“What’d she say to that?”
“She doesn’t want to do it, but we’re down one man. I mean, I’m glad you’re taking this time off … I am … but January is going to be a real challenge if we don’t stay on top of stuff right now.”
“I don’t think she should do it. Aaron should hire someone else, someone new.” I caught my reflection in the mirror. Even ignoring my bed-head hair, I looked ragged.
“He hasn’t said anything, but I’m sure he’s thinking about it. I’ve hinted too, not that we’re replacing you, old buddy. I mean, is that even possible?” He smirked.
“I’ll talk to Aaron,” I told Peter.
“Enough shoptalk. Why don’t you tell me how the book’s coming?”
“I’d almost forgotten about it for a second.” I picked up the remote and clicked on the Weather Channel.
“That bad, huh?”
“The words are going on paper, Peter, but I’m not the superstar people believe me to be. This is definitely not the book Arthur’s expecting.”
“What kind of book is that?”
“You know, ‘I did it the right way, I care about people, my life is perfect, go and do likewise.’ Your basic inspirational pep talk.”
“You’re not trying to please people are you? That can’t be done, you know.”
“Maybe.” Wandering into the kitchenette, I opened the fridge looking for other surprises. “Peter, you’ve known me for ten years. What do you think I’m writing?”
“You’re from Iowa—might want to leave that part out. You graduated from Providence College, left for a number of years to do something, possibly chase wild women and work the rodeo circuit. Then you came to your senses and helped inspire a nation to love their fellow man and serve the poor. The end.”
“An inspiration?”
“Well, listen, in all seriousness, Jack, you are. It doesn’t mean you don’t have faults. I can write that chapter if you like. But you’ve done enough. People are going to be inspired. What’s wrong with that?”
“What’s wrong is sometimes people don’t tell even their best friends what they’ve been through.”
“What haven’t you told me?”
The fridge was empty. I headed back into the living room. “Just everything, that’s all.”
“What’d you do … kill a guy?”
I was silent.
“Jack, listen, I’ve got no idea what you’re writing, no idea whatsoever, but if it’s what you believe God wants you to do, then tell your story. Something good will come of this. And if it just so happens you’ve …”
His voice trailed off. He was thinking about what I might have been capable of in my younger days. He was thinking about what it must be like having your shadows flooded by a public spotlight.
“You see, Peter, that’s the problem,” I interrupted, rescuing him from the uncomfortable silence. “I thought I could sketch a story of my life—where I grew up, my years as a Providence student, what happened when I returned, and how I wrote Laborers. But that’s not the story God wants me to tell, and I want to run away like Jonah.”
“And look what happened to him.”
“Do you know how scary it is standing up in front of the world and telling them the truth about yourself?”
“Oooh,” Peter groaned.
“I don’t expect you to be able to solve this,” I said.
“I’m not trying to solve it, but at least I have a better grip now on your hesitancy in the meeting. Aaron thought you were just being humble.”
I laughed. “Will you pray for me? I could use your support.”
“You’ve got it. Always. Say, where are you, man?”
“I’m out at sea in my little boat, whale watching.”
“Don’t get lost out there.”
“I won’t. I hope I won’t.”
Peter and I hung up, and I made a second call. This one to the concierge.
“Good morning, Mr. Clayton,” said a voice on the other end of the line.
“Good morning. Can you recommend a men’s clothing shop downtown that might be open today?”
“If you can give me your measurements, Mr. Clayton, I’ll call Duroth’s Menswear. If they’re open today, I’m sure they can deliver whatever you need.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “I can stop by.”
A moment later room service knocked at my door. A young man rolled in a breakfast cart. I was out of cash, so I asked him to add a 20 percent gratuity to the bill. He thanked me and left. I was on my second cup of coffee when the concierge called back with the news that Duroth’s was open. He gave me walking directions that gave purpose to the black-felt pen and the pad of yellow paper.
Charles Duroth is a stout man in his midfifties with a full head of black hair. He looks every bit a tailor in his silver and white houndstooth vest over a crisp white starched shirt, his sleeves rolled up to midforearm. He greeted me at the door. I stepped out of the frozen cold into one of the warmest greetings I ever recall receiving.
“Mr. Clayton!” Charles Duroth clapped his hands together, accentuating my name. “I hear you’re looking for some new clothes.” The concierge had obviously mentioned my name.
“Yes,” I told him. “Just a few things … pants, a shirt.”
“Mr. Clayton,” Mr. Duroth shook his head. “A man like yourself … you ought to look your very best. What you need is quality clothing. Am I right, sir?”
Something told me Mr. Duroth had a subscription to Time magazine. I had a sneaking suspicion he was glad he’d battled the weather and opened his store that Saturday morning. He’d surely sell me his most expensive suit, and a shirt and tie to go with it. I suspected the warmth of his greeting had been heated by the thought of a big sale.
“I’m really just looking for a new suit.”
“And that’s just what I’m going to help you with. Do you mind if I get a few measurements?” He lifted his tape measure inches off his shoulders and held it, awaiting my answer.
“No,” I said.
With the open palm of his small hand, Mr. Duroth gestured me over to a tailor’s stool set in front of three angled mirrors.
“Step right up here, Mr. Clayton. You probably know your measurements already, but I like to take them anyway, just to be 100 percent.”
“No problem,” I said, stepping up on the stool while he went to work quickly and efficiently. “You work fast, Mr. Duroth.”
“You’re a busy man, Mr. Clayton. I understand that. In fact, I understand people. You don’t spend thirty-five years in this business and not learn something about people.”
Mr. Duroth kneeled to take a pant-length measurement. The snowstorm had kept other customers away, and when we didn’t speak, it was completely quiet in the room. My eyes roamed the displays. I spotted a rack of specialty jackets Mr. Duroth must have rolled out in anticipation of my arrival. There were at least fifteen separate articles of clothing, jackets of different styles and colors for all occasions, business and pleasure.
“Please don’t go to a lot of trouble, Mr. Duroth. I don’t need much. My stay downtown this weekend was unexpected, and I didn’t bring a change of clothes.”
He didn’t look up from his work. “That’s my business, Mr. Clayton. That’s exactly what I provide. A change of clothing, a change of style.”
I had to admit, I was impressed by Mr. Duroth’s legerdemain. He wasn’t about to let me tell him what I needed.
“What are you … a thirty-eight regular?”
“Forty, actually.”
“No, I think you’re more of a thirty-eight. Here, try this on.” Mr. Duroth stood and rested the tape measure back across his narrow shoulders. He pulled a brown-checked sports jacket off a hanger and slipped it up my arms. “Take a good look at this jacket in the mirror, Mr. Clayton, and tell me it’s not a beautiful coat.”
I turned back to face the mirrors. I had to admit it was a gorgeous sports jacket. While I adjusted and admired my new look, Mr. Duroth brought
me two pairs of pants, olive and tan. He gestured to the curtained dressing rooms.
“Why don’t you try these on, Mr. Clayton?”
I stepped down from the stool, still wearing the jacket, and took the pants inside the tiny dressing room. There was a lot to like about Mr. Duroth. He was pushy, but like Debbie Holms at Liberty Deli, he worked hard and clearly knew what he was doing.
I stepped into the olive pants and walked back outside. I looked again at my reflection in the trifold mirrors. I didn’t know if I’d ever looked this good. Chalk up a win for Mr. Duroth.
“I’ll take them,” I said.
“If you like the fit of the olive pants, take the tan slacks as well—they’re identical. This way you can vary the look. You’re also going to need shirts.”
I had to smile. “Mr. Duroth, you’re quite a salesman,” I said, genuinely complimenting him. “I’ll take the pants, the shirts, and the jacket.”
“What about shoes? Please don’t tell me you’re one of those men who wears tennis shoes with a sports jacket,” he said.
“I repent, Mr. Duroth. Show me some brown shoes in a size ten.”
Almost immediately he was lifting a shoebox and rustling the tissue paper as he took out a pair of dark burgundy handsewn leather loafers. The kind you don’t see for less than two hundred dollars.
“These are the shoes for that jacket, Mr. Clayton. You’ll feel like a million dollars when you wear them,” he said. I hoped he wasn’t hinting at the price.
Mr. Duroth looked at me from behind the counter, and now it was my turn. He’d shown me his best, now would I take it or leave it? I asked the Boss, the One I ask all questions. The One who tells me to go backward or to move forward. He answered immediately.
“Wrap ’em up. I’ll take ’em.”
I returned my new jacket to the rack and changed back into the clothes I’d walked in wearing, shabby by comparison. By the time I’d returned from the changing room, everything had been bagged, except for the dress slacks, which Mr. Duroth was hemming at a sewing machine behind the counter. I reached for my wallet.
Charles Duroth carefully folded the dress pants onto wooden hangers, using the same fluid strokes of an artist brushing watercolors onto parchment. His black-framed tailor’s glasses slid down on his face as he worked.
“I wonder if you know my son, Mr. Clayton. He’s a graduate of Providence College, and he went through your … what do you call it … training program?”
“Really?” I said. I didn’t recall anyone named Duroth. “What’s your boy’s name?”
Looking at me over the top of his bifocals, Mr. Duroth looked like an old-world craftsman. “Justin,” he said. “He’s a good-looking, tall kid. Six foot two. Brown hair.”
“I can’t place him … That’s odd.”
The craftsman continued his work.
“He’s always said nice things about you. He gave us one of your books—I think it was for Easter, or maybe Christmas. Signed. It was very nice,” he said, because it was a gift from his son, not because it was my book.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. What’s Justin up to now?” I asked, hoping more information would help jog my memory.
“He’s a missionary in London. Works with World Missions Outreach. Ever heard of a guy named Howard Cameron?”
The expression “small world” took on new meaning as chills prickled the skin on my neck. Goose bumps the size of goose eggs rippled up the back of my arms. Mr. Duroth, you’re stepping into my cellar. You’re standing near my unopened boxes.
“Yes,” I said.
“He and his wife started a missionary church over there. Justin’s been on board for about a year now. He works with the Camerons. They got their whole family over there. The daughter works with them too.”
Tiny beads of sweat appeared at my temples.
“What do you hear from Justin these days?” I wondered if God was about to send me a telegram.
“Oh, he’s doing great. He got married right after graduation, and he and his wife moved right over there. They love it. We have two grandchildren now—twins. My wife and I took a vacation to see them this past August.”
What’s that like? Having a family, I mean.
“I’m sure you and your wife had a wonderful time.”
He smiled, and I knew that they had.
“Yes, we certainly did. We all went to see Buckingham Palace. Well, not the twins. Howard’s daughter Jenny looked after them.”
I can’t believe I’m here, Mr. Duroth.
I stepped closer to the counter, held on to it so I wouldn’t fall over from the shock. I’d come here for a change of clothes. What I was getting was the first report on Jenny in more than a dozen years.
“So she watched the twins, huh. Must have had her hands full,” I said.
“Well, she’s got a couple of boys herself. Cute little guys.”
Did you know I was the girl’s first love back in college? I never got over it. Was she wearing the silver necklace I bought her? Did she speak of me?
“How long did you say you’ve been in business?” I asked.
“Thirty-five years I’ve been here, rain or shine, snowstorm, ice storm, economy good or bad … whatever. It’s not easy to stay in business here when everybody wants to shop at the mall.”
“No, not easy. But I don’t think they have service like this in any mall.”
“I like to think they don’t have service like this anywhere else in the free world, Mr. Clayton.” He smiled a warm, peaceful smile as he stuck the last item in the garment bag.
“What do I owe you?” I asked, bracing myself for an astronomical total.
“Nothing, Mr. Clayton. Your money’s no good.”
I studied the tailor’s face. The peaceful grin had been replaced by weathered, rougher features. His face revealed deeply etched worry lines, like a rug that’s been paced on for years.
“Now why would you say something like that?”
“Mr. Clayton, in all these years, you’ve never stepped inside my store. I don’t know why that is … Maybe you get your clothing at the mall like everybody else. Maybe you don’t get downtown much. But if you’d have come in here anytime before today, I would have told you then what I’m going to tell you now.” Mr. Duroth pulled his glasses from the bridge of his nose and wiped at his face with a handkerchief slipped from his front pocket.
“Justin was always a good kid. But he got in trouble with drugs when he was in high school. Dropped out. Got busted for selling and had to go to juvenile detention for ten months. While he was in there, you came to speak at the detention center.”
“Ah …” Finally I remembered a piece of this story.
“He read your book, and that’s when he decided he wanted to come to school here and be a part of the program. It turned his life around.”
“God turns lives around, Mr. Duroth,” I told him, hoping I didn’t sound like I was correcting.
“You’re right, Mr. Clayton. But then God doesn’t need new slacks, and you do, or you wouldn’t have come in here today.”
I asked Mr. Duroth again to let me pay for the clothes, but he refused.
“Mr. Clayton, I hope you will enjoy your new clothing. You know, every man should dress his best.”
“Thank you. And please tell Justin I said hello the next time you speak with him.”
On the walk back to the hotel, more downtown businesses were opening up. Lunch with Howard and Angela was set for 1:00 p.m. at the Schneider Haus, a German restaurant west of downtown. There was a good chance they’d be open now. Whether or not Howard and Angela would be there, I wasn’t sure. However, I was sure I’d left the Oslander’s number back home.
Howard loved the Schneider Haus. At least he did twenty years earlier when he and Angela had taken Jenny and me there for lunch while visiting Providence. Howard had an affinity for all things European, a quality that sustained his work in England over the years, I’m sure.
Seeing myself in my new cloth
es back in my hotel room, I was pleased I’d taken this detour from my usual mall-based clothes-shopping routine. This was just the sort of impression I wanted to make with Howard and Angela. And in general.
Howard and Angela loved their daughter. Like so many parents, they were keen to protect her from the dangers that can accompany first loves. I thought about the stories they must have heard years before, wondered if they felt any lingering bitterness toward me. Howard mentioned that my book had made a positive impression. Why would they bother seeing me after so long?
I shut off the bathroom light and put on my coat. It didn’t match the new sports jacket, so I left it in my room and caught a cab in front of the Hyatt. In less than twenty minutes I was going to have lunch with two of the most important people in my life. Not this life, but the one I lived in 1985.
As the taxi pulled away from the curb, I tried to think of another situation where the characters from a book come to life. And the writer, dressed finely in his new wardrobe, drives off in a taxi to meet them.
~ ELEVEN ~
Ooh baby, do you know what that’s worth?
—Belinda Carlisle
“Heaven Is a Place on Earth”
Mitchell and I stood at the front entrance of Lillian Hall. This time we weren’t dressed in running clothes but in sports jackets without ties. In the cool evening air, we’d walked from the apartment in a state of excitement, thinking about how to properly celebrate Jenny’s birthday. The mood was reminiscent of the complex blend of naïveté and sophistication that accompanies prom night.
Earlier in the day we purchased fancy ice cream from a shop called I LUV MOO. We played Billy Joel’s An Innocent Man album—music that’s more about falling in love than it is about innocence. I pressed a pair of khakis and a white oxford to “Uptown Girl,” assembling my best party attire from a closet full of blue jeans and sweatshirts.
We were buzzed in at Lillian Hall by a girl reading a magazine at the front desk. She knew Mitch, so we were granted permission to head upstairs without an escort or chaperone.
Providence: Once Upon a Second Chance Page 8
