Now, it has to be said that there was a hat, a very nice, grey, sporty hat with a little red feather in the band and it was indeed a grand little hat that was worn by Mr. Keen, a banker of the most proper sort in this type of town of S, by the mountains, by the sea. And whenever Mr. Keen wore that hat about the stores, about the bank, oh, such a special person he became. Oh, indeed. This gentleman of age fifty-five almost seemed to become somehow a different person when he put on that hat, yes. His lips would assume a thin line of direct purposefulness, his eyes would narrow down and yes, he would see everything that he needed to see as he went his way through the town of S, by the mountains, by the sea. He once remarked to Elizabeth Daniels in New Accounts that he didn’t know what it was about that hat, “But as soon as I saw it in my travels in the country of X, I knew I had to have it. Just had to have it!”
Elizabeth, age twenty-three with long brown hair and oh, so big and round eyes, dark as the land on a cloudy day, said, “Oh, my, Mr. Keen, such a fine hat it is, yes it is. It must have cost you a small fortune—”
“Well,” said Mr. Keen, “it did. It most certainly did. But it was worth it—oh, when I put this on, nothing seems to ever go wrong. A lucky hat it is. It must be a lucky hat.”
“Indeed,” Elizabeth smiled knowingly, as if she shared some secret with the wily fates beyond, above our everyday clockwork routine of, say, reading the paper as if that was the only reality that really was, “Well, I heard about your good news,” she said, “about landing that Murchanson Account for the bank—”
Mr. Keen laughed and put a hand on his ample stomach and said, “It never fails, it must be the hat. Ever since I’ve had that hat things have gone so well.”
But that afternoon, on this particular day that this story takes place, a wind of all winds was brewing, moving, heavy, vast and strong across the sea, toward the town of S, by the mountains by the sea. The wind, it came, it roared against the mountains, and then slammed into the lands, it curled and pushed into the coves; eddied and swirled around, across the land and like a vast and moving hand, along with all else that it was doing, it flipped off Mr. Keen’s hat when he came out for lunch. Just like that, Mr. Keen’s hat was lifted by that windy hand that also had lofted shopping bags, papers and such into the air.
Mr. Keen, after making futile grabs and a frantic run, stood and yelled, “Come back!” but the hat was gone. High, high into the air and then the wind—it was as though a lethargy suddenly set in and it abruptly dissipated—the hat dropped—right at the feet of Sid McClure, an ancient person with alcohol for memory and he picked up the hat and said, “Whu.” He smiled. “Wha,” he said and placed it on his head and for some strange reason that he could not really understand, a memory appeared, somehow, some way, so long ago and he saw himself walking on a beach up in Alaska with a woman whom he adored, saying to her, as they stared out across the bay to the mountains, blue and mighty, icy, high, “You just watch, ol’ Sid here, he’s gonna make something of himself! Oh, I’ll head down to S and get a job in the port unloading ships—they need all the help they can get.”
He remembered how Molly smiled at him with a playful softness in her eyes.
“Yes,” he said, “get some money ahead, get that nice place right in town, looks over the bay toward a place called Queen Anne—oh, I’ll make me a bundle there and then I’ll send for you.”
And Molly smiled and that playful look became more that of love and she ran her hand down his arm, over the red flannel, down to where it was rolled up revealing the blue tattoo on his forearm, a tattoo of a rose. Then he placed his arm around her and that said it all, in the amber rays of setting sun, on the beach with the whisper of the waves and the scree cry of circling hawk, that embrace said it all and—Sid McClure sat down on a bench, hands up to his eyes, mind leached by alcohol and “Why’s”—for some reason he could not comprehend, then took the hat off and flung it as far as he could and that wonderful hat then came to rest on the sidewalk. A minute later it was picked up by Sophia Winter, fur-dressed woman extraordinaire, in blue silk dress and high heels. With her blue eyes and cheekbones (delicate as if created of the most delicate china in the world) she appeared to be a refined and lovely lady, yes, and she stopped and looked and why—even she could not say—but she picked the hat up and thought, Oh, my, such a nice hat indeed. Some wealthy gentleman lost something very, very nice; what a shame. And she inspected it closely as she walked those breezy streets in the town of S. She moved like a cat, sedate and smooth with elegance of step and coolness of look as if everything around her was on display for her to buy with her Mastercharge and at the window of the Bon, she glanced down and gazing at the red feather, looked puzzled and going to the square, sat on a bench in the sunshine of the April afternoon and thought, Somehow this is familiar but I don’t know— She smiled at a foolish notion, I wonder how I’d look—I know it is fashionable in some circles these days to wear such—
She smiled and put it on—
Crash! “—you God damn whore!”
“—Daddy—” little Sophia cried, “don’t—don’t hit Mommy—”
“‘Don’t hit Mommy—’” her father said, imitating her wailing voice, “Go to your room, this ain’t any of your affair—”
And in his distraction, Sophia’s mother, tall and thin with features as though delicate as glass, she struck her husband with a skillet black and heavy as his soul and he crashed to the ground and Sophia stared with horror, staring at her fallen father and who knows why but she then focused to the coat tree, to his hat with the little rust-colored feather in the band—
Slowly Sophia took off the hat and bedazzled by she knew not what, looked off to the sun. Blinded by the light, she slowly stood and walking into the blazing light she thought, I had put that away, I was done with that, I was done with that— and her eyes burned and something way, way down deep, something finely cut and chiseled and oh, so delicate, shattered once again and her heart ached from that ancient pain and all her furs and jewels and elegance somehow transformed into a demon with a shrieking laugh that beckoned her into that blazing sun.
And on the bench the hat sat, grey, a very nice hat indeed and little Jeremy Smith, age seven and a half, right then, in the square, he was a pirate, yes he was, and the city was his ship, bound toward some southern land. “Avast!” he yelled to his crew, the crowd in the square, but to no one in particular. “Avast!” he yelled again, “Prepare to board that coming ship!” And in his mind, the buildings they were sails, and the city square, it rocked and pitched in foaming sea and then Jeremy saw the hat and in his captain mind, thought, Yes! For me! and grabbing it, not concerned of fit or not, continued on, still piloting his mighty ship, in that vast and roiling sea.