In the downstairs shower they shared with Arlene, in a fake-chrome, recessed niche in the stall, in a ridged dish that kept the bottom from going soft and scummy, sat a smooth gold bar of Dial soap with a green sliver of Irish Spring grafted to it like a scab. Henry was used to these two-toned mutants, products of Emily’s humble upbringing. In her parents’ house in Kersey there was no shower, only an old claw-footed tub with a spray attachment you waved blindly over your head as you sat. They weren’t poor or backward. They lived right in town. Her father was a building inspector and would-be architect. It was as if he saw the shower as a fad that might not catch on, a mistake that made selling the house after her mother died a trial.
Each time Henry noticed the soap, he thought of the girl Emily had been, and that lost world of which she’d never be completely free. No one used soap anymore. Even Arlene used the same expensive bodywash as the children. There was no need to hang on to these worthless slivers, just as there was no longer a need to save their bacon fat for explosives or the tinfoil from their chewing gum for the riveted skins of dive bombers, yet whenever he saw someone flick a half-smoked cigarette into the street, like the soldier he’d been, his first instinct was to dash into traffic and pluck it up so he could add the loose tobacco to his stash.
Like memories, the exigencies of the past still compelled them. Just the other night he’d had a dream in which he looted a bakery, liberating a whole sack of baguettes for his buddies, a bounty so great he felt cheated when he woke up and discovered it wasn’t real. There was a value in learning what it meant to be hungry that their children would never know. He wasn’t embarrassed when they made fun of his love of leftovers. “Don’t throw that out,” they imitated him, a grouchy old bear. “I’ll have it for lunch.” Then why, this morning, stepping into the shower, did he despair at the sight of Emily’s homely soap, as if their lives were outmoded?
Frowning, he took the bar from the dish, turning it over so the green side was exposed. He lathered his chest and arms vigorously, his armpits and crotch, his bottom and his legs, front and back. The water was hot, and the steam smelled minty. The bar still held a faint smudge of blue. He scrubbed hard, raising suds, trying to use it up.