readyforprimetime
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This story originally appeared as Melissa's Legacy, and was written around Valentine's Day for my wife. There was reader interest in my continuing the story so Chapters Two and Three will appear shortly. I have renamed the original Melissa's Legacy as Chapter One and have made some subtle factual changes in Chapter One to facilitate plot continuity with Chapters Two and Three.
Chapter One of Three
It was a dreary winter morning that was preceded by a series of cold days in early February. I had just exited the train at my Times Square subway stop and flowed with a mass of people up a well- worn staircase to the filtered sunlight above. It had been almost a year since Melissa died. The months of chemo and the sleepless nights had taken a toll on both Melissa and me, and it was up to me to soldier on without her, although I'm not sure for what purpose. It was Valentine's Day, but it didn't feel like it to me, as it was my first in 20 years without Melissa.
I made the usual right turn at 7th Avenue to my office on 46th Street . There's always a homeless person squatting in the alcove to a shuttered woman's clothing store and this day was no exception. I usually don't notice the person in the alcove but for some reason I caught a glimpse of the person out of the corner of my eye. I froze in my tracks. The person walking behind me ran into me, so after giving my apology for the abrupt stop I approached the shivering person in the alcove. It was a woman, and from the looks of her she was in her early 40's. I'm sure she showed well beyond her years as the cold snap had clearly made deep inroads into the her health. The reason I had stopped was simple. For a brief moment I saw my Melissa in her hazel brown eyes. Even though the woman's hair was matted you could tell she was a brunette, like Melissa. And under the patina of dirt and the tattered clothes was once a handsome woman. She appeared to be about the same size as Melissa.
I was late for my morning staff meeting so I instinctively took off my winter trench coat and handed it to her. At most I usually give a homeless person a dollar or two, but the combination of her hapless condition and her vague resemblance to Melissa compelled me to give her my coat. I told her if she was there tomorrow I'd swap Melissa's favorite wool coat for my coat. She thanked me. Even though her voice was thin it was clear from her diction and the way that she carried herself that the woman had fallen far from her former perch.
As usual the day got away from me. I was on a string of phone calls with one of our firm's largest clients on a new ad campaign we were rolling out for them so it wasn't until about 8 p.m. that I was ready to begin the slog home. I put on a sweatshirt I kept in my desk drawer for occasional midday workouts and left my building into a howling wind on a pitch black night. I passed the alcove - - the woman was gone. I thought it was probably the last I would see of the woman or my coat.
I took the subway to the new 96th Street station and walked the two blocks, in what was now almost a gale, to my one bedroom apartment. The sweatshirt was no defense against the razor sharp bite of the wind, and the two block walk gave me a twinge of regret at my spontaneous show of generosity.
After a dinner of leftovers and an hour perusing my dating website and personal e-mails I went to my bedroom closet to look at Melissa's wardrobe. It had been a year but I still didn't have the heart to touch her clothes. She had assembled an impressive array of clothes for her job as a buyer for a major department store chain. Her jackets, skirts and blouses were still arranged in a neat row on her side of the closet. At the end of the row were her coats. I found her favorite wool winter coat. It was a gray tweed Pendleton coat made by her mother Bea as a gift to Melissa on her 30th birthday.
Holding the coat in my hands brought back the memory of Melissa's 30th birthday party, which was held in the Indiana farmhouse that was in Melissa's family for over 100 years. Her mother had presented Melissa with the coat after dessert, and proudly showed her the tag inside the collar where it was embroidered "Made with Love by Beatrice." I fingered the tag and retrieved in my mind the images of Bea and Melissa, now both passed.
Up until that evening I didn't know what I was going to do with Melissa's clothes. Now I knew. If I ran into that woman again I would give her Melissa's coat. I would donate the rest of her clothes to a woman's shelter with the hopes they could be used to help those woman dress for job interviews. I went on the internet and searched for women's homeless shelters in Manhattan and jotted down the address of one that was a five minute subway ride from my office. I packed Melissa's roller bag with a good amount of her business clothes and threw her wool coat on top.
The next morning I dragged the roller bag to my office with the coat on top of it. As I rounded the corner I was pleasantly surprised to see the same woman in the alcove, now wearing my trench coat. There was a spark of recognition in her eyes when she saw me going towards her and she rose off the ground to greet me.
"Thank you for the warm coat. It really helped last night." She tried to look appreciative, but she couldn't bring herself to look me in the eye.
I tried to reply without pity in my voice. "I'm happy it helped. Where did you stay last night?"
