The Town's Mascot Has Shed Its Skin

How it begins

The mascot had grown a second lining.

Etta cut the first seam with her smallest scissors. Beneath the orange cloth lay another layer, pale and soft, stitched with thread she did not recognize.

She checked the repair sheet.

The costume was sixty-three years old. Fox head, padded tail, detachable paws. Every September, a volunteer wore it at the front of the town parade. Every October, someone brought it to her workshop smelling of rain and spilled beer.

This year it smelled of clean earth.

She pulled the lining back.

A label appeared beneath it.

MARTIN COLE, 1984.

Etta knew Martin. He ran the hardware shop and claimed never to have enjoyed dressing up.

She called him.

For several seconds after she described the label, she heard only the sound of his shop door opening and closing.

“Don't try it on,” he said.

“I wasn't planning to.”

“Don't let anyone else.”

At the workshop window, someone tapped the glass.

The new parade volunteer stood outside, smiling. He wore a council badge and held a paper cup of coffee.

Etta covered the costume.

“I'm here for the fitting,” he called.

She looked down at the fox head. Its glass eyes had always pointed slightly apart. Now both looked toward the door.

“Tomorrow,” she said.

“The parade is tomorrow.”

“Then this afternoon.”

The volunteer continued smiling. His clothes were wet, although it had not rained since Monday.

On the phone, Martin whispered her name.

“Is he wearing his own coat?”

Etta looked again.

The council badge hung from an orange lapel. She recognized the fabric. It was the scrap she had cut from the mascot's sleeve last year and thrown away.

The volunteer lifted his cup in greeting.

From beneath the covered costume came the same small movement, a paw rising politely toward someone it knew.