The Bearing of Hats

Margaret stood before the mirror, adjusting the black fascinator she'd bought specifically for this occasion. The hat felt like a costume, which was appropriate, really. Funerals were theater for the living, and her mother had always loved drama.

The reception dragged on in the church basement, smelling of old carpet and the caterer's mistake—wilted spinach dip that had been sitting out too long. Margaret watched her ex-husband David across the room, currently being cornered by her Aunt Sylvia, who'd already had three too many chardonnays.

"Your mother," Aunt Sylvia was saying, her voice carrying, "was a saint for bearing with him all those years."

David nodded politely, looking trapped. Margaret felt a perverse satisfaction.

She'd spent five years bearing David's infidelity, his emotional unavailability, his inability to remember her birthday without a reminder from his secretary. The divorce had been final for eight months, yet here they both were, trapped in the same small talk, the same performance of grief.

Her mother's favorite phrase echoed in her head: "You can choose your hat, Margaret, but you can't choose your family." Her mother had been full of such contradictory wisdom. She'd also said, "Life is like spinach—it's good for you even if you don't enjoy the taste."

Margaret helped herself to another drink. The alcohol burned pleasantly.

David appeared beside her, champagne in hand. "Your aunt thinks we should get back together."

"She also thinks the government puts fluoride in the water to control our minds."

"True." He gestured with his glass. "You look good, M. The hat suits you."

"Thank you. It's my mourning hat. For mourning everything."

He laughed, startled. "That's the most honest thing you've said to me in years."

"I've changed."

"I noticed." He studied her. "I was going to ask if you wanted to get coffee sometime. As friends."

Margaret looked at him—really looked at him. The man she'd loved, the man who'd broken her, the man standing before her now, softer somehow, sadder. She could bear his presence again. She could even bear the possibility of friendship.

But not today. Not here, with the spinach dip congealing and her mother's death still raw between them.

"Ask me again," she said, "when I'm not wearing mourning colors."

He nodded, understanding. "Fair enough."

"And David?"

"Yes?"

"Check your teeth. You have spinach stuck in your smile."