Five Days (24 page)

‘So do we call this place an opticians, an ophthalmologist, an eyeglass store, or a spectacle emporium?' I asked.

‘Spectacles –
specs
– is still, I think, parlance in England. And as we are in New England . . .'

‘Well, the place
is
called Specs.'

‘Don't think this is the place for me,' Richard said. ‘I mean, look at the guy behind the counter.'

The fellow he was speaking about had a shaved head and a pair of high-modern pince-nez glasses hugging his nose. He also had large black circular earrings implanted in both earlobes.

‘He looks reasonably friendly,' I said.

‘For someone who belongs in 1920s Berlin. This guy is going to look at me—'

‘And see a potential customer. Now stop all the fretting and just—'

I opened the door and all but pushed him into the shop. Rather than being all cold and ‘too cool for school', the fellow behind the counter was charm itself.

‘Now I surmise from the way your wife had to shove you in here,' he said, ‘you are just a little reluctant to try a change of style.'

Richard did not correct him about the ‘your wife' comment. Nor did he seem to blanch when the guy accurately read his unease. Instead he said:

‘That's right. I'm a style-free zone.'

The guy, who had a name-plate on the counter in front of him – ‘
Gary: Spectician
' (is there such a word?) – reassured Richard that he was ‘among friends here'. He then proceeded to expertly take charge. Within half an hour – having put Richard at ease – he talked him through various frame styles, quickly discerning that, when it came to wanting a particular look, Richard hadn't a clue what he really was after. So Gary showed him all sorts of permutations. After talking about how – given his coloring and his oval face – highly geometric frames ‘might be just a tad too severe . . . and I really don't think we want the harshness of metal again, now do we?' he convinced Richard to choose a brownish, slightly oval frame: highly stylish, but simultaneously not a radical statement. Nonetheless, seeing them on him, it was clear that they changed his look. Rather than appearing angular and actuarial Richard now came across as somewhat hip, professorial. Bookish. Thoughtful.

‘You think they work?' Richard asked, clearly approving of the image reflecting back to him in Gary's mirror, but also needing my sanction.

‘They're a great fit,' I said.

‘As long as your optician in Bath can give me your prescription over the phone, I'll have them ready for you in about an hour.'

Luck was on our side. The optician in Bath was able to scan Richard's prescription down to Gary – and we headed back out to Newbury Street.

‘Now let's find you a leather jacket,' I said.

‘I feel strange,' Richard said.

‘Because I'm being bossy?'

‘You're hardly bossy. But you are persuasive.'

‘But, as a salesman, surely you know the thing about persuasiveness is that you can only persuade someone if they truly want to be persuaded.'

‘And I clearly want to be persuaded?'

‘I'm not going to answer that question.'

‘Four hundred dollars for a pair of glasses. I never thought . . .'

‘What?'

‘That I could be so self-indulgent.'

‘Glasses are hardly indulgent.'

‘Designer glasses are.'

‘And let me guess – you had a father who told you that . . .'

‘A father and a mother who counted every penny. And, wouldn't you know it, I married a woman who also thinks that thrift is one of the more profound virtues. And since she is my bookkeeper and sees all my credit card statements . . .'

She's not your mother
I suddenly wanted to tell him, simultaneously wondering why so many men turn their wives into mothers, and why so many women seemed more than willing to play that emasculating role. And this thought connected to another one: how Dan himself had, in his ongoing resentful moments, talked to me as if I was the actual disapproving woman who had raised him and who had always let him know he was a disappointment to her. Knowing so well the pain that he had carried with him from childhood, I had always tried to tack away from the criticism that so haunted him. And yet, ever since all went wrong with his career, he'd cast me in that mother role. A role I certainly didn't want.

‘When she sees the designer glasses,' I said, ‘tell her—'

‘“I needed new glasses . . . and, by the way, I'm moving to Boston.”'

‘That's pretty definitive,' I said.

‘So where do we find a leather jacket around here?'

We wandered up several blocks, all lined with the big designer label boutiques. Stopping in Burberry, there was an amazing black leather jacket in the window which looked like something a modern Byronic figure would wear . . . and with a list price of over $2,000.

‘Even if I had that sort of money I don't think I could carry that jacket off,' Richard said. ‘Too Errol Flynn for me.'

A few shops later he also passed on something that – as he interestingly put it – ‘looks a little too Lou Reed for me'.

‘You know Lou Reed?' I asked.

‘Personally? Can't say that he ever bought a policy from me. But
Transformer
? Great album. Can't say I've kept up on his career since
New York.
And Muriel's always been more Neil Diamond than the Velvet Underground . . .'

Richard Copeland: secret Manhattan demimonde wannabe! Or maybe just a fan. No wonder he wanted to get rid of those golfing clothes he had worn assiduously for all those years. Like the suit I first saw him in at the hotel check-in. The same flat style that his father had undoubtedly worn. The uniform of the strait-laced American businessman. Clothes are a language. So often we don't like the language that we've forced ourselves to speak. Look at me. At the hospital, my white lab coat is my daily uniform. Around the house and in downtown Damariscotta I have always dressed soberly. But in my closet there are a few items that hint at another me – like my leather jacket and this black, very Continental raincoat I'm currently wearing, and even a wonderful fedora that I found in a vintage clothing store during a trip to Burlington. But these clothes – including a pair of black suede cowboy boots that I stumbled upon at a yard sale in Rockland (they fit me perfectly and only cost $15) – stay largely out of sight. Were I to walk around town dressed as I am now, nobody would say anything. That's the Maine way. But everyone would notice. Comments would be passed when I was out of sight. So this somewhat Left Bank wardrobe stays locked away unless I'm heading down to Portland for something cultural. And when I recently put on the leather jacket and the suede boots to hear a jazz concert with Lucy, my daughter caught sight of me getting ready. Surveying my sartorial choices for the evening she said:

‘Are you going to a costume party, dressed as a hipster?'

I wanted to tell her that, quite frankly, this is the way I would prefer to dress most of the time – but felt constrained by small-townness and my own innate sense of decorum (which, in uncharitable moments, I thought was also a form of cowardice). Now seeing Richard trying to mask his tenseness as we went into another high-priced boutique in search of the leather jacket he was so fearful of wearing, I couldn't help thinking:
He too is someone who has kept so much of what he's wanted to expres
s
under wraps
. And when he eyed, in a shop that sold hip military-surplus-style clothing, a reproduction 1940s Air Force jacket in a dark, somewhat distressed brown (it really was rather stylish) I could see that he was weighing up whether he could get away with wearing it.

‘That's the jacket,' I said.

‘People will look at me strangely back home.'

‘And I never wear this outfit around Damariscotta – because I fear the same thing. Anyway, Boston is going to be home soon.'

Richard tried on the jacket. It was a great fit – but his pale blue, very button-down shirt clearly didn't work with it. So I walked over to a display table where a pile of stylish work shirts were stacked. I figured he would take a large and chose one in black with small steel buttons on its pockets.

‘Black?' Richard said when I proffered the shirt. ‘Isn't that a bit extreme?'

‘It will work so well with the jacket, especially if you match it up with black jeans.'

‘I've never worn black in my life.'

‘But I bet you've wanted to. Lou Reed and all that.'

‘I'm a little gray and boring to entertain such—'

‘You're the most interesting man I've met in—'

When was the last time I met such an interesting man?

‘You're being too kind again,' he said.

‘Just accurate. Now . . . what's your waist and inseam size?'

‘I'll get the jeans.'

‘No – I'm choosing them. And you can veto them if you disagree.'

‘Thirty-four waist, I hate to say . . .'

‘Dan is thirty-six. And the inseam?'

‘Thirty-two. But do you really think black jeans with the black shirt will—'

‘What? Make you look “too cool for school”?'

‘Or ridiculous.'

‘Try it all on and then tell me if you think it's ridiculous.'

I found a wall of shelved jeans and chose a pair of black Levi's in the appropriate size. Then I handed them to Richard and pointed him in the direction of the changing rooms. As he headed off I asked him his shoe size.

‘Ten and a half. But really, I feel as if—'

‘If you don't like the look you don't have to wear the look. But at least try the look, OK?'

In another corner of this emporium, which was decorated with vintage World War I and II recruitment posters, there was one pair of black lace-up boots – ankle-high, the leather grained, stylish, but not flamboyant – in Richard's size. I brought them over to the changing rooms, knocked on the door of the cubicle where Richard was getting into his assorted new clothes, and slid them under the large gap between the door frame and the floor, saying:

‘These might work.'

‘More black,' came the voice from within.

‘And what's wrong with that? Give me a shout when you're ready.'

A minute later out stepped a very different man. Richard had taken off his soon-to-be-replaced glasses. The effect – coupled with the new clothes – was more than striking. The jeans, the black work shirt, and the black boots all fit him perfectly. And the leather jacket worked wonderfully with the rest of this outfit, though the detachable fur collar was a bit too overblown, reeking of some 1940s war movie set on the Russian front. But that little detail aside, what stood out most was how the clothes so absolutely suited him, and took about ten years off him immediately. Freed from the cost accountant outfit, his face no longer dominated by the dull metallic oval of his glasses, he suddenly assumed a different outward identity. He now looked like a somewhat hip English professor who was at ease with his age. Sidling up next to Richard and looking at ourselves in the mirror – dressed up like a rather stylish metropolitan couple – all I could think was: Why had I spent years dressing myself in such a sober, restrained way? And the most disquieting aspect to this question was the realization that the only person making me conform was . . . myself.

‘Well . . .' Richard said, eyeing us in the mirror.

‘What do you think?'

‘Not bad.'

‘Understatement will get you nowhere.'

‘OK, the truth – I love the look. Even if it also scares me.'

‘Just as I love my look – and would never dream of walking down Main Street, Damariscotta, like this.'

‘Well, if you think I could get away with this in Bath . . .'

‘I'm sure you could. Just as I'm sure that your clients and your neighbors would accept the new style.'

‘If that's the case then why don't you dress the way you want to when you're home?'

‘I was just asking myself the same question. Maybe I will do just that . . . if I can get up the courage.'

‘Same here.'

‘You look like a very different man now.'

‘And you look even more beautiful than yesterday.'

I felt myself blush. Yet I simultaneously found myself reaching for his hand and threading my fingers through his. We didn't turn to look at each other. Truth be told our shared nervousness was clearly palpable, as his hand was as damp as mine. Yet he did not pull away. Rather his grip tightened. Staring straight into the mirror we saw ourselves holding hands, looking so profoundly different than we were just twenty-four hours ago.

‘Hey, you guys look cool.'

It was one of the shop assistants – her tone somewhat spacey, an amused smile on her face, as if the subtext behind what she was saying was:
Hey, you guys look cool . . . but I'm really humoring you because you're my parents.
Immediately we let go of each other, like a pair of guilty teenagers caught in a compromising position. The girl also saw this and added, rather dryly:

‘Sorry if I interrupted anything.'

‘You interrupted nothing,' Richard said, his tone corrective. Reaching for my hand again he told her: ‘I want to wear all this out.'

‘No problem,' she said. ‘When you're ready I'll just cut all the tags off. There's a theft device in the coat that's got to be removed.'

She left us alone.

‘That shut her up,' I said with a smile.

‘I have my occasional assertive moments. And just to make an assertive point, I'm going to take all my old clothes and dump them in the first Goodwill charity box I find.'

It was my turn to squeeze his hand back.

‘That's a good call.'

Now we did turn towards each other.