The Inkwell presents: A Coat, A Message

Washing Instructions

Written by LA Harper

When you're younger, you often have something you fixate on, something family members have, that you just remember for the rest of your life. For me, that was my grandmother's rabbit-fur coat. I coveted that coat – would sneak into her closet to touch and stroke the soft fur of the arms before I was shooed out for being somewhere I was not allowed, and for flattening the pelts.

I stared at the object of my far-gone obsession draped glamorously on the mannequin in the shop's display window. Paired with a sunhat and set of fake pearls over an ochre, tea-length dress, whoever created the display left a lot to be desired in the fashion department. Nevertheless, here it was, an almost exact replica of my grandmother's coat, down to the color of the fur. I hadn't realized that I had desired it so badly until I found myself staring at it – my paycheck, freshly cashed, burning a hole in my pocket. It was some rundown second-hand shop, surely it couldn't cost that much.

I entered with the intent to purchase, but kept in mind just how expensive a rabbit pelt coat could be. Creeping along the front racks of clothing like a jaguar stalking prey in the jungle, I hoped no sales person was working the floor to interrupt my quest. I made it to the dummy, and found the price tag hanging from the sleeve.

My stomach dropped. This couldn't be right.

"No way," I breathed aloud, almost reluctant to let go of the dangling slip of paper for fear if I looked at it again, I'd have missed a zero or something.

Fur Coat

15.00

I took the coat off the figure, careful not to tip the cheap, lightweight mannequin, and took it to the counter.

"Oh, lovely, I just put that in the window this morning. You don't want the full outfit?" the clerk asked, smiling cheerfully. Ah, here was the fashion-blind one, though, by the way her shirt and pants clashed under her bright red apron, I really should have realized that sooner.

"Oh, no, I don't need the full outfit, even though it was so pretty," I lied. Why rain on her parade? I was getting what I wanted, and she got to pick another garish accessory to dress Window Barbie. She smiled, but it withered a little when she saw the tag. Aha, it was a misprice. She swallowed and plastered the smile back on.

"Such a great price, I hope you remember that and be sure to come back!"

Nice save, gaudy sales lady.

"I will absolutely come back." I watched as she folded the coat carefully after clipping off the tag, putting it into a plastic bag. "Thank you so much! I've wanted a coat like this since I was a child."

"That makes me so happy," she said, her smile widening, and it was genuine this time. It spread to her eyes, crinkling the corners, and making the brown irises sparkle.

"Me too," I replied, taking the bag from her and leaving the dim fluorescent lighting in lieu of the sunlight streaming outside.

I shuttled around the throng of people on the sidewalks, clutching my plastic bag in a death grip so no one could snatch it. It wasn't outside the realm of possibility, but maybe I already was too fond of this coat, since I had never had those thoughts before. It wasn't the greatest city in the world, but it was home.

The key to my apartment stuck, as I expected it would, requiring I shoulder the door a little to get it open. It was ever-so-slightly crooked in the jamb, but I got in, excited to pull the fur out and run my hands greedily over it as I had as a child. Discarding the bag unceremoniously, I laid out the rabbit fur coat on the sheets, just staring at it. It was so pretty. I looked at the lining, a pretty red satin, rather than the black wool of my grandmother's. Naturally, it wasn't the exact same, but it was pretty damned close. Close enough to be excited about. I stripped out of my old, worn hoodie and threw it to the floor, slipping into the new coat. It embraced me like an old friend, soft and warm and a little heavy, but it was a comforting sort of weight. It made me feel giddy, and I did a little spin in front of the skinny, full-length mirror hanging on the back of the door.