Daddy's Shirt

Shopping in the free story, a homeless child finds a shirt that evokes memories of "Daddy"--a man both loved and feared, a man whose violence has forced his family onto the streets.

 

The free store, Joseph’s Coat, may have been a toy store the way Nora and Marcel scamper inside, pushing past each other as they wrestle with the door leading into the narrow entry. The dimly lit interior holds back the scorching July heat; the store is abuzz with chatter and activity. An elderly woman with whose silver hair curls around her face like ribbon smiles as I enter; she sits at an old desk at the front of the store, registering customers. I show the woman my ID then scribble my name onto a piece of notebook paper. The woman gives me one brown grocery bad to place my items into. I thank her then move on, pushed by my excited children.

 

I hate my ID, in it my hair is styled in loose waves around my face, and my teeth are gleaming from beneath my lips, painted a ridiculous shade of garnet. I wear a low cut poet’s blouse, whose frilly collar falls against my chest like a wind tossed blossom. I was so happy to get my license, finally! I couldn’t wait to load the kids up in my minivan and take them on all sorts of adventures. I’d turn the music up real loud as I drove and we’d sing together, Avril Lavigne being our favorite. Why did I have to be so happy? If I had paid more attention, maybe I could have spared my children all the hurt or maybe I could have gotten out sooner…maybe I could have avoided all the fights, the tears and the homelessness. But no, I was smiling and looking all cute, and believing everything Marv told me. The address on my license no longer belongs to me, nor does the smile. If you take that picture now, I’d be holding a wrinkled brown bag from Joseph’s, sweat dripping down my brown, my eyes downcast.

 

            Shopping at Joseph’s provides a respite from the utter hopelessness of my situation—there are so many things wrong in my life that no words could name or describe survival. My feelings have been twisted into a tightly wrapped knot; my sense of time and place is so constricted that I see only what is in front of me and nothing more. I don’t have a place to put my grocery bag; it will be homeless too—squeezed in the corner of our van. I don’t think about what “homeless” is; the word has no meaning. I don’t think of how I’d get through the day or where we will be tomorrow. I just put one foot in front of the other and keep walking.

 

            I am digging through piles of children’s clothing, folded in piles of varying height and neatness—from prim squares to sloppy bunches when I hear Nora’s small voice chattering behind me. Nora speaks in singsong; her voice is an almost exact imitation of the soprano key that I sing in. Nora is content singing to herself or telling stories; over the last months she has become increasingly vocal, though she withdraws when people approach her. I am amazed at Nora’s progress,  during the course of my relationship with Marv, she barely spoke and clung to me in public places. Nora had begun to repeat Marv’s angry words, yelling things like “Stupey!” (Stupid) and “Shud Up!” I am embarassed to say those were my two year old daughter's beginning words, casually brought up with "Ma-Ma" and "Mhmm!" (food). Those words had immediately stopped, and now Nora was singing.

            “What did you find?” I ask.

            “Daddy’s shirt!” Nora says proudly, pulling an extra large tan and maroon checkered shirt from the floor to the top of her head. The shirt is so large that Nora is hidden behind it. Her chubby fingers grip its small, white buttons.

            “Boo!” Marcel yells, pulling the shirt back and jumping in front of Nora.

            Nora screams; her arms flail at her brother.

            “Hey, hey!” I chide, “Not in the store—that’s too wild. Now let’s look at what Norrie found.”

            “Daddy’s shirt.” Nora repeats.

            “That’s not Dad’s shirt.” Marcel says toughly.

            “It does look like it could be.”

            Marcel shrugs; he is eyeing a group of kids playing near the bookshelves. I tell Nora to put the shirt in the bag; there is no way the shirt will fit her but she has become attached to “Daddy’s shirt” and so I let her have it.

 

I remember how Marv looks like an overgrown boy, zapped from elementary school into overweight, balding middle aged body. Marv favors loose, extra large shirts in plaid or polo stripes. His jeans are even larger, sliding towards his blubbery knees because his ratty belt is torn from the holes. The frayed hem of his jeans drags over his clunky shoes, worn Oxfords with a rounded toe. Marv hadn’t changed since I met him all those years ago, only now the shirts are tighter and the pants more frayed, splotched with glue and caulk. I bought Marv new clothes during the years we were together. In the few instances I see Marv he is often wearing clothing I gave him—and it disgusts me that he can put those garments so close to his skin, and forget the hands that washed them, in the machine that tossed oversized shirts and ratty jeans with tiny booties, footsie pajamas, lacy bras and low cut jeans. It disgusts me that Marv is so callous to the life woven into the fiber of the shirts and pants I carefully chose for him, woven into the memories we once shared, now discarded. There is more care given to the clothing donated at Joseph’s, which at least have been put into the hands of someone who will appreciate what is no longer wanted. 

 

I sort through the piles of children’s clothing, looking for summer clothes as well as pants and long shirts for the fall. Nora is still very small—I am thankful she can fit into at least a couple different sizes, so there is more available to her. It is simple to shop for Nora, she likes anything the color pink. Boy’s clothes are another matter; they are often ripped at the knee, colored with various stains or bleached to soft fuzz. It is harder to find usable boy’s clothing. I am seeing the changes occur rapidly in Marcel, who lost interest in the singing purple dinosaur and prefers the T-Rex with teeth the size of pointed spears that rip smaller dinosaurs to shreds. Marcel chews the buttons off his shirts and keeps rocks inside his pockets (he is convinced they are “meteors”). Marcel forgot how to walk, and now is karate kicking his way across the store. I am happy to find a gray wool sweater decorated with a brown dream catcher (it will become Marcel’s favorite sweater) and a good pair of cargo jeans.

 

I am watching my children, a little lost in my thoughts, when a scraggly woman with a nappy weave half falling off her bean shaped head approaches. The woman is wearing layers of clothing, oblivious to the heat and is mumbling to herself. I turn for a second and in that brief moment, the woman bends down to snatch the checkered shirt, “Daddy’s shirt” from the top of my grocery bag. When I turn again, the woman is holding the shirt in one hand, sort of dangling it above my bag.

“Mhmmm, I think I’ll have this”, she mumbles.

“Daddy’s shirt! That’s Daddy’s shirt!” Nora squeals.

I could care less about Marv—but now someone is messin’ with my little girl, and I’m not having it. “Hey!” I yell, “Put that back, it’s not yours.”

“This mine!” The woman declares, “It’s mine! Mine!”

“Daddy’s shirt!” Nora cries, her voice becoming shrill. 

At one time, I would have given the shirt to the woman. I would have apologized, tried to fix things—accepted the blame. Not anymore. Something within shifts. I am no longer going to live with regret of what I “should have” done. The change is going to happen now, with me, with my children.

I take one step and in a quick gesture, yank the shirt from the woman’s knobby fingers, “I don’t think so”. I said with finality, “My daughter picked that shirt out.”

Now the woman begins to fuss, spitting and hissing like a snake pulled up by it’s tail. She is yelling about how I stole her shirt, cursing at me in Spanish and repeating over and over “Mine!Mine!Mine!MINE!” Nora’s brown eyes fill her face, she looks up at me awaiting my response.

“Whatever”, I mutter, backing away. I tug Nora’s hand to follow me.

A store volunteer, a thin Hispanic man with curly hair who moves as gracefully as a dancer comes over, now joining in the argument. “Leave her alone! Why you always bothering people!” The man waves his hands at the woman as he speaks, his thin fingers wave in flamenco moves.

The woman is so angry that she is shaking; she pulls up her bag so roughly that the handle rips, “No one talks to me that way!”

The volunteer is not backing down. “Your bag is full—you know the rules, you can’t walk out here carrying stuff with you., so you better leave.”

The woman’s bag has some room but she seems to accept what the man is saying and slowly retreats, heading for the door.

“Sorry ‘bout that.” The man says, “She comes in here every week, starting stuff with people. Don’t mind her. You take that shirt, it's yours.”

I sigh then push the shirt back into my bag. “Daddy’s shirt” is empty, nothing more than a cotton shell. It would not protect Nora, all it does is puff up in the wind, appearing much bigger and much more intimidating than it really is. A stranger—someone who stood up for what was right, has protected Nora.

 

 

Lynn Mari, © 2009

Reviews

[nostal]

This i good.
NOT JUST GOOD.
Stellar
I love the plot and characters.