The Lower Nobility

When we were just teenagers, this friend of mine bought a suit of armor. To get it, he worked an extra job and saved every penny. And he could talk of nothing else. Before I ever saw it, I knew how thick the plating would be, how the various pieces would connect and hold together, how much it would weigh and how that weight would be distributed. I learned that he would wear a layer of chain mail beneath the armor, something he called a hauberk. And I learned a few things about who wore armor, on what occasions, and for how long. When I asked what happened if a knight needed to relieve himself, my friend watched me to make sure I really wanted an answer, and then he showed me by drawing on a piece of paper. When I asked why he wanted the armor in the first place, he said it was his heritage and that it was something he’d always wanted, and I didn’t see reason to push back. The armor was made by a company that made nothing else, and I wondered how high demand could really be, but I kept that question to myself. When the armor came, packed inside a massive crate, my friend invited a few of us over to watch him open it. His mother greeted me at the door that night. She said my name as though she liked the sound of it and thanked me for coming. She was wearing perfume. Something floral that was, at once, both old-fashioned and new. She showed me to the living room where a couple of other kids waited shoelessly. The lush carpet was vacuumed into a perfect pattern of light and dark triangles, and it felt almost offensive to walk there. On the far side of the room, near the China hutch, I could see the crate that held the armor. It was industrial-looking and dirty, and it gave me an odd sense of shame. My friend’s mother offered us crackers and lemonade and said how exciting it was that the armor was finally here. She was tall and moved with the elegance of a movie star. When it was time, my friend asked for our attention as he took a prybar to the crate and began to open it, his mother collecting the nails and staples as he removed them. With the crate fully opened and the layers of packing material gently placed to the side, my friend began to remove pieces, describing the helmet, the breastplate, the vambrace, the spaulders, the faulds. We didn’t know many of these words, but on the floor before us, a knight was taking shape, and we couldn’t deny the thrill of it. When it came time for our friend to wear the armor, though, things started to go wrong. It was too big in the chest, too low in the waist, too broad in some places, too narrow in others. With most of it on, he tried to walk a few steps, but could hardly keep his balance. Throughout this disappointment, our friend’s mother held her delicate hand over her delicate mouth. Like me, she didn’t know what to say. Inside the ill-fitting armor, our friend was drenched in sweat, and he needed our help disentangling himself. After that, I knew it was pointless to stay. At the door, my friend’s mother placed a hand on my shoulder as though to say that none of this was my fault. In the months that followed, my friend tried to get the armor company to fix what needed fixing, but they told him their product was more decorative than practical and they couldn’t or wouldn’t help him. When he tried to get his money back, they didn’t respond. And so, before long, that suit of armor was just a piece of furniture in my friend’s house. It stayed in his bedroom for a while before moving to the garage, where it sat in a corner and gathered dust. Later, I think he sold it at a yard sale. I lost touch with my friend after we graduated, as I went off to one college and he to another. A few years after that, I heard he’d died in a car accident on a cold Thanksgiving morning. Each time I go home, I plan to stop at my friend’s house, thinking I might tell his mother that I’m sorry for her loss. I might drive by that house half a dozen times, trying to work up the courage, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Would she even know who I am? Would she remember my name? Could she once again make me feel that I was the most important person in the world?