refused such an unreasonable request. Imagine. Someone wanting to take home jackets. But today, when he was mulling over the ways men could choose to live their lives, it felt proper and right, a good fit—geez, what would his father think now?—for him to say yes.
At the rack of poplin jackets, he picked out a green one and a yellow one and a red-and-blue plaid.
“I can pay for them.” Mr. Dees reached into the pocket of his trousers and took out a roll of bills. “All three of them. Then tomorrow, when I bring back the two I’ve decided against, you can give me a refund.”
Gilley shook his head. He was practically dizzy with what he was about to do. “Keep the money,” he said. “I know you’ll be back.”
He asked Mr. Dees to follow him to the rear of the store, and there the two of them slipped through the stockroom—past the cardboard boxes full of shirts and blouses and trousers and skirts, past the racks of hangers, past the shelves where the layaway items waited to be claimed—to the alley door. When Gilley pushed it open light came flooding in, along with the cool air and the sound of a mower running on the courthouse lawn and the smell of the freshly cut grass. Gilley loved that smell. He loved the chill in the air, the wind rising, and how sharp the day had become.
“Thank you.” Mr. Dees hugged the jackets to his chest. “Thank you very much for understanding.”
“Come back tomorrow,” Gilley told him. “Same time. I’ll be waiting. Knock on the door and I’ll let you in.”
It happened that way. Gilley let him take the jackets, without a dime put down as security, and the next day, when the store manager was once again at the Coach House, the knock came. Gilley opened the alley door and there was Mr. Dees.
“I’ve chosen the plaid,” he said. “Usually I choose blue, but my friend convinced me. The plaid. What do you think?”
Gilley was relieved. He had the two jackets back, and already Mr. Dees was reaching into his trousers pocket to pay for the one he had chosen. What a wad of bills he took out. He snapped off a twenty with a flick of his wrist.
“I think it suits you,” he told Mr. Dees.
Mr. Dees pressed the twenty into Gilley’s hand, squeezing. “I’ve never worn plaid before.” A tremor of a smile came to Mr. Dees’s lips. “Who would have thought?” he said. “Plaid.” He refused the few dollars change owed him from his twenty, telling Gilley to please keep it for himself. “A good-looking boy like you,” he said. “A popular boy. I’m sure you can find something to spend it on.”
“You won’t tell, will you?” Gilley said. “What I did? If my boss found out . . .”
“I won’t tell. You can trust me.” Mr. Dees put his finger to his lips. “Our secret.” Then he turned and disappeared down the alley.
Nothing had changed on planet Earth. Gilley knew that. In fact, that evening he would sit down with his father while he was watching Walter Cronkite give the news on television, and he would think, What did it matter, what he had done for Mr. Dees? What difference had it made to the whole, big world spinning on beneath them? What had it mattered to the 236 people dead from flooding in Rapid City, South Dakota; or the 118 who had lost their lives in Hurricane Agnes; and when he thought of the 62,000 people starving to death because of the drought in West Africa, not to mention the casualties in Vietnam . . . how important was the fact that he had played fast and loose with J. C. Penney merchandise and come away clean? What difference at all did small favors between people make?
Still, he couldn’t stop the crazy, giddy-assed feeling coming over him even as he sat in the glow of blue light coming from the console television and heard Walter Cronkite naming the world’s mayhem and disaster. He knew he was grinning like an idiot.
“What’s so hilarious?” his father asked, and he told him, nothing. Not a thing. Just
At the rack of poplin jackets, he picked out a green one and a yellow one and a red-and-blue plaid.
“I can pay for them.” Mr. Dees reached into the pocket of his trousers and took out a roll of bills. “All three of them. Then tomorrow, when I bring back the two I’ve decided against, you can give me a refund.”
Gilley shook his head. He was practically dizzy with what he was about to do. “Keep the money,” he said. “I know you’ll be back.”
He asked Mr. Dees to follow him to the rear of the store, and there the two of them slipped through the stockroom—past the cardboard boxes full of shirts and blouses and trousers and skirts, past the racks of hangers, past the shelves where the layaway items waited to be claimed—to the alley door. When Gilley pushed it open light came flooding in, along with the cool air and the sound of a mower running on the courthouse lawn and the smell of the freshly cut grass. Gilley loved that smell. He loved the chill in the air, the wind rising, and how sharp the day had become.
“Thank you.” Mr. Dees hugged the jackets to his chest. “Thank you very much for understanding.”
“Come back tomorrow,” Gilley told him. “Same time. I’ll be waiting. Knock on the door and I’ll let you in.”
It happened that way. Gilley let him take the jackets, without a dime put down as security, and the next day, when the store manager was once again at the Coach House, the knock came. Gilley opened the alley door and there was Mr. Dees.
“I’ve chosen the plaid,” he said. “Usually I choose blue, but my friend convinced me. The plaid. What do you think?”
Gilley was relieved. He had the two jackets back, and already Mr. Dees was reaching into his trousers pocket to pay for the one he had chosen. What a wad of bills he took out. He snapped off a twenty with a flick of his wrist.
“I think it suits you,” he told Mr. Dees.
Mr. Dees pressed the twenty into Gilley’s hand, squeezing. “I’ve never worn plaid before.” A tremor of a smile came to Mr. Dees’s lips. “Who would have thought?” he said. “Plaid.” He refused the few dollars change owed him from his twenty, telling Gilley to please keep it for himself. “A good-looking boy like you,” he said. “A popular boy. I’m sure you can find something to spend it on.”
“You won’t tell, will you?” Gilley said. “What I did? If my boss found out . . .”
“I won’t tell. You can trust me.” Mr. Dees put his finger to his lips. “Our secret.” Then he turned and disappeared down the alley.
Nothing had changed on planet Earth. Gilley knew that. In fact, that evening he would sit down with his father while he was watching Walter Cronkite give the news on television, and he would think, What did it matter, what he had done for Mr. Dees? What difference had it made to the whole, big world spinning on beneath them? What had it mattered to the 236 people dead from flooding in Rapid City, South Dakota; or the 118 who had lost their lives in Hurricane Agnes; and when he thought of the 62,000 people starving to death because of the drought in West Africa, not to mention the casualties in Vietnam . . . how important was the fact that he had played fast and loose with J. C. Penney merchandise and come away clean? What difference at all did small favors between people make?
Still, he couldn’t stop the crazy, giddy-assed feeling coming over him even as he sat in the glow of blue light coming from the console television and heard Walter Cronkite naming the world’s mayhem and disaster. He knew he was grinning like an idiot.
“What’s so hilarious?” his father asked, and he told him, nothing. Not a thing. Just
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