbox for a letter that never came. Sometimes she invites him inside for a cold drink but he always politely declines.

Sometimes, after a third vodka gimlet, her mother would taunt him from across the dinner table. “Your father is so slow, Elizabeth. Slow and steady, and painfully dull.” She liked to ride him in front of Elizabeth, to talk about him as if he weren’t even there. He never responded. He never challenged her. Instead, he just stared grimly into his peas. His passivity only made her angrier. She would push her plate away in disgust, then storm off to the porch for a Pall Mall. Only then, would he look up from his plate and offer Elizabeth a reassuring smile. “Sometimes it’s better to be kind than to be right.” She never understood what he meant by that. Nor did she understand her mother’s periodic flashes of mean-spiritedness. Now, as she pulls the box down from the shelf and places it on the bed, she realizes she never will.

It’s been two weeks since the cancer took her, here in this room. In the end, she wanted to be at home. Elizabeth and her father sat vigil beside her, watching soap operas, changing her oxygen tanks, and waiting for her to die. It happened during a game of gin rummy. She slipped away so quietly they didn’t realize she had gone. There was no last gasp, no final words — just a clenched fist with three queens never discarded.

Elizabeth stares intently at the hatbox on the bed. Already, it has lent an air of mystery to the room, which at her father’s request, she has scrubbed clean of any traces of her mother. It has taken Elizabeth all day to pack up her mother’s belongings. Her husband, Paul, drove her up to Connecticut from their home on Long Island. It was a pleasant ride, mostly because the leaves were changing to red and gold, and other than the incessant chatter of the AM radio, the trip was made in silence. Paul was a tireless consumer of news. At home, he always had the television set on CNN. He would listen intently to the same stories as they cycled over and over again, as if waiting for something to happen. It used to bother her but now she has grown accustomed to the noise. It is as much a part of her environment as the small talk she shares with her husband. “How was your day?” “This is a nice wine.” “It looks like snow.” Lifeless words that go largely unacknowledged, like the fly on a horse’s mane.

Elizabeth can’t remember when they stopped having conversations. Sometimes it seems as if they’ve just run out of things to share. She knows she should feel some sadness or resentment, but she doesn’t. Paul is a good and patient man. Together, they packed up her mother’s shoes and clothing, an assortment of picture frames, and an extensive collection of knitting magazines that spanned nearly fifty years. Her life fit neatly into a dozen boxes, which Paul dutifully carried up to the attic before retreating to the den to watch football with her father. Nothing remains but the hatbox. It is decorated in a simple floral pattern. Flowering vines of wisteria stretch across a pearl white background. The paper has turned yellow in places, its edges cracked and frayed. The words “Marshall Field’s” are printed on the lid in a beautiful cursive font. Beneath it, appears “Chicago, U.S.A.,” in bold letters. Elizabeth smiles. When she was young, her mother would go to Chicago for knitting conventions. She often took such trips, sometimes two or three times a year.

Elizabeth opens the box. Inside sits a wig of long chestnut hair. She frowns. Her mother never wore hairpieces. Until the cancer came, she had thick, blond curls. Elizabeth holds it up to the light. The netting is torn in places from wear. She notices a stack of letters inside the box, bundled together with a piece of ribbon. She pulls an envelope from the stack and opens it. Three photographs fall to the floor. That’s when all the air goes out and Elizabeth drops to her knees.

The first photograph she sees is of her mother and another woman. They are both naked from the waist up. Her mother is wearing the wig and one of her arms is draped around the neck of the other woman. They are laughing. The second photograph is of her mother on a bed. Again, she is naked. She is on her hands and knees as the headless torso of a man fucks her from behind. Her expression is wanton. It is a look Elizabeth has never seen on her mother’s face. She wonders who took the photograph.

It is several minutes before Elizabeth can bring herself to look at the third photograph, which depicts her mother and a group of friends at a restaurant. Her mother is wearing the wig. The men are dressed in suits, while the women wear fancy cocktail dresses. Never in her life has Elizabeth seen her mother in such a dress. She holds a martini glass in her hand.

Elizabeth’s face turns flush with anger. Who are these people? Who is this woman with the long, chestnut hair?

Elizabeth spends the next two hours examining each photograph and letter in the hatbox, a secret history of love affairs and sex parties stretching across the United States. By her count, there are more than thirty photographs. Her mother, wearing the wig, is depicted in nearly all of them; giving a blowjob in St. Louis or at an orgy in Tahoe, or with her face nestled between a woman’s thighs in San Diego. While some letters hint at casual friendships and anonymous sex, other reveal her mother’s deep, intimate friendships with people Elizabeth has never even heard of. And although she feels a little sickened at the sight of her mother having sex, the photographs fascinate her. The acts depicted are not all that different than the sexual fantasies Elizabeth has secretly enjoyed for years.

She picks up the wig and slips it onto her head. She looks into the mirror and wonders what her mother felt like the first time she put it on. It is then that Elizabeth notices she is crying. She wonders if she is angry over her mother’s betrayal or grieving for the loss of a stranger. “Libby?” calls her husband from the stairs. She quickly removes the wig from her head and returns it to the hatbox, along with her mother’s letters and photographs. When Paul opens the door, Elizabeth is sitting on the bed with the hatbox on her lap. “You okay?” he asks. “You’ve been in here for hours.” She nods half-heartedly. “We should hit the road before it gets dark.” He gestures to the hatbox. “Do you want me to put that up in the attic for you?” “No,” says Elizabeth. “I’d like to bring this home.”

(The wonderful Molly Broxton sent me this photograph, wondering if it might inspire a story. It did.)