The Stolen Coat
By: Dale E. Lehman
Tags: Short Story, Short Fiction, Fiction

Wes Silverman’s coat had vanished.

A droopy, grayish pea coat, it had seen more years than Wes himself, and he’d seen a few. His sagging flesh and the scattered hairs lingering on his head so matched its fabric he might have been part of it, or it of him. The coat might once have been fine, but now, missing a couple buttons just as its owner missed a few teeth, it spent its declining years in denial. Its outward appearance notwithstanding, it would serve its master to the end and thus be made worthy.

Wes wore this coat, if not proudly then at least without shame, as he tramped about town from end to end in search of a life long since gone. A bit bent, joints creaking, he circulated among the coffee shops and grocers, the hardware and clothing stores, sometimes stopping of an evening to take in a movie but mostly whispering along the streets like a lazy autumn breeze. Homeless folk never found him in their company, but none were sure where he slept. Few were as old as he, and so few if any knew his past. Some said he hailed from the west end of town, once a wealthy neighborhood but now poor, where grass grew long and houses decayed at leisure because their denizens had neither the money nor the skills to fend off entropy.

Wherever he came from, wherever he went, the pea coat accompanied Wes like a faithful dog, wrapped about him when it was cool, slung over his shoulder like an almost empty flour sack in high summer — almost empty, for an essence of him remained within, stuffed into the sleeves, sewn into the collar. He could no more be separated from it than from his bones. And that was why, when he shuffled into the coffee shop that morning, his face a palette of distress and mourning, nobody quite recognized him.

Fran Unterbrink figured it out while pouring Wes some coffee. He fumbled in his pants pockets for money that wasn’t there and shrugged miserably, and then she knew. He always carried coins in his coat pocket. “Wes! Where’s your coat?”

A fragmented story spilled out, shards of it clinking on the counter and the floor: a noise in the night, dogs barking, a flashlight beam, darkness and terror and running, the bang of a screen door thrown wide and slammed shut. Then morning, and the coat, nothing but the pea coat, gone!

“Are you sure?” Fran asked, mouth agape. “Nothing else taken?”

Wes babbled. The TV, why hadn’t they taken that, or the radio, or his nice tie tack, or even the rings, Mary’s engagement ring and wedding band? He’d kept them when she died, didn’t bury her with them because she wanted him to treasure them, God knows why. They could have taken the rings, should have taken the rings! Why the coat, why not the rings?

Fran patted his arm to console him and asked, voice as gentle as a snowfall, “Did you call the police?” But of course he hadn’t, no police, no ma’am, none of them snooping about his home, not today, not ever. No rummaging through drawers, digging in closets, pulling up floorboards. No!

“Floorboards? Why would they do that?”

Reason hardly mattered. Wes, everyone knew, had half a mind at the best of times, and this was the worst. Who knew what he might do in this state, so Fran kept him in her shop all morning, worried that he might blunder into the street and get hit by a car, or stumble about all day and end up face down in a field. But he had no heart for wandering anyway. Instead, he possessed the table farthest from the door and refused to be moved throughout the morning and afternoon while his self-appointed nurse dispatched relatives and friends to ask around town: had the coat been seen anywhere, had any news of it leaked into the streets?

Fran stayed at her post all day, serving customers, and during lulls nudging and prodding Wes, hoping in vain for some morsel of information that might make sense of events. She’d always heard talk was good for the soul. Wes didn’t believe it. Little more than self-pity passed his lips, until finally Fran couldn’t take it any longer. “For God’s sake, Wes, it’s just an old coat! Why don’t we get you a new one?”

Fire ignited in his eyes. Wes pushed back and stood, jaw quivering and lips pinched. For the first time, she saw a shade of what he once had been: a man of resolve, of determination, a soldier in a cause she couldn’t imagine. Embarrassed she had insulted him so, she lowered her eyes and muttered an apology.

He sat, head bowed, and spoke not a word until evening began to swallow the town.

At about that hour, a commotion at the door alerted Fran to the presence of her son Edward, who had come in with a bundle under his arm. Congratulations and applause followed him to the table where Wes sat in disconsolate silence. Fran hurried to Edward’s side and gaped as he unfurled the faded old pea coat and draped it around Wes’ shoulders. Every breath fell still, anticipating the old man’s relief.

Slowly, gingerly, Wes’ fingers reached out, grasped the hems of the coat, and tugged. He tugged until, fully wrapped in the garment’s embrace, he shuddered. Tears glistened in the corners of his eyes. He rose, folded in the cocoon of his ancient coat, and shuffled toward the door. Just before he passed through, Fran dared speak.

“Wes?”

He paused without looking back.

“Are you okay now?”

A slight nod was his only reply. Then he stepped into the darkening night and was gone.

Edward shook his head. “I don’t get him.”

Fran sneaked to the door as though afraid to follow Wes too closely. She pushed it open, peered into the night. “Where did you find it?”

“On the back of some homeless old man. I traded him mine. I can always get another. It’s only a coat.”

“Yes,” Fran mused. “Only a coat.”

And not, she didn’t add, your dignity.