On a crisp fall afternoon in the early 1960s, my mother and father paid a visit to an attorney in Providence to discuss their will. My mother dressed in a straight skirt, a crew neck sweater, a charcoal grey coat and high heels carried a small-ish but deep clutch handbag. She met my father in the lobby of a high-rise office building. My father, who worked downtown at the family’s electroplating business, General Plating, had changed from his normal grubby stained work clothes into a shirt and tie for the occasion.
A bit nervous about the surroundings and the visit, my father pushed the up button to summon the elevator. My mother checked her hair in the elevator mirror and straightened my father’s necktie, an accessory he wore infrequently.
The elevator delivered a gentle ride to the 28th floor. My mother entered the reception area at one of RI’s well-known law firms, Edwards and Angell, behind my father who gave their names to the receptionist.
They waited for their 3 p.m. appointment, seated on a comfy sofa. My mother carefully leafed through an issue of Time magazine laid out on the coffee table.
Within a few moments, a woman wearing a tailored dress approached them and ushered them into Mr. Edwards’ office.
An older man of average height and weight, Mr. Edwards stood up from behind his large wooden desk and motioned my parents into the two straight back chairs opposite him.
My mother sat with her ankles crossed under her chair. My father leaned forward as he laid out the terms of the will – who would inherit their assets and who would take care of my sister and me, if they died together.
Mr. Edwards took notes on a lined yellow legal pad as my father spoke. My mother added in a few details supplementing my father’s statements. She glanced around the office noting the awards and certificates dotting the walls.
Since they held modest assets, the appointment barely took 30 minutes. Mr. Edwards agreed to write up the will and mail it to my parents to review and sign.
As my mother stood up to leave, she reached across Mr. Edwards’ desk to shake his hand. Then she slipped onto her right hand a black leather wrist length glove. She reached her hand into in her left coat pocket for the other glove. She came up empty handed. Quickly she felt in her right hand pocket. No glove.
“Oh, where’s my glove?” she uttered aloud.
“What?” asked my father.
“My glove, I can’t find my glove?” answered my mother.
Without saying a word, Mr. Edwards pushed back his chair, strode across the floor to the door and alerted his secretary.
My parents remained in his office turning themselves around in circles looking for it while Mr. Edwards and his secretary frantically removed the cushions from the comfy sofa in the waiting area where my parents had briefly sat.
“Maybe you only wore one,” offered my father.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” responded my mother. “Why would I only wear one glove? I know I had two.” She checked her coat pockets. She ran her hands around the seat cushions. No glove.
Mr. Edwards returned empty handed.
He dropped to all fours reaching around under his high-legged desk.
“Oh please, Mr. Edwards.” said my mother shaking her head. “It’s not necessary.”
She peered down at their lawyer’s back as he wiggled and lunged in search of her glove.
My father shot her a look.
“I’m sure I left it in the car,” said my mother knowing full well she walked in with two.
“Nonsense. You came in with two, you’re leaving with two,” bellowed Mr. Edwards from under his desk.
My mother shifted from one foot to the other. She mouthed to my father tell him to stop.
Mr. Edwards continued groping around for my mother’s black leather glove on the patterned rug outlining the space around his desk.
“Mr. Edwards honestly. It’s only a glove,” said my mother knowing full well how much she hated to lose anything.
He pushed himself flat on the floor and reached beyond the desk struggling to feel her leather glove.
She continued checking her pockets and her seat cushion. She thrust her hand into her handbag. Rooted around amidst her wallet, lifesavers, tissues and lipstick. But no glove.
My mother removed her right glove as her hands began to perspire. She gestured to my father to say something.
“Mr. Edwards, I guess it’s not here,” said my father. “We don’t want to take up any more of your time.”
My mother pushed her hair back from her damp brow as Mr. Edwards continued searching in vain.
“Thank you for looking,” repeated my mother. “I’m sure you have more important matters to attend to than my lost glove.”
Mr. Edwards searched for an other moment, then pulled himself out from under his desk, shook their hands and apologized for not finding her lost item.
My parents thanked him again for his efforts, walked briskly out of his office without turning back. Once they stood outside on the sidewalk, my mother exhaled audibly.
“I’ve never been more embarrassed,” she confessed. “But where’s my glove?”
Later that evening, while my father was brushing his teeth in the bathroom, he heard my mother yell.
“Oh my god, I found it.”
“What?” called my father.
“My glove. I was emptying out my handbag and found it crumpled on the bottom.”
She held it up for him to see as he peered around the doorway.
My father groaned loudly and returned to the bathroom.