My Dad's Suit

I'm in the second year of my MFA program for Creative Writing Non-Fiction.  I feel I've definitely pushed my writing to another level, and while I am still trying to find my voice, the following piece is some of the best work I've completed this far.

My Dad's Suit

The sign hanging on the door of the Men’s Wearhouse store read Give a suit.  It had only been two minutes since I’d shut off my car engine but as I sat there in the hot July sun, with the windows rolled up, I was starting to perspire.  Of course, I had waited until the very last minute to bring my father’s suits to the store to donate.  Their campaign would be ending in two days. 
Two garment bags containing never worn suits and a third suit hung from the hook in my backseat.  The gray, wool suit with white pinstripes still had wrinkles in the sleeves where my dad bent his arms.  The elbow crease always wrinkles after being worn but I was pretty sure my dad never had the jacket pressed or even dry cleaned.
I remembered being thirteen years old, sitting in Ramani’s Clothiers on Main Street in Middletown, Connecticut, watching my dad get fitted for that suit.  He looked uncomfortable as he always did when he wasn’t wearing his trademark grease-stained jeans and t-shirts.  He was a mechanic and rarely ever had the need for a tailored suit, but my mother’s father, my grandpa, had passed away earlier that week.
“Why can’t I just wear the brown suit?” my father had asked at home earlier that day.
“Ronald!  That brown suit is from 1972,” she barked.  It was now 1994.
“Here, let me just try it on,” he said, as he squeezed his thick, muscular arms into the thin sleeves.  And as he was trying to pull the jacket up over his shoulders there was a loud rip.
“Okay, Hulk,” said my mother. “I’m taking you to a tailor.”
As a man who stood 6 feet, he wasn’t impressively tall but he was imposing with his broad shoulders. The gray suit fit him perfectly.  To go with it, he bought one maroon tie, a crisp white button-down shirt and a shiny pair of black loafers. 
There was a soft rain falling at the cemetery the day of my grandpa’s funeral.  After the priest’s eulogy and the 21-gun salute, the soldiers folded up the American flag that was draped over his coffin.  I started to weep as they handed the triangular-shaped flag to my grandma, my mother and her siblings crowded around her as I stood back.  But then I felt my father’s hand on my shoulder.
“I loved him too,” he said and I turned to bury my face in his chest.
The scratchiness of the wool suit rubbed against my tear-stained cheeks and as I racked with sobs, my father’s strong hands held me close.  I had never felt so comforted by him in my life.
I remembered the texture of the wool as I grasped my father’s arm while he walked me down the aisle at my wedding.  My mother had pleaded with him to buy a new suit before my big day but I was okay with him wearing the same familiar suit.  As he handed me off to my soon to be husband, he gave a wink to the justice of the peace and then took a seat next to my mom.  That night we danced together to “In My Life” by The Beatles and as he twirled me around the floor, I gleamed with pride. 
Now back in the store parking lot, I let out a deep breath and opened my car door.  I needed to make this drop off quick if I was going to be back to work on time from my lunch break.  I collected the suits from my backseat and walked into the store.  The swift, cool breeze of the air conditioning hit me immediately and sent a chill down my spine.
“Hi, can I help you?”  The saleswoman greeted me.
“I wanted to donate some suits.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful – this has been such a great campaign!  All of the suits are going to men who are trying to re-enter the workforce.”
“Yes, that’s why I wanted to bring them here.”
“So, are these your husband’s suits?” she pried.
“No, they were my dad’s.”
“Oh, would you like me to write the tax credit to him then?”
“That won’t be necessary – he’s deceased.” 
Even though it had been a few months since the accident, it still felt awkward to say.  Even more awkward was the fact that my sister and I had gone through all of our dad’s clothing without my mom there to consult.  Her injuries so severe that she was still confined to an inpatient rehab facility.  When we’d asked her if she wanted to keep anything of my father’s she said, “Do what you think is best.  I trust you.”
“I’m so sorry,” said the saleswoman. “I’ll just make it out to you then.”
I felt bad that I had just ruined a perfectly good conversation with a stranger by telling her my dad died.
As I handed the garment bags to her and then the hanger with the gray, wool suit with the pinstripes she said: “Oh, now this is a good suit, very timeless style.”
“I hope it goes to a good man,” I said.
I hurriedly collected the paperwork she handed me and ran out of the store, holding back my tears until I hit the sidewalk. With all my heart, I wished I felt that hand on my shoulder and hearing my dad say something, anything to me.  I had donated his suit for another man to wear and hopefully embody everything that my father was during his life. 

Comments

  1. So beautiful Carolyn...I look forward to reading more!

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  2. So very powerful! I could feel you every step of the way. It takes a lot to share such raw and real stories but you've done that so well!

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