The little boy, both scrawny and eloquent for his age, moved the step stool into the open closet. He climbed the three steps and stayed squatting on the stool until he was sure footed. Then he stretched himself up as high as he could reach. The smell of the air in the closet changed as he rose to the top of the closet where the shelf held all kinds of things packed away from daily life in the house. The air was stale and there were layers of scents, some familiar and some from a time he wasn’t a part of. They had always intrigued him, all those secret, old boxes up on the shelf brought out every once in a while. Maybe because someone in the family were looking for a specific something. Sometimes because he asked to look on a rainy day when he was stuck inside. It wasn’t often. It was a special thing, like getting to stay in a room when the adults were talking or being allowed a sip from the holiday punch on New Years.

He was looking for the hatbox. The special box, tan with stenciled women in hats all over it, the “painted ladies from Gay Paree,” she had told him with a grin and grand wave of her hand reaching to a far off place. He was being careful not to knock anything down. His father had spent a whole afternoon adding her things to the stored treasures of the closet, and he wasn’t about to disturb it all. The boy started to worry that the box wasn’t in the closet, that his father had given it to an aunt or one of the charities. But then he saw the hint of green, the lime green tissue paper he’d watch her unfold so carefully.

“Will you wear the pink hat? I like that one.”

“Well then, I guess I might. But you know, Chester, that hat is not just pink; it’s salmon pink.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Shades of difference, Chessie…shades and shades of difference.”

He remembered her saying it in that tone, her tone, the one that took the place of a lot of extra words.

The tissue paper was peeking out from the corner of the box where the lid was slightly tilted. He had the immediate thought that she would not have left it that way, but then just as quickly felt a pang of guilt because he knew his father would have tried to be as careful as she would have been. There were many small boxes on top of the hatbox. Some he recognized held photos, and some were the cardboard jewelry boxes embossed with shiny store logos that she’d always kept neatly tucked away in her drawers…her trinkets, she’d called them. They were out of place in the closet and the tightness gripped in his belly again. The ache felt to him just like that toothache he had for a time when he had a cavity before Leanne asked at dinner why he was only chewing on one side and he had to go to the dentist the next day. But he knew it wasn’t quite the same. His father had tried to explain it to him, that ache people feel, but he used words that seemed silly to the boy at the time and he couldn’t remember them now. There wasn’t time for it today though.

He needed to clear everything from the top of the hatbox but there wasn’t any free space to reposition the smaller boxes. He started to stack the little boxes in the crook of his left arm against his body, holding them tight with the hard edges pressing into his ribs. When the hatbox was clear, he wrapped a protective right arm over a tower of square, round, rectangular and oblong boxes amassed on his left, and began his decent. He planned to deposit the boxes on the floor then head back up for the hatbox.

“Chester, Chester, where are you?” his father called.

He’d made it to the last step of the ladder, his foot reaching towards the floor with no falling, no spilling, and then he froze. His heart began to thump nervously against the boxes. He didn’t answer but heard his father walking towards the room.

“Chester?”

“Yeah, Dad.”

“Chessie, what are you doing?” his father asked as he rounded the corner to the closet.

The boy, still with a foot on the bottom rung of the ladder, looked over his shoulder at his father.

“I…I was going to look for a picture I remembered,” he lied.

His father glanced at the stack of boxes in the boy’s arms and then back to his face.

“Well then…I left a collar shirt on your bed.”

“I’m already dressed. I have my lucky baseball shirt on.”

“We are dressing for dinner, Chester. I would appreciate it if you would put it on,” his father said in his tone, the one that was usually accompanied by a lot of extra words.

But the boy did not have time for that, not then, “Okay.”

His father looked at him for a moment, glanced up at the top of the closet but said nothing more before he turned and left the room. The boy quickly resumed his efforts in the closet. He felt nervous inside, almost desperate to get to the hat, her hat. “The right hat, Chessie, is a gala; it’s a celebration all by itself.”

About an hour later a yell from the kitchen signaling everything was ready sent everyone bustling into the room towards the set table. On holidays and special occasions, meals were taken in the living room because they did not have an official dining room. A table and chairs along with the china and serving bowls “passed down from generations” as the story was told, were set up, and it was a tradition that always made the celebration feel somehow more important than if they had just eaten in the kitchen. Today, there were six chairs, on that he had decided while the kids were off in their rooms and he stood alone in the living room making decorating decisions that he had always happily been left out of before. He had considered putting a place setting but decided against it. But he left her chair. The kids’school counselor had said that as each “situation” arises, he should do what feels right. He had wanted to tell her that nothing feels right but he had just nodded agreement.

“Grandpa, do you want to sit next to Chessie because you’re both left handed?” Leanne asked.

“That would be fine, sweetheart.”

“Dad, you’re at the head there, and that means you’re next to me Caleb!”

“Oh really, that’s SUPER,” he answered with an almost perfected thirteen-year-old smirk.

“You’re so snarky, Caleb,” she defended herself.

“You don’t even know what that word means,” Caleb replied.

“Yes I do. Dad says it means adolescent. She pronounced each syllable with care. Right, Dad? ” she called.

“Leanne,” her father answered, “Will you just come take these potatoes? I have the rolls and iced tea, and everything else is already on the table.”

“Where’s Chessie?” Leanne asked.

“Chester, we’re waiting,” his father called.

The last of the food was placed on the table and everyone took their seats. They were chatting about their favorites and how good everything smelled when the little boy walked into the room.

He approached the table and took his seat without making eye contact, which would have been difficult anyway because much of his small face was hidden under the festival of a hat atop his head. Crystal sequins, white lace, tiny white bows, and a long peachy pink sash adorned the magnificent hat she had treasured, and now the little boy who missed her so deeply was wearing it, nervous but with his chin up at the holiday dinner table.

The silence was that of an elephant in the room, a salmon one.

Jesus, the man thought, his mind starting to run. If that damn Mrs. Chayberry from around the corner catches a glimpse of this, the whole neighborhood will be talking about “that Menshaw boy.” He could hear her nails on a chalkboard voice clear in his head. “Poor little Chester Menshaw,” they would whisper, everyone at church and the ball field too.

“Chester,” his father started to speak but stopped.

The grandfather had dropped his hand that had been resting under his chin very gently to the table and drummed his fingers ever so lightly just once. It was the slightest of motions, almost imperceptible to someone who didn’t know him. But the man next to him saw it and understood it. It was his way of saying “Let it be.”

He glanced back at his small son, the buttons mostly fastened across his small chest and the sleeves of his baseball shirt peeking from under the stiff white cuffed sleeves. He saw a beautiful, elegant hat with a flowing sash and sparkling sequins that caught the light in every direction on a head that hadn’t grown into it yet, and he saw the past, and he saw the future. He wanted to yell, cry, get up and run away from the table and everyone at it and all the responsibility that came along with them. He wanted to laugh and wrap his arms around his small son. Mostly, he just wanted her back.

“Chessie, I uh…added the extra cinnamon and some pecans to the sweet potatoes; I know you like that,” the man said lifting the bowl.

“Thanks,” his voice was small. He reached up for the potatoes.

The grandfather said a short grace and that started the meal. They ate dinner and the conversation actually picked up its normal pace in places. They discussed the game later that day and the men talked about football. Leanne asked some questions about differences between quarterbacks and running backs while Caleb rolled his eyes at her. The kids updated their grandfather about school. Leanne said she might try out for the upcoming talent pageant. Caleb teased her just enough to earn a reprimand from his father. The little boy relaxed enough to enjoy himself.

When dinner was over they all rose and started to clear. Leanne spoke, “I’m glad you’re wearing it.” The boy looked at his sister and gave a grateful smile.

They stacked the dishes in the kitchen and the father told them to get ready to go to the field. The kids headed outside pulling their grandfather by his hand, excited to get to the ball field.

Alone in the kitchen, he put coffee in the machine to brew later and put some desserts on the counter for when they returned. He steadied himself, preparing to walk down the street and onto the field with a little boy in a fancy salmon colored hat. He rubbed his hand over his face, feeling the tension behind his eyes. And then, with his eyes closed he saw her face and knew exactly what she would say to him in a moment like this. Who cares what they think? Who the hell are they anyway…Helen Chayberry and her big fake smile “all tooth and no shine.”

He walked towards the door and glanced into the living room. It caught his eye, the lacy edge floating up over the corner of the chair. He walked in and saw the hat leaning against the back of the chair, the chair that had been empty during dinner. He ran his fingers over the long sash, the tips resting lightly on the table’s edge. The warmth of the meal, the scent of it in the room and the fullness of it in his stomach mingled with the grief that seemed to ensnare him all the time. There, hard in his belly and in the air around him. Sorrow was like an old coat he wore all the time. The heat rose and his throat tightened. He felt the pull behind his eyes and knelt down at the chair, resting his head on the arm and lightly brushing his hand over the hat. Of course he understood why the boy would want to wear it. It was her. She was beauty and lace and secrets. She was a special occasion. And the man, well he was just any ordinary day. “I’m sorry; I’m no good at this,” he said aloud. He spent a moment there with her hat and her chair. Then he flattened his palms out and pushed up, lengthening his spine and straightening his knees like he always did. He didn’t need to see her face to know what she would say, and he turned and headed out to the game to do the best he could.