I turned the car around and raced home. I went straight to the closet and started pulling out anything dressy, anything formal, but nothing felt right for prom. All my dresses were too baggy for Norma.
Then my eyes landed on the garment bag at the back.
Joe’s suit.
I stood there a long moment, my fingers on the zipper. I had not opened it in three years. I had not even moved it when I packed away his other clothes.
I lowered the zipper slowly. The black jacket appeared first, and then the lapel, where the orange maple leaves curled in their small embroidered cluster.
I lifted it off the hanger.
“I’m sorry, Joe,” I whispered. “She needs you tonight.”
She looked like a girl and a memory at the same time.
Norma met me at the side entrance, already changed back into the t-shirt and leggings she’d worn under the gown. By then, Claire had already slipped into Norma’s dress.
“Mom, you brought it.” My daughter touched the suit with both hands. “You brought Dad’s suit.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“I’m sure.”
I helped her into the jacket in the empty hallway. The sleeves ran past her wrists. The shoulders sat wide. She looked like a girl and a memory at the same time.
“You look beautiful,” I said. And I meant it.
“Where did you get THIS suit?”
She kissed my cheek, took a breath, and pushed open the gym doors.
Heads turned. A few classmates laughed when they saw Norma in the oversized black suit, while others just fell quiet, unsure how to react.
Then Kevin walked up to her with a smile and said, “You look gorgeous.”
I stood at the back, my purse clutched tightly against my ribs. Across the room, Mrs. Clinton turned from the punch table. Her hand stilled in mid-air. Then her plastic cup slipped and shattered against the floor.
She walked across the gym like she had forgotten how to breathe. Students stepped aside without knowing why. She reached Norma and gripped her sleeve, her thumb pressing the orange maple leaves on the lapel.
“Where did you get THIS suit?” she whispered.
“It was my dad’s,” Norma replied, puzzled.
“I need officers here right away. It’s about my brother.”
“Where did your father get it? Did he ever say?”
“I don’t know. He just had it.”
I pushed through the circle of staring teenagers. “Mrs. Clinton. You’re scaring my daughter. What’s wrong?”
“I need you to tell me when your husband got this suit. Where was he working?”
“Years ago. Seven, maybe more. The motel downtown. He came home one evening wearing it.”
The color drained from Mrs. Clinton’s face.
“Oh, God,” she breathed. Then she pulled out her phone. “Yes, this is Mrs. Clinton, the principal from the high school downtown. I need officers here right away. It’s about my brother.”
“He never would have kept it if he’d known.”
“Your brother?” I gasped. “I don’t understand.”
She finally looked at me, her eyes red and wild.
“I embroidered those leaves myself. Seven years ago. On my brother’s jacket. The night before he disappeared.”
My knees almost gave out.
“My husband wore that suit for years.”
“Then your husband knew what happened to my brother.”
“My husband is dead. And he never would have kept it if he’d known. He wasn’t that kind of man.”
I told them everything I could remember.
Two officers arrived in under ten minutes. The taller one took one look at the embroidered lapel and went pale.
“We’re going to need you and your daughter to come down to the station.”
At the station, they brought us water in paper cups and sat us in a small room with a humming light. I told them everything I could remember.
“Joe worked nights at the motel,” I said. “Cleaning, front desk, whatever they needed. He came home one autumn evening wearing that suit and said it had been given to him.”
“And you never questioned that?”
“I trusted my husband, Officer.”
“Your daughter works for his sister?”
“And he wore it often?”
“No. Just holidays and picnics. He was buried in his blue one because the black felt like his special suit.”
The officer wrote something down. His pen moved slowly.
“You mentioned a coworker. Bob.” He stared at me.
“They worked the night shift together for years,” I said. “Bob retired a little before Joe passed away. He still lives across town. My daughter mows his sister’s lawn on Sundays.”
The officer’s pen stopped. “Your daughter works for his sister?”
“For almost a year now. She paid her in cash. Twenty dollars at a time for her prom dress.”
I thought back to the driveway, to the two men sitting in the dark.
The officer glanced at his partner. Something passed between them.
“Ma’am, did Joe and Bob ever speak about that night the suit came home?”
I thought back to the driveway, to the two men sitting in the dark.
“They sat in the truck for an hour before Joe came inside. I never asked about what. Joe just said Bob worried too much.”