to press creases into the legs of his blue jeans, choosing colored socks to match the shirts that he wore. These summer days, when he dressed for work, he stood in front of the mirror, knotting and reknotting his tie until it pleased him.
There was, he realized now, something womanly about him. That’s what his father had seen that afternoon when he watched him buttoning that sleeveless blouse. He had tugged at its hem, smoothed its collar, then stepped back and done it all again to make sure that the blouse hung just so on the mannequin. It was that meticulous attention to detail that served him well on his job. No one did a window like him, his boss had told him, and when it came to folding shirts, well, he was a natural.
But there was a flip side to his fastidiousness. He saw that now. It was a nose-in-the-air way of moving through the world. In every smoothed wrinkle, every perfected motion, there was an air of moral judgment, though he didn’t intend it. There were people, he implied, who lived sloppy lives, and then there were people like him.
His father, who made his living from glass—relied on a mix of sand and soda ash and limestone melted in furnaces where the heat could get as high as 3,600 degrees—had seen as much that afternoon at Penney’s. He had seen that his son was a prig, and he wondered—surely he did, Gilley thought—how a boy like that would ever be of any use to him.
So that was how Gilley found himself, a few days later, saying to Mr. Dees, “All right. I guess. Sure.”
Mr. Dees had come into Penney’s late in the afternoon—the dead time in summer, the time when Gilley folded the shirts mothers had picked through earlier, unfurling them, holding them up to their sons’ chests, then leaving them discarded in wads. He folded the shirts and then the trousers, stacking them according to size. He used a feather duster to clean the display shoes. The store manager had stepped over to the Coach House for coffee the way he always did that time of day, and the girl at the cash register was
filing her nails while she sang along with the radio. WTHO had started its Top Fifty Countdown, and the woman who worked in Ladies’ Apparel called over to the girl. “Turn it up, sweets. Let’s live a little.”
The question Mr. Dees asked took Gilley by surprise. He wanted to know whether it would be all right—“whether it would be permissible,” he said—to take home a few lightweight jackets, maybe three or four, so he could see which one might suit him.
“Mine has a rip.” He turned his shoulder so Gilley could see the iron-on patch. “See? I’ve tried to mend it, but now I’m thinking I need new. It’s embarrassing, yes? To wear torn clothes.”
It was a cool day. Gilley could see the branches rising and falling on the trees across the street on the courthouse lawn. All morning, women had come in with scarves on their heads and they smelled of the cool air, and some of them—the country women—of coal smoke. They had lit fires, they told him. That’s how cold it was. “Feels like March,” more than one of them said.
Mr. Dees’s request was, to say the least, unusual. “You could try them on here.” Gilley pointed to the tri-panel mirror outside the fitting room. “I’ll be glad to help you.”
“Oh, no,” Mr. Dees said. “I couldn’t do that.”
“It’s the way people usually do it.”
“I don’t like to look at myself in the mirror.” Mr. Dees bowed his head. “And three of them? I couldn’t bear to see so many of me and from so many angles. Like I was sneaking up on myself. At home, I have someone who will help me. Someone I trust.” He raised his head and looked Gilley straight in the eye. “Please.”
Gilley took in Mr. Dees’s meek look, and he thought of the way his father had called him pretty and then left him to wish the word gone.
“You must be a size forty,” Gilley said. “A forty long. Just look at your arms.”
Ordinarily, he would have
There was, he realized now, something womanly about him. That’s what his father had seen that afternoon when he watched him buttoning that sleeveless blouse. He had tugged at its hem, smoothed its collar, then stepped back and done it all again to make sure that the blouse hung just so on the mannequin. It was that meticulous attention to detail that served him well on his job. No one did a window like him, his boss had told him, and when it came to folding shirts, well, he was a natural.
But there was a flip side to his fastidiousness. He saw that now. It was a nose-in-the-air way of moving through the world. In every smoothed wrinkle, every perfected motion, there was an air of moral judgment, though he didn’t intend it. There were people, he implied, who lived sloppy lives, and then there were people like him.
His father, who made his living from glass—relied on a mix of sand and soda ash and limestone melted in furnaces where the heat could get as high as 3,600 degrees—had seen as much that afternoon at Penney’s. He had seen that his son was a prig, and he wondered—surely he did, Gilley thought—how a boy like that would ever be of any use to him.
So that was how Gilley found himself, a few days later, saying to Mr. Dees, “All right. I guess. Sure.”
Mr. Dees had come into Penney’s late in the afternoon—the dead time in summer, the time when Gilley folded the shirts mothers had picked through earlier, unfurling them, holding them up to their sons’ chests, then leaving them discarded in wads. He folded the shirts and then the trousers, stacking them according to size. He used a feather duster to clean the display shoes. The store manager had stepped over to the Coach House for coffee the way he always did that time of day, and the girl at the cash register was
filing her nails while she sang along with the radio. WTHO had started its Top Fifty Countdown, and the woman who worked in Ladies’ Apparel called over to the girl. “Turn it up, sweets. Let’s live a little.”
The question Mr. Dees asked took Gilley by surprise. He wanted to know whether it would be all right—“whether it would be permissible,” he said—to take home a few lightweight jackets, maybe three or four, so he could see which one might suit him.
“Mine has a rip.” He turned his shoulder so Gilley could see the iron-on patch. “See? I’ve tried to mend it, but now I’m thinking I need new. It’s embarrassing, yes? To wear torn clothes.”
It was a cool day. Gilley could see the branches rising and falling on the trees across the street on the courthouse lawn. All morning, women had come in with scarves on their heads and they smelled of the cool air, and some of them—the country women—of coal smoke. They had lit fires, they told him. That’s how cold it was. “Feels like March,” more than one of them said.
Mr. Dees’s request was, to say the least, unusual. “You could try them on here.” Gilley pointed to the tri-panel mirror outside the fitting room. “I’ll be glad to help you.”
“Oh, no,” Mr. Dees said. “I couldn’t do that.”
“It’s the way people usually do it.”
“I don’t like to look at myself in the mirror.” Mr. Dees bowed his head. “And three of them? I couldn’t bear to see so many of me and from so many angles. Like I was sneaking up on myself. At home, I have someone who will help me. Someone I trust.” He raised his head and looked Gilley straight in the eye. “Please.”
Gilley took in Mr. Dees’s meek look, and he thought of the way his father had called him pretty and then left him to wish the word gone.
“You must be a size forty,” Gilley said. “A forty long. Just look at your arms.”
Ordinarily, he would have
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