Blessed Are the Sleek

BLESSED ARE THE SLEEK @2021 *#

(For They Shall Inherit Aunt Jo’s Wardrobe)

By Cheryl Nugent

At seventy-four, my father’s sister, Jo Dumont, epitomized the glamorous, iconic grande dame of a bygone era. Glaring good health and devotion to spas, personal care and an occasional lift or tuck, kept the years at bay. Add the vibrant personality and genuine interest in the world around her, she never lacked for friends nor, it seemed, for suitors. But married once, and a wealthy widow at thirty, Aunt Jo lived the life she wanted, happily single, until recently when she became engaged to Carlos Hernando de Real, a retired ambassador from Argentina, whom she met in London.

Nothing about Jo Dumont was ordinary, including her death. Succumbing to the less than exotic ailment of pneumonia while in hospital, Aunt Jo was there in the first place because of injuries sustained after being thrown from a champion hunter named Bolero, at a no-fox, fox hunt in England. Bolero, as it happened, belonged to Ambassador de Real’s son. The retired diplomat was beside himself at losing his beloved Jo Jo, as he called her, and meeting him at the funeral I understood why Aunt Jo finally decided to remarry. He was charming and genuine, as was she.

Now I was at her Georgetown townhouse, tasked with going through not only her wardrobe (that could have been listed on the stock exchange), but finding a particular box that held something important. I hoped I was worthy of the assignment. Lost in memories of Aunt Jo, and wondering what the box mystery was all about, my cousin’s voice brought me back to the present.

“Will you just look at this…what an atrocious color,” Clarice said, flinging last year’s chartreuse caftan in my direction. “This is one of those free-style thingies - it would fit you, Gwen,” she said, never missing a chance to remind me that she was truly a size eight and occasionally a six, something I could never aspire to. Still, at 5’4” and a respectable hundred and twenty pounds, I expected to enjoy my own treasures from my well-dressed aunt.

“Gwen, do you remember that navy suit Jo wore when she met the Duke of Glasgow?” she asked.

“I think you mean the Duke of Gloucester Clarice,” I said, trying not to sound superior.

“Well, Aunt Jo was always flitting around meeting these people, but I remember it was a big deal. Didn’t she go to Buckingham Palace for something?” Clarice asked.

“I know she went to one of The Queen’s garden parties. All the charities she supported took her to all kinds of special places. She was wonderful, wasn’t she?” I asked, not expecting an answer.

“Well, everyone seemed to think so.” A typical Clarice response. Her quick, spiteful tongue lashed out at me often over the years, bothering me less and less as I got older and wiser, even finding humor in her pettiness and lack of gracious behavior, something Aunt Jo had heaps of.

Going through a departed aunt’s wardrobe took on an air of ghoulishness with Clarice’s unabashed joy in the process, chirping oohs and aahs over the Armanis, Lagerfeld’s, Chanels and Diors. She was almost giddy over the Valentino gowns, Givenchy, Ralph Laurens and Calvin Kleins gracing a closet that would, adding a few windows, make a wonderful large master bedroom!

“Do you want these vintage things, Gwen?” Clarice asked, holding up a Halston cocktail dress.

“Anything, Clarice. The gallery is having a charity ball in a few months - they would be great for the silent auction,” I said, referring to the art gallery where I worked in Washington, DC.

“Really? What do you think they’re worth?” Clarice asked, barely hiding the tone of avarice.

“Charity, Clarice. Aunt Jo would be delighted. In fact, she’d probably be happy to have all of this benefit charity,” I said, knowing it would hit a nerve.

“Humpf,” and a look of disdain was the reply. I could see the wheels turning in her greedy little brain, but she obviously couldn’t think of a proper response.

The well-appointed closet not only had rows and rows of clothes on hangers, and comfortable stools to sit on, but a wall of drawers and shelves that suddenly drew Clarice’s attention.

“Oh, the drawers. We haven’t even looked for the scarves and accessories,” she said, making it sound like a reprimand.

“Your start over there, Gwen, but let me see everything. I know some of my things have specific accessories,” she commanded.

I didn’t think reminding her that my father was the executor of his sister’s estate and that I was supposed to be in charge here, would dampen Clarice’s enthusiasm, so I held my tongue…for now. We were the same age and could have been friends, but we were relatives only. “She’s just jealous, Gwen,” I would hear growing up, and I decided that might be true, but jealous of what I never knew.

“Keep your eye out for any boxes,” I began. “Dad said it might be in here, he wasn’t sure.” I didn’t mention that he was here twice already looking for it. When I asked him what was in it, he said he didn’t know, but that it was important. That didn’t make sense, but I didn’t press him on it.

“What kind of box? What’s in it?” Clarice wanted to know.

“I don’t know. Dad just said it had a picture of a ship on it. He said it’s locked and he has the key,”

Scarves and gloves, ribbons and silk corsages, it was all of three minutes when she brought it up again.

“Well, is it a big box? Maybe it’s a jewelry box, ya think?” she asked.

“Don’t know. Could be I guess. But all the expensive jewelry is accounted for,” I said, which she well knew, being a recipient of a Cartier ring and bracelet Aunt Jo left her. In the six weeks since the funeral, all the beneficiaries had received whatever it was she left them: jewelry, paintings, a pair of antique vases to a friend in Sweden, books to a school in Boston. Of course there were lots of monetary gifts to charities - everything from medical research to animal sanctuaries in the US and abroad, and a very generous amount earmarked for several scholarships.

“Well, I guess looking for a box can just be part of all this other work,” Clarice said, managing to sound over-burdened.

I loved that Clarice considered this work. She’d be leaving with thousands of dollars worth of beautiful clothes, with little feeling, it seemed, for Aunt Jo. I should have known better - when Dad told me Clarice offered to help, I hardly expected an altruistic motive, but seeing the way things were going, I planned to have her gone after lunch.

“Gwen, are there any clothes bags? I can’t just throw these things in the trunk,” she stated.

I knew exactly what she was up to: she wanted me gone so she could riffle through the drawers looking for the elusive box. I’d play.

“I think I saw some in the back bedroom. Probably some in the attic too. You can go look,” I said.

“Oh, you know this house better than I do. Be nice, Gwennie, and go see,” she cooed. “Gwennie?” That worked on me when I was seven, but I dutifully went off to find dress bags.

I did know the house. I loved it here. There were so many wonderful memories for me: every visit with Aunt Jo was special and, when I was twelve, I spent the whole summer when my parents were in Europe, the year before Mom died. Going down the hall today, I could see that twelve-year-old girl. I could still feel the magic.

Sure enough, the closet in the last bedroom was full of dress bags, various boxes and a set of Louis Vuitton luggage. I spent a few minutes looking for the box. It wasn’t there.

“So, did you find it?” I said, putting the pile of clothes bags on the bed.

“Find what?” Clarice asked.

“The box,” I said.

“Of course not. I found the Wathne scarves though, oh and the Chanel that goes with the beige suit. Then…,”

I didn’t hear what she was saying. I was remembering a Christmas Eve when I was in high school. We were all here to celebrate and Aunt Jo asked me to help her carry presents downstairs. I left Clarice talking about scarves and Hermes bags and sprinted along to what was always my bedroom when I was here.

I didn’t know why this box was important, but I would be thrilled to find it for Dad. Between the bedroom and the bathroom was a dressing area. A small closet on the right, and a built-in vanity with a curved mirror took up one wall. I stared. It didn’t look right. I was sure this was where I watched Aunt Jo retrieve presents all those Christmases ago, but how did it open? The middle couldn’t open, it was the sides.

Running my hand down the beveled glass, I expected to find a button or latch. Nothing. I looked underneath. Nothing. I tried again and finally, along the bottom of the mirror there was a click! The door swung open and there, among boxes of unopened perfume, was a beautiful box with a hand-painted scene of a blue sea with sailing ship off on the horizon. The size of a shoe box, it was heavy. Whatever it was didn’t rattle and yes, there was a brass lock.

“You found it!” Clarice said, watching me from the doorway.

I quickly closed the mirror. Before I could say anything, we heard Dad calling from downstairs.

“Hello. Gwen, Clarice!”

“Dad! I found the box! Just this minute. I’ll be right down!”

Everything happened very quickly. Dad was happy, perhaps relieved.

Clarice was unusually quiet, trying to figure out just what was going on, but we were both left in the dark as Dad excused himself and disappeared into the den. He returned quickly, clutching the box and thanking me profusely.

“I’ll call you later, dear. I’m sorry to rush off. Thank you, thank you both for all the help,” he said and was out the door. Watching from the front window, I saw Dad walk toward a limo. I saw a man’s arms reach for the box, then Dad got in and they drove off. Strange. More than strange.

We talked later and Dad said all was well.

Two days later, Clarice and I finished with the clothes. She was a size too big for Aunt Jo’s shoes, but I wasn’t. That was something. She actually thanked me for letting her have so many nice things. That was something too.

As we were leaving the house she asked me what was in the box.

“I don’t know, Clarice. Really,” I said.

She probably didn’t believe me, but it was true. Dad never mentioned it again. There was just something about it that demanded respectful silence, like watching a ship on the horizon.

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