Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
“He did,” Clara said, reaching for a small tin of throat lozenges that had been at the bottom of the box. “He kept them clean. He always said a man should look like he respects the building, even if he is the one scrubbing the grease off the radiator pipes.”
I held one of the shirts against my chest, the cold fabric smelling faintly of lemon oil and the cedar shavings he used to sweep up after shop class.
“We have to go through the pockets,” Clara said, her fingers already dipping into the small front pouch of the top shirt.
She pulled out three yellow metal paperclips, a stub of a flat carpenter pencil, and a folded piece of lined paper with three locker numbers written in his neat, block print. There was nothing else in the pockets, no hidden pocket watch chain, and no money.
“That is all of it, then,” I said, setting the stack of blue shirts on the edge of the mattress.
“He had five more of these at home in the cedar chest,” Clara said, wiping her palm on her apron. “The ones with the long sleeves for winter.”
