End Of The Year Collection - 2014

by Spain, Laura

  “Did I startle you?”

  “Yes, yes you did.”

  “I apologize.”

  “It’s okay,” the Tailor said, looking around, realizing they were alone.

  “I need your help.”

  “I’m closed actually. Maybe tomorrow?”

  The man opened his coat. The Tailor saw the old coat the man was carrying. It was neatly folded. It was worn and thin and threads dangled out where they shouldn’t have.

  “Okay,” the Tailor said. He unlocked the door and the two men entered the shop. The Tailor made his way to the back in the dark and found the lamp. He flipped it on and turned to see the stranger. The stranger was just inside the door with his hand before Luna. Luna smelled the man’s hand. The man ran his hand along Luna’s back. Luna arched her back and purred. The man moved to the back of the shop and pulled the old coat out and showed it to the Tailor. The Tailor looked at the man’s face. His nose was long and pointy. His skin was pale as ice, his eyes hollow with large bags beneath them.

  “Forgive me for the late hour,” the man said.

  “It’s okay.”

  The Tailor sat down at his desk. “Have a seat,” he said.

  The man sat and placed the old coat on the desk. The Tailor reached out for the coat. He rubbed the wool blend between his thumb and forefinger. He felt how thin the material had become.

  “You made this coat,” the man said.

  “I did.”

  The Tailor looked up from the coat. The man stared at the coat. The man reached his hand out for the coat and then paused. He put his hand back in his lap. He stared at the coat as he spoke.

  “This coat is magic,” he said. The Tailor watched the man with his mouth slightly ajar. He had no response. The man spoke as if he were alone, just himself and the coat. Then the man looked up at the Tailor, his hollow eyes filling the Tailor with regret for having allowed this strangeness into his shop. “How did you make it?” the man asked, the words rolling from his mouth like the hiss of a snake. The Tailor’s own eyes were wide as saucers, like a boy in shock. He stared at the man, hypnotized.

  Then the intensity left the man’s face in a single breath. He seemed to notice his surroundings for the first time. He looked around the shop. “Did I apologize for the late hour?” he asked.

  “You did.”

  “Oh good. Because it’s rude and I don’t want to be rude.”

  “It’s really not too late. The sun sets at 4:30 this time of year.”

  “A good time of year, isn’t it?”

  “For some.”

  The man’s shoulders relaxed. His tone became casual. “Twenty years ago, Tailor. It has been twenty years now.” He crossed his legs and removed the gloves from his long, pale, bony fingers. He lay the gloves across his lap and let his hands rest on top of them. “She was a clerk at her fathers store, a small store that sold a little bit of everything. I was a young accountant, just out of school, and I would deliver certain documents to the store, a client of ours, on occasion. She was beautiful. She had thick brown hair. Her face was small and stern, but when she smiled, the world lit up.” The man’s voice drifted. He stared off into the corner, lost in thought.

  “You see, I was shy, very shy. No part of me had the courage to ask her for a date.” He looked at his hands, rubbing one hand over the other. “The day I wore this coat, you see, I mustered the courage. And after the words fell from my lips, her lips parted in the most beautiful smile. She said, ‘yes.’ I wore this coat again on a cold night, much like this one, when I surprised her with an engagement ring. I took a knee near this very lake. Again, with that wonderful smile she said, ‘yes.’”

  The man was now looking at the tailor, gauging his reaction, waiting for any reaction. He looked into the Tailor’s eyes, searching. But all he would find was confusion.

  “You see, Tailor, before meeting this woman, my life was rather…it was…difficult. It was, perhaps you could say ‘dark.’ But she was the light, she was everything.”

  The man reached out with his pale hand and touched the coat, rubbing it between his forefinger and thumb. “This coat.” He leaned forward, looking into the Tailor’s eyes. “She’s sick, very sick. The doctors have tried everything. The best have done all they can do and it has not worked. But this coat once did what could never be done and now you, Tailor, must make me a coat full of that same old magic. I need that magic once again. I cannot lose her, Tailor. I cannot.”

  He held the Tailor’s gaze a moment before letting him off the hook and leaning back in his chair and once again looking down at the hands in his lap. The Tailor searched for words, the right words.

  “I’m sorry,” the Tailor said. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Herzenberg. Leonard Herzenberg.”

  “Mr. Herzenberg, I believe you underestimate your own abilities. Perhaps it wasn’t this coat, but you. Perhaps it was your courage and your charm. Perhaps it was all to do with you and nothing to do with this coat.”

  “I see how you could draw such a conclusion, but there is so much you don’t know. Trust me, Tailor, this coat has powers, or at least it did. Perhaps you underestimate your own abilities? You made this coat by hand. Your time and skill and energy are in this coat, in the deepest parts of its fabric. I need you to do this again.”

  This time the Tailor was not so lucky to have the man alter his gaze. He stared at the Tailor, stared holes through him, not giving the old man a second to gather his thoughts free from scrutiny.

  “I’ll try,” the Tailor said.

  A slow and gentle grin, like a rising sun, developed on the man’s lips. The man stood.

  “I must go,” he said, pulling gloves over the long fingers. “I’ll come back.”

  The man turned and walked to the door. He stopped at the door next to Luna who sat on her box. He leaned down and ran his forefinger over her head. He pulled open the door. The rusty bell rang and the man disappeared into the fog.

  * * * * *

  He sipped a cup of tea. It was hot and black and strong and felt good after the meal. Judy rinsed dishes and silverware and glasses. She wiped her hands on an old dishtowel.

  “I’ve got an order,” he said.

  “An order? Dad, we talked about this.”

  He ran his finger along the rim of the teacup, staring at it as he talked. “Just one more. It’s a special case, this one.”

  “Two weeks, remember?”

  “I know,” the thin tabby, with stripes and swirls in her brown fir, walked into the room with a long stretch. Barley walked to his leg and rubbed the side of her face against him. He reached down and scratched her behind the ear. The purring began.

  “See, that’s how a cat is supposed to behave,” she said.

  “They’re more alike than you think,” he said under his breath. He finished his tea and stood. He retrieved his coat and scarf from the row of coat hooks by the front door. She kissed his cheek.

  “Don’t walk by the lake,” she said. “It’s too dark.”

  “I know.”

  She watched from the window as he walked out into the evening fog. He headed toward the lake.

  * * * * *

  He took a right on 4th Ave and it went straight for two blocks before it ran into the park. There was a hundred yards of wet grass between him and the lake and the trail that ran next to the lake, but none of it could be seen that night with the heavy fog and no lights. He never slowed. He walked into the park, across the wet and muddy grass toward the asphalt trail. On the trail he could hear ducks flying in, hear the flap of their wings as they flew low over the water, and then he heard splashes as they landed. From the trail he could see where the water hit the shore, but beyond that was darkness and fog. He walked with his old hands stuffed deep into his pockets, his scarf tight around his neck. He walked alone and in silence. The fog enveloped him. He was isolated from the world with only his thoughts and his memories.

  He stopped and looked toward the lake. His memories f
illed in the views that the fog took away. He breathed in, enjoying the softness of the heavy air in his lungs. He could feel the moisture on his face. He closed his eyes. The sounds, ever so slight, were the same as always; the same as they had been when he had not walked alone. With his eyes closed, he could go back.

  He walked on. The path turned sharply to the right ahead of him. Trees with bare winter branches revealed themselves through heavy air, jutting out into the path. He stayed to the left side and as the path made its sharp turn, and as he rounded the bare branches, he saw a figure near the water. He stopped. The man was tall and wore a black coat with a collar turned up that concealed the side of his face. The man stared out at the lake and then looked down to where the water met the shore. The Tailor caught the slightest glimpse of the man’s face, of his pale skin and his pointed nose. The Tailor stood frozen.

  And then his body jolted at the noise. The howl that shot from the stranger’s mouth was madness. It was loud and booming, full of pain and sadness. He yelled out across the lake as if calling for death, as if pleading with the gods for mercy. And then it ended as abruptly as it had begun. Silence descended. The stranger’s head dropped. He stared at the ground, his back to the Tailor. The Tailor looked to his own feet and realized he had taken a step back, a step back from the paved path. He was standing on the small gray bits of gravel that bordered the path. The stranger wasn’t moving. The Tailor stepped onto the path and his foot dragged through the gravel, breaking the silence. The stranger’s head whipped around. The Tailor saw his eyes. He felt the eyes looking into his own eyes. The Tailor froze again, one foot on the gravel and one on the path. The tall man in the black coat with the turned-up collar, the pale skin, and the long pointed nose turned away in a flash. He walked off into the darkness, into the heavy fog.

  The Tailor stared into the fog. The man was gone. He looked around. He looked behind him. He looked up and down the path for a witness. There was no one. He stood alone. To his left, across the wet and muddy field and through that heavy fog was the road and its streetlights. He looked back to the lake, unable to see it. He turned and walked across the field.

  The sun had risen somewhere beyond the fog. Coffee dripped into a stained pot. Steam rose. Luna slept next to the front window. The Tailor wiped sleep from his eyes and rinsed an old white mug in the sink. He lifted the pot and poured strong, black coffee into the mug. He sat down at the worn oak workbench. He slid reading glasses onto his face and picked up a piece of herringbone twill patterned tweed. It had come from County Donegal in Ulster. It was thick and old. Like drawing magic from a mystical lamp, rubbing his fingers up and down the material drew out memories and nostalgia from places they’d long ago been hidden. Better to leave them there, leave them where they belong, leave them buried where they can cause no more pain and no more longing for what’s past by all too quickly.

  Maybe there was magic. Maybe not the kind the stranger thought of, but some other kind of magic. Maybe if those threads, those smallest of fibers could conjure ghosts and demons and wonders to boil up from their sealed dormancy, then maybe they could do something, even if it were the smallest of things. Even if it only lifted the spirits of the downtrodden for a moment, it was surely better than nothing. A past full of pain was one to forget. One full of joy was one to embrace. Perhaps if what was at the moment was soon to be in the stranger’s past, then the Tailor could make these final moments ones of joy. He could give, if nothing else, the stranger reason to embrace his own memories one day and not hide them away.

  He should have jumped when the bell on the front door rang out, but he didn’t. Somewhere in the vastness his mind had wondered off to, he still expected Mr. Herzenberg. He turned and stood, sipping his coffee. Mr. Herzenberg wore the same black coat, the tall collar turned up. He scratched Luna under her chin. She closed her eyes and purred. He walked to the chair next to the Tailor’s desk and the Tailor took his own seat at the desk. The men moved with an uncanny familiarity.

  “What sort of timeline are we looking at?” Mr. Herzenberg said.

  “A few weeks.”

  The stranger ran his index finger over his top lip, pondering. “Fine,” he said. “And it will be of the same magic as the first?”

  The Tailor swallowed hard and looked down at the floor. What was he promising? What game was he playing with this desperate and strange man? He raised his head to see the man’s eyes. “Yes,” he said. “One and the same.”

  “A few weeks should be enough time. But it must be done then, no later.” Mr. Herzenberg leaned in. “Are we clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine then. I’ll leave you to it.” The stranger stood and turned in a single and swift movement, as if gliding. The bell rang out as he neared the door. Luna hissed. Judy stepped inside, almost bumping into the man. She was a whole foot shorter and looked up into the man’s face. Her own face distorted in fear and shock.

  “Pardon me,” the man said, stepping aside. Judy stepped forward. Mr. Herzenberg stepped through the door and was gone. Judy stared at the door. Luna stared out the window. She turned to her father.

  “What’s he doing here?” she asked.

  “A customer.”

  “He’s the one you’re doing a job for? Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “What does he want?”

  “A coat.”

  “A coat? Dad, you haven’t made anything in years. You’re only doing alterations. You can’t make a coat.”

  “I can and I will,” he said, turning to the workbench.

  “He’s strange.”

  “It’s those that aren’t strange that worry me.”

  “Will you even have time to make a coat? Remember the lease.”

  “I have time, plenty of time. What else do I have to do?”

  She walked to the workbench where he’d taken his seat, his back to her. She put her hands on his shoulders.

  “I just worry about you, that’s all.” She kissed his head. “Please be careful around that man.”

  “You know him?”

  “I know ‘of’ him. He’s Leonard Herzenberg. His wife died two years ago and people say he’s been crazy ever since.”

  She felt her father’s shoulders slump. The Tailor’s breath fell from his lungs. His head dropped. He stared at the tweed. He began to cry. Judy wrapped her arms around him and put her head on his shoulder. He reached up and grabbed her arm, holding onto all that he had, all that was left. He cursed memories, all of them. He cursed them for passing, for leaving without courtesy. He cursed love for being so strong and leaving so fast. He cursed life for having nothing left to offer, for leaving him to sit and feel, to sit and hurt, to sit and watch others do the same. The present was full of longing for the past and the past was full of planning for the future. Damn it all.

  She stepped away from him and grabbed a box of tissues from his desk. He turned and they wiped their eyes. They looked at one another. “You’re ugly when you cry,” she said and they laughed through the tears. He blew his nose into the tissue. He ran his fingers under his eyes. He looked back at the tweed on the bench and picked it up. He looked at his daughter, he looked into her eyes and saw his wife and allowed the memory to surface. He let it come, slowly at first, and then rushing and raging and filling his entire body. The thoughts and feelings flooded into every crevice of his being, overwhelming him, making him feel warm and dizzy, making him feel happy and sad, excited and afraid. Tears welled up again in his eyes. He looked at Judy as if seeing her for the first time. His eyes grew wide. Emotions took over.

  The two weeks passed quickly. His old hands moved slow. His joints ached. His eyes found it difficult to focus. But he worked into the evenings. He began early in the mornings. Some days he kept the door locked. And then he waited. With a cup of coffee he sat at his desk, his ledger closed and his back sore, staring at the door, waiting for Mr. Herzenberg to reappear through the thick fog. His long life had never taught him patience, but age had dulled his im
patience. Luna stretched out on the floor, looking at the door. The Tailor finished his coffee. He ran his hand along the coat, felt the thick wool on his fingers. The bell rang out as the door opened.

  The Tailor stood. Mr. Herzenberg wore his black coat, the collar flipped up, his pale face white as snow. Mr. Herzenberg took his usual seat without pleasantries, without a passing scratch of Luna’s head.

  “The coat?”

  “I have it here,” the Tailor said.

  “Good.” He took the coat, held it in his arms, ran his long, bony fingers along its smooth edges. “Good,” he said again, in a hushed and somber tone.

  “I am a widower,” the Tailor said.

  The strange man clutched at the coat, squeezing the life out of it. He closed his eyes tight.

  “The pain is enormous and unfair.” The Tailor reached out. He put his hand on Mr. Herzenberg’s forearm. Clutching the coat, Mr. Herzenberg began to cry. Tears ran down his hallow cheeks. Drops fell onto the coat, onto his arm, onto the Tailor’s old hands.

  “This pain,” the Tailor said. “This pain is proof that love is strong, that it’s true.”

  Mr. Herzenberg sat up quickly, sniffling. He wiped away the tears. He wiped away the grief. He stood, tall and straight. “What are you doing? I don’t need this. I have to get this coat to the hospital.”

  “Please wait.”

  “Wait?” Herzenberg stood. “You’re crazy, old man. Crazy.”

  He walked towards the door.

  “Stop!”

  Mr. Herzenberg froze. The Tailor’s voice was a dry crack of thunder on a silent summer night. The tall and pale and thin man with the new coat in his hands turned. He faced the Tailor.

  “You haven’t paid for that,” the Tailor said. “Will you steal from an old man?”

  The man looked at the coat in his hands. He looked at the Tailor. “What…I’m sorry.” He was caught off guard. He regained his composure. Straightened his back. Found his manners. “I apologize,” he said, firmly. “How much do I owe you?”

  The Tailor stood. The Tailor walked to Mr. Herzenberg. “It’s not money I need. I am retiring. Today is the shop’s last day. This shop has been my life, my escape from my pain and my worries. I am a lonely old man. In exchange for the coat, I will require you to meet with me once a week, for conversation and perhaps lunch. I fear that without my shop, I will simply wilt like the petals of a dying flower and drift away in a breeze. But conversation with someone such as yourself may be just the thing I need.”