Young as he was, only in his twenties, the boy was the executor of his aged uncle's estate. So here he was in this rather nice apartment which he needed to clean out in the next few weeks or else pay for another month's rent on it. Of course, it was possible to just move in and live there, let his old apartment go. He had inherited a bit of money, too, but he was unsure whether it were enough to justify the change. He was unsure about everything these days between grad school and a first real job.
After days of going through legal-sized boxes of old bills, receipts, and other stuff, all categorized, alphabetized, calendarized and bundled, he was beginning to feel like the thing to do would be just to dump the lot, unvisited. This uncle was obsessive in his record keeping. Why would anyone need to know all that old stuff? Then he found the glove.
It was down between two folders, not jammed but carefully folded and put in flat. An emerald green satin full-length opera glove. Only one. It was scented, but he couldn't name the perfume. It smelled expensive. He sat for a while with the glove smoothed against his blue jeaned knee. Was this the trophy of a love affair? A long opera glove is normally worn by a woman, but he felt that gender was a fluid idea. These days anyone could wear such a glove, seriously or in jest or as performance.
He'd searched and discarded about half of the dozen legal boxes so far. Maybe the other glove was in the other boxes. Getting bored, he delayed for a bit, playing with the glove. He pulled it on, first sliding his hand all the way through to the fingers, then pulling from the top. It felt a bit strange. He made gestures that were really a extension of smoothing it up his arm. Since this was kind of glove with buttons at the wrist, so that one could take the bare hand out without taking off the glove, he fiddled with that and found it tricky. Whoseever glove this was must have practised a bit so as not to be embarrassed by struggling with buttons at an elaborate dinner party. There were three pearl buttons. The opening was three inches long. The satin was clean.
Pretty soon he put the glove aside and finished the rest of the legal boxes, piling them by the front door to be taken away. He was pretty sure he had been thorough, hadn't missed the second glove, didn't see any other clues. He threw a TV dinner into the microwave. There were still a lot of them in the freezer, though he had always had the impression that his uncle ate out most of the time. He was pretty old. Maybe eating out just became too much work. There was no way to tell whether the glove was a souvenir of an earlier life. No date on it.
After supper, sprawled in the rather worn reclining chair, he stared at the shelf of operas alongside him. He hadn't thought about his uncle being an opera fan. Not that there was much reason to discuss it with him. He never talked about it and evidently only played his many CD's if no one else were there. Halfway between being a snob's preoccupation and sexy, militaristic propaganda, the stuff seemed unlikely for a mild, handsome man who lived quietly all alone. Could he have been a transvestite? Was the glove part of a Queen Kit? The nephew was worldly enough to know that gay men are not necessarily obvious and might even be married with children. Was this the glove of a paramour? Male or female or indeterminate? People's lives were so mysterious.
All the bank boxes were piled by the door. He decided not to pack up the opera CD's or even the books. Standing before the closet of his uncle's clothes, he slowly realized how detailed they were, fine bits of thoughtful tabs, suede reinforcement, and slit accesses to pockets. He went through the pockets slowly, taking out the contents to put in a tray sitting on the bed. Old ticket stubs, folded up brochures and guides to theatres, once a letter he had written to his uncle when he was about ten. "Deer Uncle, What kind of car do you have?" He still didn't know. Was it a sober, dark Ford? Was it a jazzy car for giving fancy women rides to some romantic destination? No one had told him about a car or given him keys.
He dozed and dreamt he was onstage wearing only one green opera glove with something indescribable -- he was not naked. The conductor scolded, "We cannot go ahead when you are incomplete! Where is the rest of your costume?" But he began to sing anyway and had an excellent voice -- which he didn't have in real life. Then his voice was joined by that of a woman and their song soared together. He reached out for her hand, and realized he was extending the arm with the opera glove -- but then so was she! She was also wearing emerald green opera gloves! He couldn't think what opera this was. Or even how he felt about it.
The day was ending so the windows were darkening. He had been through all the clothes. There were high shelves with hats, which he enjoyed trying on. They were serious men's hats, no derbies but a homberg with a "gutter crown" and a grosgrain band. A Manila straw summer afternoon hat. Were these roles he played?
Everything had been gone through except one small drawer in a little table in the bedroom. A game table, possibly. Since it had been turned so the drawer faced the wall, he hadn't seen it until he moved the table. In the drawer were photos, some casual and some made in a studio, now loose, no identification. Some were female and some were male. All were his uncle. One was a beautiful professional quality nude, quite beautiful. And there was the other glove.
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