Alterations by JD Clapp

I was looking out the front window, watching the snow fall, waiting for the mailman to come with my disability check. Jesus, the snow is sticking now, and my tires are bald. I needed to deposit that check today. I was out of food, running low on whiskey, and I still owed Mrs. Schmidt half the rent for this little shithole of a duplex. Fuck my life. Then, I got the call.

I’m not sure what I did right after I hung up with my ex-wife. I know I emptied the last of my Evan William’s into a dirty juice glass I pulled from my sink. I remember the faint taste of two-day-old OJ mixed with the bourbon and thinking, a fucking juice glass of whiskey isn’t going to be enough.

Unable to grasp the news fully, I fixated on whether I had anything to wear to the funeral. I went to my closet and removed the plastic garment bag, brushed the dust off. The Brooks Brothers bag still looked expensive. When I hefted it, I felt the dress shoes in the bottom. Edmond Allens. God, I was a fucking tool back then. I unzipped the bag, hoping there’d be a shirt and tie in there, too. Luckily there was a black silk tie, an unworn white shirt, and a nice belt. The shoes even had a pair of dress socks stuffed in them. I laid the clothes out on my unmade bed and sat down. I felt a surge of panic building and took a few deep centering breaths. I hadn’t had a panic attack in four years…Hold it together.

I’d quit smoking the last time I tried to stop drinking. I started back on the booze a week or so after rehab, but hadn’t picked the smokes back up, mostly because I couldn’t afford them. But right then, I desperately needed a smoke. I rummaged in the drawer of my nightstand, found two unopened packs of Camels and a Bic with some gas left. Fuck it. Recovery never sticks. I opened a pack, tapped out a dart, lit it, and took a deep drag. By the second drag, I felt as if an old friend had placed a steady hand on my shoulder.

I looked at the suit knowing it wouldn’t fit; I’d lost close to twenty pounds since the great undoing of my life. Just need to make this work, can’t afford a new suit or alterations. I’d kept the charcoal flannel just in case…for weddings or funerals, although I’d been to neither since I’d bagged it up. Looking at the fucking I saw an artifact of who I’d once been, a symbol of my success now a painful reminder of my fuckups—all the years squandered, my potential flushed down the shitter until it overflowed and damn near drowned me.

The nicotine combined with the whiskey made me dizzy. I tapped the ash from the cigarette into the empty whiskey glass, laid back on the bed, and tried to remember how long it’d been since we’d last spoken. Three, four years? Fuck, all on me. My fault. Always all on me. I shook my head, tried to remember his face, what he was wearing that last time I saw him, but I couldn’t. I could only see his face as a younger boy. I couldn’t even remember the argument we’d had that day.

I stood and undressed. Then it finally hit me; my son, my only child, was dead. A drunk fucking driver and me with two DUIs…Nice karmic fuck-you. I wept…but if I’m being honest, it was more for myself than the loss of my son.

###

I found a local seamstress who did alterations. Mrs. Lei, a slight, older Chinese woman, ushered me into her tiny, cluttered shop. She led me past piles of pants, coats, and dresses strewn across her counter waiting to be altered, an industrial sewing machine, a half-clad dress form, and two long racks of finished clothes to a changing booth that was little more than a coffin-sized, unpainted plywood box with a flimsy curtain for privacy.

 “Try on,” she instructed.

I stripped off my jacket, stepped out of my boots, pulled off my jeans, and put the jacket on over my t-shirt. I slipped on the pants, bunched up three inches of excess flannel, and stepped out.

Mrs. Lei looked at me and shook her head. In broken English, she said, “Look like your big brother’s suit.”

 “I used to be fatter when I wore suits,” I said.

 “You lose too much weight.”

I felt my heart sink.

“Can you fix it?” I asked.

“Lots of work. Expensive to fix,” she said.

I sighed, could feel a lump in my throat. Before I could say anything else, she added, “Two weeks to do. Lots of work. Lots of cutting.”

I stood there numb for a minute, tying to figure out what the hell I was going to do.

“It’s for my son’s funeral…It’s in three days. I can’t afford a new suit. How much? Can you even do it in time?” I asked.

She looked at me blankly for a beat.

“Wait,” she said.

Then she turned and walked toward a rack of clothes in the back of the shop.

I stood bewildered, wondering if I should call my ex-wife and ask for a loan, figuring she might give me one given the situation. That’d be a new fucking low…even for me.

Mrs. Lei returned with a blue suit and white dress shirt. It looked slightly worn but well made.

“Try on,” she instructed and pushed me toward the changing booth.

I came out in the suit, not bothering to put on the shirt or my shoes.

“Put on shirt and shoes,” she said.

I went back in, put it all on. I came out and looked in the mirror. Old and pathetic. Even frail, but the suit fits.

“How much?” I asked.

“Trade. No money. Trade,” she said.

I bowed my head, felt my eyes growing moist at the unexpected gesture. Mrs. Lei stepped closer and patted my shoulder.

“So sorry. So sorry,” she said.

After I changed back into my clothes, Mrs. Lei handed me the suit in a clear plastic garment bag. I thanked her again and as we walked out, she stopped me and pointed to a small shrine, adorned with fresh fruit, incense, a buddha statue and two old photos.

“Always with you. Don’t forget.”

##

I stopped at Wegmans and picked up some groceries, then headed over to the liquor store to grab a carton of Camel cigarettes and a fresh handle of Evan Williams. I went back home and hung the suit in my closet. I lit a smoke, poured a stiff drink and sat in my chair, looking out onto the snow-covered front yard of my duplex. I watched two squirrels raid Mrs. Schmidt’s bird feeder, fighting over the seeds, knocking off the little icicles that had formed. I thought about Mrs. Lei’s gesture, what she’d said at the little shrine. I wondered who the people in the photos were.

Just before dark, a red cardinal landed on the snow-covered ledge of the feeder. What a beautiful bird. How come I never notice beauty? It’s out there but I don’t see it. I don’t even look.  I watched and drank and smoked as the light faded. A profound numbness took hold of me, a numbness I never wanted to end. And I sat and drank and smoked, until sleep came.

##

I woke sometime after dawn, feeling hungover and very cold. I got up, put on an old flannel shirt and made coffee. I lit a cigarette and looked at the bourbon handle sitting on the counter. Shit, I killed over a third of it. I picked it up, unscrewed the cap and started to spike my coffee but stopped. I thought about the red cardinal in the snow, about Mrs. Lei, such small things, a spark of beauty, an ember of kindness. Hold off. Don’t drink just yet.

##

I sat across the street from Wilson and Sons Mortuary, shivering. The heat in my old truck had long ago taken a shit, payback for the days I smugly drove an S-series Benz with heated seats and steering wheel. The fall of the high and mighty….

I’d hoped to slip in before the formal viewing hours, say goodbye to my son in private then get out, but the snow combined with my bad tires had slowed me down. When I finally parked, people I once knew were hurrying inside to get out of the snowstorm. I had saved the suit for the funeral and was dressed in my usual attire of ratty jeans and thermal shirt. I’d figured I could keep my distance at the church and graveside, but the viewing would be harder. I wasn’t ready to face old friends and distant family or my ex-wife until I had to.

 Just after the streetlights popped on, a man about my age came out of the funeral home with a little girl. She was bundled up, maybe three years old. I didn’t recognize them. They stood under the green awning covering the door, a few long icicles dangling beneath it. The man held the little girl’s mittened hand. He talked to her a few minutes before leading her into the parking lot. As I watched them, an old memory began to develop in my mind like a Polaroid photo, fuzzy and faint, before emerging into a grainy mental image.

I was probably her age. It was an early spring day, still very cold but sunny. Typical Rochester. I was standing outside a funeral home with a man I only remember as a family friend. It was my great-grandfather’s funeral. My parents must have asked the man to take me outside and entertain me. He told me stories and asked me questions. Eventually he took my small hand and led me across the street to a diner. He got me a donut and he smoked and drank coffee while I ate it.

It was a memory that elicited no emotions, just some long-repressed curiosity floating around in my pickled mind. But it raised the question, who was the little girl and why was she there?

My ex-wife left the viewing last. Her new husband followed behind her carrying a guestbook and flowers. I waited until they drove off before I got out of the truck and headed in.

“Can I help you?” a woman asked as I walked in.

She looked me up and down, my attire suggesting I wasn’t a mourner.

“I know I’m late, but I came to pay my respects,” I said.

“The viewing is over, sir.”

I looked at the older woman, dressed in a drab but expensive pantsuit. Probably the funeral director.

“I’m sorry…I had trouble getting here with the storm…he’s…he was my son,” I said.

She gave me a practiced look that said, I’m sorry for your loss, coupled with a hint of irritation and judgement.

“Okay, I need to move some flower arrangements to get ready for the church service tomorrow. In case you don’t know, it’s at St. Michael’s and starts at 2:00. Anyway, go on in for a couple minutes,” she finally said.

“Thank you. I’ll be quick,” I said.

“Not a problem. And I am sorry for your loss. It’s just through the door on the left,” she said.

I went in, feeling queasy, wishing I’d brought a flask. The casket sat at the front of the room. A large photo of my son on an easel sat next to it on the right. He looked older, happy in the photo. He’d grown a beard since I’d last seen him. I approached the casket and laid my hand on the closed lid; thankful I didn’t need to see his body. Closed casket. Drunk driver. Fuck me.

“I…I… I was a shit father. And if I had a do over…but there are no do overs, are there? God, I hope you’re in a better place, and if you can hear me now, I hope you have it in your heart to forgive me…even if I don’t deserve it. I’m sorry son. I…I love you….”

I pulled the sleeve of my jacket across my face to dry my eyes and headed for the door. The mortuary woman was standing in the hallway holding a small stuffed lion.

“Oh, perhaps you can give this to your granddaughter. I was going to bring it with the flowers, but I’m afraid it might get lost in transit,” she said.

##

I woke to my alarm at 8:30 a.m. I hadn’t drunk the night before, twenty-four hours without a drink. I felt my stomach churning, my temples throbbed. I got out of bed. With shaky hands, I pulled on some jeans and put a flannel on over my t-shirt. I simultaneously craved a drink and wanted to stop drinking for good. I’d stood at this intersection too many times to count. My mind went through the detox calculus. Do I need to check in and do this in the hospital, or can I gut it out? I lit a smoke and went to make coffee.

By 10:00 a.m., the shakes were so bad, I knew I’d need to check into detox. The funeral was in a few hours, and I wasn’t going make it without drinking. I can’t show up drunk…I can’t. I drank two quick shots of Evan Williams. I’ll just drink enough to tamp down the shakes. I’ll check in to detox tomorrow, I told myself, only half believing I could or would do it.

At 1:00 p.m., I put on my new suit. I’d drunk a shot every hour since the double eye-opener. I was feeling better, almost normal, but not buzzed enough for anyone to notice. I filled my flask, slipped it into my jacket pocket and called an Uber. I put the stuffed lion into a grocery bag, not knowing if I’d have the guts to give it to the mother of my grandchild. Is she my daughter-in-law?

##

I sat near the back of the church, the smell of incense making me slightly queasy, the organ music making my temples throb. Faces familiar and faces time had weathered enough to offer just a glint of recognition walked passed. I figured only a few people recognized me. My ex-wife and her husband sat in the front row along with the young girl and her mother. Daughter-in-law and my granddaughter.

I hadn’t been in church since we had our son baptized. Over the years I’d made several deals with God—alcoholic prayers, pleading for mercy for some fuck up, promising I’d get my shit together, put down the bottle—all broken my promises. But that day I sat, not listening to the words the priest spoke, ignoring the eulogies and the mourners and I prayed for one last chance, one final plea for grace. I was sick of feeling sick. Seeing the coffin sitting beneath the altar, the little girl with no father, hit me like a truck. And for the first time in at least three decades, I wanted to live. I want to live.

##

Despite the biting cold, the sun shone bright at the cemetery. I squinted from the glare, shivering in my blue suit with no overcoat, hat, or gloves. I took a nip from the flask. I wanted a cigarette but knew I’d have to wait. I leaned next to a tree, a few rows of headstones between me and the inhumation, the warmth of my tears turning cool before making it down to my freshly shaven chin. As the service ended, I heard a rustling above me. I looked up expecting to see squirrels; instead, a brilliant red cardinal sat above me, another splash of beauty incongruent to the grimness of the event. 

The little girl walked ahead of my daughter-in-law. I walked past the child and smiled. She looked up at me, brown curly hair jutting out from her blue woolen beanie cap. She smiled back, waved at me with her mittened hand. I walked up to my daughter-in-law, thankful she was alone.

“Excuse me, I’m…I’m James’ father.”

“I know. I’m Kimmy…your daughter-in-law,” she said.

She offered her hand, and I took it.

She was young, maybe 25 years old, her beauty masked by the sadness painted on her face. Pointing back to the little girl, I said, “She left this at the mortuary.” I handed her the bag with the stuffed toy.

“Her name is Jamie…thank you, she was really upset she lost it. It’s her favorite toy. James gave it to her on her birthday…” Kimmy said.

“She’s my granddaughter,” I said.

“Yes…would you like to meet her?” Kimmy asked.

##

Eighteen months later, I stood at the headstone and told James about my month. Sometimes I said the words aloud, other times, if people were around, I’d say them in my head. The sun warmed my face. I took a deep breath of the spring air, the scent of lilac and fresh-cut grass making me smile.

“I’m doing well, James. Sober for over a year and counting. Not doing the meetings, but I have a good support network now. My job at the bookstore is good and reading helps keep me straight. I’m even walking every morning and eating better—I’ve gained back a little weight…”

She tugged on my pant leg and giggled.

“Let’s go, Pops! I’m hungry,” Jamie said.

“Ok, honey. Do you want to say anything to your daddy today?”

She hadn’t said anything on the two previous visits. She gave me a shy look, then looked at the head stone. She shook her head no. I took her hand, and we walked toward my truck, her mother sat in the passenger seat, smiling.

J D  Clapp

Image by Thomas Wolter from Pixabay – a yellow tape measure coiled on a table top