The Brown Fedora

"It's the hat," she said with greater than usual force--this in response to my more or less routine compliment on her radiant good looks today. I have to admit she did look exceptionally well, though her ruddy countenance always looks good to me. I had made it a point to admire her because this was our day in town together, a monthly ritual of shopping and lunch, and I could see she'd put a little effort into it--make-up, good clothes (the kind that go to the dry cleaner), matching shoes. I was letting her know it was worth the trouble.

She continued, "When I wear this hat, men notice me, I mean even young kids will turn and look. Last week, a young guy who was stocking shelves at the Safeway took a second look when I came towards him. It was one of those looks I hadn't seen for a long time. Of course, when I got close enough and he could see I'm old, his expression changed. But for a few moments he saw someone attractive."

She looked at me for confirmation. What could I say? It is a nice hat, and it does top off her tweed coat perfectly, and the color does suit her. But truthfully, I couldn't see why she was giving it so much credit. So I said something non-commital, like "mm hmm."

Who Evelyn sees when she looks in her mirror and who I see when she greets me at her door are very different people. She sees broken capillaries, a red nose, large pores, and thinning hair. I see a bright, intelligent woman with expressive features, but this is lost on her.

Evelyn had not tired of the subject. "I wish I could wear it everywhere. I'd wear it to bed if I could."

She pulled the car into a spot about halfway between the shops and our favorite restaurant, looked into the rearview mirror to check her lipstick and make a final adjustment on the angle of the fedora.

As we walked together, I didn't dwell on Evelyn's assertions; I was mentally listing the stores I wanted to check until Evelyn nudged me and motioned with her eyes towards an approaching college boy. "See what I mean?" she whispered. I have to say, the boy did seem to show more than the usual interest in us, or at least in her. And when he got closer, he met her eyes and smiled.

Now this was something. I looked at the hat. It's not the kind of hat women usually wear. It was even a little old, the nap beginning to wear in places. I know better, but for a moment I thought: I should get a hat like that. Not just like that, of course, but one that would do the same magic on me.

"Where did you find that hat?" I asked, only half in jest.

"This was my father's," she said. "I found it in my mom's closet. She couldn't part with it when she was giving away his stuff. I convinced her to let me have it."

We agreed to meet at the restaurant at 12:30 and split up to do our shopping. I saw her at Penney's, though, in the shoe department, but she didn't see me. She sat like a queen--proud, confident, even vivacious--boxes of shoes stacked next to her while a young man tirelessly slipped on one shoe after the other. Meanwhile, they carried on a lively conversation, laughing and talking about who knows what.

At the restaurant Evelyn and the maitre d' exchanged a light, flirtatious banter. He found her interesting, it was obvious, and I began to feel a little left out. It must be the way I'm dressed, I thought.

After lunch, we decided to see a matinee, and in the theater lobby Evelyn and I walked around looking at the movie posters. We found ourselves studying a poster alongside a man we both recognized as the owner of a local print shop and traded comments with him about the movie we'd come to see. Evelyn was at her witty best and before long, we were all laughing together like old friends.

One wall was covered in mirrors and in our relections I suddenly noticed that Evelyn was not wearing her hat. She was telling us about a play she had seen, her eyes flashing, her voice full of passionate intensity. I looked directly at her. She really was beautiful. Without the hat.

The movie was about to start when she turned and saw her own hatless reflection in the mirror. She gasped as her hand flew to her head to confirm what she saw. "My hat! I must've left it at the restaurant."

"They'll keep it for you. Let's go in and watch the movie."

She clung to my arm, her hand heavy and stiff like a dowager's claw, as we walked a few steps toward the door to our movie. I looked at her. She peered back at me from under her forehead. Her shoulders had started to droop as though invisible strings had been cut, and she seemed to have folded herself lengthwise.

"Save me a seat," she said as she turned. She rushed through the lobby, her coat billowing hehind her, out the door and out of sight.

During the Coming Attractions, I kept seeing her face and body in the moment after she realized she was not wearing her hat. She rustled into her seat just as the movie started, breathless, her fedora back in place. In a series of fluid motions, her coat was off and folded on the seat beside her, the hat settled on top of it.

Evelyn was quiet as we walked out of the theater, and I used the opportunity to critique the movie. I could feel she wasn't really listening, but I kept talking anyway and left her alone with her thoughts. Once, she removed her hat briefly and looked at her reflection in a shop window, then replaced it.

Back in the car, she sat silently looking in the sideview mirror while the engine warmed. Suddenly, she bowed her head and tipped the hat into both hands and, like a street mime, held it out to me. I threw in some imaginary coins. She laughed and turned it over to show it was empty.

"It's a good hat," she said, tossing it casually onto the back seat. "But not that good."

Sharon Gilbert