Dad loved clothes too much. He loved every part of the process: the browsing, the trying on, the holds and layaways, and of course, the buying. He sometimes returned what didn't fit right, but mostly, he kept. He searched, bid, ordered, tracked, unboxed. Dad accumulated clothes and filed them in towers of dustproof boxes labeled “Straw fedora” or “Mossimo dress shirt.” His collection consumed our attic, the unfinished parts of the basement, three closets, and spilled into miscellaneous space—layers of sweaters on the backs of kitchen chairs, jeans laid still warm on sofa arms. The ratty running sneakers he no longer used took up three-quarters of the shoe basket. Paper shopping bags lined our upstairs hallway like storefronts along empty streets.
Daddy had a credit card but Daddy didn't seem to pay. He did not open his mail, especially when it said Last Call Important Notice, but he stored every...
