“Everyone sees what you appear to be, few experience what you really are.”
~ Hans Christen Anderson, ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes’
“Master Lancer, please, I’m begging you. Stand still.”
Eye roll.
“Don’t ye think I didn’t see that. Now ye keep yer eyes forward and listen te what this nice man is askin’ of ye.”
On one wall of the shop’s shelves sat large bolts of various dark-colored cloth destined for frock coats. Across the room on an elongated table, folded stacks of plaid and herringbone material waited to be cut for trousers. And all of it, to Scott’s dismay, was wool. Which meant -
All of it was hot…
and all of it was scratchy…
and all of it had the sole purpose of torturing every young boy in Boston.
“Don’t ye want te look yer best, lad?”
Heavy sigh. “Yes, Winnie.”
Ambrose Gerard Garrett, the patriarch of the Garrett legacy, had passed, thus the reason why the youngest male member of Ambrose’s lineage stood on a wooden stool while enduring tedious measurements for a suit to be worn at the man’s ceremonious funeral.
Eight-year-old Scott never met his great-grandfather or, at least if he had, he didn’t remember doing so. In fact, when privy to recent conversations regarding this old man, nothing spoken seemed familiar at all except when people uttered the phrase that referenced the paternalist’s whereabouts.
Had passed.
Scott’s mother wasn’t with him because she too had passed and now lived in heaven. So, considering Great-Grandfather had passed, Scott had posed the question:
Winnie, is he with Mama and the Good Lord?
Doubtful.
According to the priest’s Sunday sermons, had passed led to either heaven or hell, which caused Mrs. McLoughlin’s opinion to cast a dark shadow on Ambrose Garrett’s eternal residence. But one thing was certain in Scott’s mind; had passed meant that person was no longer with their family.
Which brought about a third location Scott felt the priest continually failed to mention for people who had passed and were no longer with their family.
Out West.
Like Mama, Scott’s father was not with him so obviously he had passed; not to heaven or hell, but to a place never mentioned in any sermon or bible lesson. In fact, Out West was only abruptly spoken when Scott inquired about his father.
“Just a few more minutes, me lad.” Winnie smiled.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Out West.
Lately, the answer regarding his absent father seemed to make Winnie’s smile sink into a sad frown. Maybe, Scott thought, he should stop asking the question altogether.
********
“Mr. Lancer, I implore you. Please stand still.”
“Well, maybe if you quit stickin’ me with those pins like some damn porcupine, I would.”
The recognized tone of exaggerated impatience tugged the corners of Scott’s mouth into a grin. The familiar concho pants flung over the shop’s dressing screen firmly established the game was indeed afoot.
“Did the tailor say Mr. Lancer?” Emily’s whispered confusion brought Scott’s index finger to his lips. Her response of a cocked brow accompanying a smirk indicated she’d been a partner in crime during more than one shenanigan. “I see. Perhaps I’ll select that ascot you so desperately need for the wedding.”
A silent nod concurred. Watching the lady’s fingers dance over the cravats neatly folded on a side counter while her sly eye took in possible amusement, a thought rested contentedly in Scott’s mind: We’re comfortable together.
The proprietor stepped from behind the screen to address his latest patron. “Sir, I’ll be with you in a moment.”
“Don’t leave me danglin’ out here in the wind, Ho-race-tee-o.”
Acknowledging his customer’s current state of undress, the tailor reevaluated availability. “On second thought, this gentleman may be needing a bit more of my attention than I first indicated.”
A congenial wave of a hand suggested Scott was an understanding fella who was in no hurry. Finding a seat, he sat, crossed ankle to knee and anticipated listening to an enlightening conversation.
With the bravery of a Roman gladiator, Habberdasher Horactio and his trusty tape measure stepped back into the Arena of Alterations. “All right, Mr. Lancer, I believe I still need your neck measurement for a properly fitted collar.”
“God Almighty, what are you? The town’s tailor or hangman?”
Scott dipped his chin.
“Ah. You’re quite the jokester, Mr. Lancer. Now, if you could straddle your stance -”
“Whoa!! What the hell?”
“I need a number for your inseam.”
“Mister, you best step back and guess on that number if you wanna keep your inseam.”
Scott pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Sir, you mentioned a desire to look your best.”
“Then why am I standin’ here feelin‘ like a circus monkey?”
Scott cleared his throat. “Maybe the gent would feel more comfortable wearing a shirt sporting a peppermint stick hue.”
Silence.
Much like a prairie dog’s head poking out of its hole, disheveled dark hair shading blue eyes popped up above the dressing screen.
A dramatic reading from Hamlet was in order. “The apparel oft proclaims the man.”
A clarification request from the undressed audience followed. “Emerson?”
“Shakespeare.” The thespian sat back, crossed arms and stretched out his legs. “Top of the day to you, brother.”
“Scott, what in Hades are you doin’ here?”
“Brother?”
Johnny’s eyes slowly drifted to his right and settled on an unexpected female member of the haberdashery’s spontaneous one-act play.
“Johnny, may I introduce Miss Emily Browning.”
“Ah, sweet Mother-a-Mary, Scott.” From behind the partition, muttered dismay tickling language of the more colorful nature briefly interrupted formality.
“Emily, my silver-tongued younger brother, Johnny.”
As Emily’s approach to the dressing screen stopped at an appropriate distance, involuntary protocol moved Johnny’s hand to tip a brim on his hatless head. “Ma’am.” Grabbing only air, a customary congenial handshake seemed like the logical alternative until his awkward gesture over the shop’s barrier of modesty tipped it forward. A female gasp brought Scott to his feet, averting an untimely reveal with a quick grasp and righting of the partition.
Regained composure offered a suggestion. “Gentlemen, I believe more formal introductions should take place in a less complicated setting.” Holding her selected ascot, Emily draped it over Scott’s shoulder. “And also perhaps when someone isn’t implementing his prankster rights as the older sibling.”
Scott grinned. “Can’t be helped.”
“I’ll wait for you outside, sir.” Emily’s head tilted in Johnny’s direction with a smile. “I’m sure your younger brother has a few quotes of his own he wishes to share at this time.”
Taking a cue from the departing lady, Horactio gathered his various scribbled notes. “Yes, well, it appears I have all the measurements I need to find you the perfect attire, Mr. Lancer. I’ll be only a few minutes, gentlemen.” Seeking refuge, the tailor disappeared behind a backroom curtain.
“That was damn embarrassin’, Scott.”
“It was.”
“You look awfully pleased with yourself, pullin’ off that stunt.” Concho pants were retrieved from their draped existence over the dressing screen.
“I am.”
“I see the little minnow from Sacramento shares your ideas on what’s funny.” The sounds of hopping and stumbling to guide feet through pant legs filtered through the partition.
“She does.”
“Then I might find my way to forgivin’.”
“You will.”
Johnny stepped out from behind the screen with conchos properly placed. “She’s a fine lady.”
“I know.” An eyebrow arched. “I must admit I was surprised to spot Barranca tied in front of a haberdashery. Are you needing to look pretty for a special occasion?”
“Well…” Back-handed swiping across his mouth spread a lopsided grin on Johnny's face. “Thought Half-Pint might appreciate me not shownin’ up in dusty pants and a frayed shirt on her weddin’ day.”
“Then I’d say new duds are in order.”
”Speakin’ a new duds -” Emily’s selected ascot was snagged from a shoulder to find its new owner. “I like this. It’ll look prettier on me than on you.”
********
The expression on Emily’s face told Scott she struggled to maintain a serious persona as he rejoined her on the buckboard.
“Tell me, Mr. Lancer, will meeting the rest of your family be as memorable as the one I just experienced?”
“Oh, the odds are quite good, Miss Browning.”
Smile. “Excellent!”
Yes. Comfortable, indeed.
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