At six o’clock, the house was quiet except for the hum of our old refrigerator. I walked into the living room and stood before the hallway closet, my eyes drawn to the green plastic garment bag hanging from the brass hook on the back of the door.
Inside that bag was the black suit Joe had brought home seven years ago, the only good clothing he had ever owned.
I unzipped the bag three inches, the smell of cedar and old wool rising into the cool air of the hallway.
I reached in and touched the lapel, my fingers tracing the hand-stitched orange maple leaves embroidered along the edge.
Joe had told me he bought the suit at a thrift store in Toledo for twenty dollars, but the wool was thick and fine, far better than anything they sold in the local shops.
I felt a strange, cold prickle of worry in my chest as I ran my thumb over the embroidery. The orange threads were slightly faded, but the stitches were tight and precise, shaped like real leaves falling from a tree.
Why would a thrift store suit have such detailed work on the collar?
“Are you looking at Dad’s suit?” Norma asked from the doorway.
I pulled my hand back and zipped the bag closed, the plastic making a sharp sliding sound. “I was just checking the zipper.”
“I want to wear it,” she said.
I turned to look at her, her young face pale in the dim light of the hallway. “Wear what, Norma?”
“The jacket,” she said. “If I can’t get the dress, I’ll wear the jacket with some black slacks.”
“That is a man’s jacket, Norma,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. “It would swallow you whole.”
“It smells like him,” she said, her chin lifting in that stubborn way she had.
I looked at the green plastic bag, the dark shape of the suit showing through the translucent material. Joe had worn it only once, to our niece’s wedding, and then he had tucked it away in the back of the closet as if he did not want to see it again.
