I’m deep into my work when someone from the school calls and says there’s a problem with my son. I ask if he’s hurt, and the woman on the line says no, it’s not that. Did he hurt someone else, I inquire, but she says, no, no, he’s always so behaved, a literal angel. Then what is it, I ask, bristling at having my work interrupted. It’s his costume, she says. It’s so upsetting. I tell her I’ll be there in thirty minutes and hang up the phone.

 

I put my work on hold and take a shower. I dress in khaki pants and a button-down, navy-blue shirt. I need to be presentable for these people, these educators of my son. I consider bringing a gift, an apology of sorts. Do people do that? Sorry you are upset, here is a fruit basket. In some instances, that might be fitting. But we have nothing to apologize for. There was a costume contest at school today, and my son wanted to win. So, I made him something special. They had to see that.

 

My work boots are unpresentable, so I wear brown loafers. I hope they go with the rest of my outfit. I don’t know very much about how people dress out in the world. I work at home. I make most of my own clothing. If it wasn’t for my son, I’m not sure I would go out much at all. But a boy needs to see the world and follow his dreams. And if my son dreams of winning a costume contest at school, then I’ll do anything I can to help him. After all, that is what a good father does.

 

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I am met outside the front office by the woman from the phone who introduces herself as the Vice Principal. She speaks gravely, as if this sort of thing would be beneath her were it not for the severity of the issue. She says my son is sitting in the office with his teacher, but she wants to speak with me first, alone. I am not one to waste time, so I ask the most pressing question: did my son win the costume contest? Her eyes widen a bit, as if she is confused. No, she stammers, of course not, he wasn’t allowed to participate. Why not, I ask? Now she looks genuinely flummoxed. She wonders aloud if I’ve seen his costume and I say, of course, I made it myself. Her expression changes yet again, from confusion to revulsion. Her words come fast, all about how my son’s costume is disgusting, how it terrified the other children. And the smell? Did I really believe a costume which smelled like that would be allowed in school? I must admit this last point confuses me. I have no idea what costumes should smell like.

 

The Vice Principal crosses her arms and in a very serious tone says that some of the teachers wondered aloud if the police should be called. If perhaps the boy’s costume was a bit too realistic. I understand then I am dealing with morons. Of course it’s realistic. He wanted to win, didn’t he?

 

I ask if there was a way she might reconsider and let him compete with his costume. She shakes her head and says it’s too late, the contest is over. A young girl dressed as an octopus was the winner. She had eight arms, said the Vice Principal, looking very pleased.

 

If there is nothing more to discuss, I tell her I’d like to see my son before returning to work. She looks at me like I have understood nothing at all. My son is not to finish the day and instead must be taken home immediately. She suggests I throw the costume away and give my son a good rinsing. As if he was unclean in some way. I nod and quietly thank her for such sound advice.

 

###

 

On the drive home, I can see my son is sad. His face is hidden behind his mask, but his head and shoulders slouch forward, like when he tells me how the bigger children make fun of him. I try my best to cheer him up by telling him he looks wonderful. He shakes his head and says none of his classmates liked his costume. I explain that they are simply too young to appreciate the craftsmanship on display. But even more so, they could not contemplate the courage it takes to wear it amongst them. He doesn’t understand, so I pull over to the side of the road and give him my full attention.

 

I tell my son any child can dress like an octopus or a cowboy or an astronaut. But only a special child like himself can truly embody the essence of another person so completely. He says, it’s only a costume. I say, no, it’s so much more. I harvested the skin myself to make the suit. Carefully bleached it clean. Sewed it just so. And created the mask from three different faces. He looks at me through the eye holes and says, do you think I could have won? I say I’m sure of it. The only thing I am surer of is how much I love him. This makes him smile. I can see his teeth behind the waxen lips of the mask.

 

I continue driving home. My work is waiting. A rude delivery driver is chained to a table in our basement, and I’m taking his skin for a winter coat. And one day soon, I will find that Vice Principal and add her to my wardrobe. My true wardrobe.

​

​No one calls my son filthy and gets away with it.