The Mustard Jacket

This will be the last installment of the 60th anniversary party. At the end of the presentations at Anne & Peter's, we brought out my father's mustard jacket. I used the mustard jacket as inspiration for the story of that name, which was published in my collection Holy Days of Obligation (Nuage Editions 1998). The story has a bit of truth in it, so I'm going to give you the little section of it that comes from my parent's almost engagement story. In the story Elizabeth (whose nickname was Babe) is going to pick up her husband Frank at the hospital. Frank has cancer and is dying and she knows their time together is limited, so she procrastinates leaving and sits reminiscing in her favourite chair while she builds the courage she needs to go to Frank. While daydreaming, she remembers when Frank proposed to her wearing the mustard jacket, and when she leaves for the hospital, she takes the jacket with her. Here's the proposal scene, and the last part of the story:

The kids used to say, "Remember for us when Dad proposed, Mom. When he called you Elizabeth." Frank had taken the bus all the way to London, walked straight into the residence, had her buzzed down. In front of everyone, he'd knelt on the floor and said, "Elizabeth, will you marry me?" He'd waited one long, quiet minute. Stood up. He'd told her she didn't have to answer right away, but he wanted her to know he wasn't going to ask again. "You know where I live, when you're ready," he'd said. He'd kissed her and left to get the next bus home because he had to get to work yet that day.

"I was the only girl out of six kids. I was the youngest, too. Nobody ever called me Elizabeth; they called me Babe. Even Frank called me Babe until the day he proposed. When he said 'Elizabeth' I didn't answer right away because I'd never heard my name out loud. I kept listening to the way it sounded inside my head. Elizabeth. Elizabeth. I guess Frank thought I was hesitating because he barely waited a beat before he stood up, kissed me on the lips and was gone. That's when I noticed the mustard jacket."

"The jacket was tailor-made, I could tell from the fit: wide across the shoulders, but no droop. Padded. It came in sharply to his waist, fitted perfectly over his hips and down to his thighs. The pants were wide in the leg and came to the narrowest cuff I'd ever seen. The pants and jacket were the colour of mustard. I was so surprised by how fast everything went, I didn't notice that suit until he walked away! Never said a word about it. I knew he'd worn it for me. He still has that jacket around here somewhere. Couldn't get the pants on if he tried."

...

Frank is dressed in street clothes. He sits in a green vinyl chair by the window, One of those chairs that only hospitals seem to have these days. Seeing him in it makes Elizabeth's jaw tighten. When he turns to acknowledge her, she is lifting the bag from the jacket. He watches. A lightness uncreases his thin, clean-shaven face and Elizabeth thinks she feels him expanding toward her.

"My mustard jacket," he says. "Elizabeth."

There is quiet for ten heartbeats. Elizabeth counts every one of them in her chest. Frank stands and comes to her. She holds the jacket out and he slips his arms into the sleeves. She lets go; he adjusts the shoulders, does up the button. Elizabeth gathers his suitcase and a small plastic bag of laundry, and checks the bathroom. When she turns, she sees him pat his right pocket. The keys jingle. He pats his left for the cigarettes.

"Elizabeth," he says again. He holds his right arm out to her. She takes it and they leave the room together.