The Hatter’s Tale
written by: W. Glewicz
When working on my craft, which consists largely of the careful measurement, cutting, and placement of fine fabric, my focus is entire. I heed neither the echoes of distant cannon fire nor the newspaper boy outside heralding the latest casualty figures in this war between brothers.
The jangle of the bell at my shop’s front door, however, does make me rejoin the world. It heralds a customer.
The first thing you notice is his great height. I immediately recall our first meeting, twelve months past, when he inquired about a stovepipe hat. His stated desire was to appear even more prominent when among crowds. I proffered a joke of sorts. It is said he grew his beard to appear older. Taller. Older. What will he want to be tomorrow?
His eyes sparkled in reply.
Presently, the heartiness of my typical greeting is stopped short. Ashen complexion, eyes hollow, he is the very picture of melancholy.
In his hands is the very hat I made for him. A Kentucky twang from his boyhood still lingers. “Mr. Davis, I find I am in need of—”
All I can do is take hold of the hat and mutter, “Of course, sir. Just a moment.”
I withdraw to my workshop, calm my shaking hands. The death last week of his beloved son Willy has shrouded that house of white in the darkest grief.
I wrap a piece of black silk around the hat and secure it with stitching all but invisible to the naked eye.
As I return to the front of the shop, I reject any proffered payment. I give him the hat, transformed so that everyone will know its wearer is in mourning.
His deep-set eyes lock on mine. He whispers, “Thank you, Mr. Davis.”
I take his hand. “Godspeed, Mr. President.”
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