Henry Allen glared at his reflection. A pale, skinny boy in blue with a summer crew cut scowled back from the full-length mirror attached to his mother’s closet door. His expression wavered—forehead creased, lips puckered in doubt—then collapsed into a look of humiliation.
         Despite all the efforts, the fussing, and the repeated assurances of his mother and grandmother, there was no disguising a hand-me-down Cub Scout uniform. Fifth hand, to be exact. The heavy material filled the room with the odor of mothballs.
         Previous wearers, older brothers and cousins, had been only remotely similar in size. The shirt and pants had been raised, lowered, let in and out often. Merit badges had been sewn onto and torn off the chest and sleeves regularly.
         Worse yet, the old pants had a button fly. In 1955. Henry would be the laughingstock of his troop. Even his den mother would snicker.
         Having heard often enough how hard his father worked for what their family had, Henry accepted the previously worn striped T-shirts and plaid flannels with all the resignation a ten-year-old boy could muster. But this was too much. Just once, he thought, it would be nice to own a piece of clothing with no one else’s name already sewn into it.
         Henry had stubbornly refused even to try on the outfit. But one Saturday, with the rest of his family off grocery shopping, he had crept into his parents’ room for a private appraisal. Gloomily, he fingered the buttons on his pants, then adjusted the faded neckerchief.
         A polite cough came from the doorway. Trapped, Henry flushed with embarrassment and anger.
         “Nice uniform. Government issue?” The Colonel spoke in a deep voice with a touch of hoarseness, as if he had had just come in from reviewing his men. “At ease, soldier.”
         It had been a decade since Colonel Ward had commanded anyone or done much of anything. A World War II veteran with an uncanny resemblance to President Eisenhower, the Colonel had floundered in peacetime. Neighbors honored his rank with polite amusement, since no one knew where or how he had served. A military pension and, everyone said, his wife’s inheritance, allowed him to leave his insurance business to others. Henry had long ago figured out that no one took the old man next door seriously.
         The Colonel owned the second of three large stucco homes jammed close together on the street: his was light brown with dark dormers; the one on the right, where Henry lived, was white with green trim; the one on the left, which held the couple that Henry almost never saw, was covered with a gray paint that was sandy to the touch.
         In this small Pennsylvania community, not yet suburban enough for people to worry about locking their doors, the Colonel had sauntered in on a five-year-old Henry, three days after the Allens had moved in, and had spent an hour relating a favorite war story while playing with the toy tanks and soldiers handed down from Henry’s older brothers. Then he had wandered up the block to the Bells, where he had blundered in on the lady of the house taking her bath. The police had been called.
         Such incidents were common. When the Colonel drank, he wandered. He drank frequently. Despite his wife’s attempts to keep him under wraps, he would escape to “reconnoiter” nearby houses. The Colonel’s wife would throw up her hands, hike down to the Reading Railroad station, and take the shopper’s special to Philadelphia. Everyone knew the old man was harmless, but no one knew where he would show up next.
         Removing his ever-present Phillies baseball cap, the Colonel patted the tufts of salt-and-pepper hair around his ears and smiled in a tentative way. He seemed preoccupied with his cap, turning it around in his hands.
         “My wife’s not home,” he finally said. “Went to Philadelphia. Sale at Wanamaker’s.”
         Henry waited politely, resisting a desperate urge to rip off this outfit and dive into his regular clothes.
         The Colonel leaned against the doorway and pursed his lips. He had not shaved his broad face, Henry noticed, and was wearing his gardening overalls and heavy rubber boots.
         “Well, Hank, old man, I had sort of a favor to ask.” Henry hated to be called Hank, Hal, Hen, or anything except Henry, but he knew grownups loved to give kids pet names. He listened patiently. “Any of the folks around?”
         “No. They went shopping.”
         “Oh.” The Colonel sounded disappointed. He pulled at his left earlobe and asked, “Be back soon?”
         “I hope not,” Henry replied.
         The man in the doorway put his cap back on and stuck his hands in his pockets. He regarded the boy curiously.
         “It’s this uniform.” Henry pivoted slowly, as if that explained everything. The Colonel said nothing.
         A thought suddenly occurred to the boy. With hands on hips in imitation of his father, he cocked his head to one side and inquired, “You didn’t lock yourself out again, did you?”
         The Colonel pulled a set of keys from his left pocket and jangled them in front of the boy. Then he repocketed them, dropped his hands to his sides and seemed to contemplate Henry.
         “How old are you, Hank?”
         “Eleven in three months.” The boy in blue elevated himself to his full fifty-six inches. “Starting fifth grade this fall.”
         “Pretty grown up, I guess.” The old man grinned briefly. He did not look happy. “Think you could do me a favor?”
         Henry regarded the Colonel with uncertainty. Adults asking favors usually wanted you to carry something heavy for them.
         “Hank, old man,” the Colonel continued, “I want you to telephone the police and tell them that Mrs. Gower’s had an accident. Think you could do that?”
         Gower? That was the lady in the gray house two doors down. She had curly hair. His parents called her standoffish, stuck up.
         “Tell them she’s had an accident,” the Colonel repeated very slowly. He paused, then added, “It’s not an emergency, they don’t have to rush, but they’ll want to come. Tell them someone will be waiting outside for them.”
         Henry pouted in thought. “Why don’t you call?”
         The Colonel sighed and looked up at the ceiling. Finally, he admitted, “The police don’t trust me.”
         He sees things that aren’t there sometimes. That’s what Henry’s parents said over dinner. There had been a few episodes, his older brothers snickering about the cops being dragged out on wild goose chases after frantic calls from the old drunk.
         “If it’s not an emergency, why doesn’t Mrs. Gower call?”
         “She can’t.” The Colonel licked his lips. “Look, Henry, be a good scout and just accept what I’m telling you.”
         Henry was irritated by the scout reference. Everything came back to his stupid uniform. He decided not to be helpful.
         The old man shambled over to the boy.
         “I’m almost sixty years old, Henry. I’ve been a soldier in two wars. Do you believe that?”
         “Sure.”
         “I showed you I’m not locked out, and you believed me?”
         Henry nodded, mystified. The Colonel raised his hands. “So why don’t you believe me about Mrs. Gower?”
         Henry fiddled with his yellow neckerchief before declaring, “I’d have to see for myself.”
         The Colonel stared down at Henry. “There are some things you don’t have to see, Hank. Trust me on that.”
         Henry was unmoved. He would not be dragged into something stupid the old man had imagined.
         A large hand cupped Henry’s chin and tilted his head upwards. The Colonel’s breath had its usual alcoholic edge.
         “Mrs. Gower is dead, Henry. I found her. In her house.” He let go of the boy’s chin. “Now, will you call the police?”
         Henry stared at the Colonel. There was a lot he had to consider.
         “I have to see for myself,” he finally repeated.
         The Colonel swore quietly. “No. It’s not right.”
         Henry was adamant, a stationary blue object in the middle of his parents’ bedroom.
         Later, the two climbed the stairs of the Gower house to the third floor. The wooden steps creaked beneath their feet.
         “What did you do in the army?” Henry asked.
         “Intelligence.”
         “For real?” The boy was warily impressed. “Spying?”
         “Nothing so glamorous.”
         The Colonel stopped on the landing, blocking Henry’s path. Turning around, he said, “You just watch people do things.”
         “Did you ever do things to them?”
         “Sometimes. Mostly you just watch.”
         Henry frowned in thought. “Are we being spies now?”
         “We don’t have to be,” the Colonel replied quietly.
         Down the hallway, the attic door was open. The boy made out an object in the middle of the room, a body that blocked the dim light from a small window. There was open space beneath it.
         Henry’s resolve wavered. “That’s enough,” the Colonel said. He pushed the unresisting boy downstairs.
         After he hung up the telephone, Henry took one last look up the stairs of the silent house. “Watching usually isn’t much fun,” said the old man.
         “So why do you do it all the time?”
         “Force of habit.”
         “Is that a reason?”
         “No,” answered the Colonel, taking Henry’s hand. “I guess some of us just have to see things for ourselves.”
         The old man and the boy sat on the front step of the cement walk leading up to the gray house and waited for the patrol car. Henry noticed that the Gowers’ lawn was overgrown.
         Finally, the police arrived, but without the usual sirens. One of the officers was young, nervous and excited. This was, he kept saying, his first suicide.
         The Colonel explained that he had wandered in and found Mrs. Gower in her attic. Looked as if she had been there several days. He mentioned a note.
         The older officer muttered a warning about drunken tricks as the policemen went inside. Minutes later, the young officer emerged, pale and unsteady. He radioed for an ambulance.
         Henry remained on the step with the Colonel. The two looked out over the undeveloped fields across the street. Henry was agitated, inquisitive. Who would tell Mr. Gower? The Colonel gnawed at a blade of grass.
         “Mr. Gower went away a while ago,” he explained. It sounded very final.
         “Is that why Mrs. Gower killed herself?”
         The old man shrugged. He ran a hand through Henry’s prickly hair. They could hear the ambulance’s siren a long way off. Down the street, people poked their heads out of windows. Soon enough they would all know what Henry knew.
         The Colonel fished around in his back pocket and pulled something out of a billfold.
         “A man doesn’t feel right in uniform until he gets his first medal.” He handed Henry a faded ribbon on a pin.
         In his excitement, the boy forgot to say thanks. The Colonel mumbled something about bravery and stubbornness as he pushed himself up to go.
         “Remember,” he said softly, “If you’re one of those folks who can’t help watching, get yourself a good disguise. And never blow your cover.”
         Henry scowled in thought before whispering, “You mean you don’t really drink?”
         “Hank,” the old man responded, “I drink like a fish!” He was still wearing a peculiar half smile as he closed his front door.
         The ambulance was gone when Henry’s family finally returned. He was in their backyard on a rickety wooden swing set, oblivious to the fact that he was still wearing the ridiculous uniform. His mother said he looked handsome; his brothers just smirked.
         Henry had rehearsed all he would say about what had happened, but when the time came, he was strangely subdued. The news had travelled quickly. At dinner, he told his family that he hadn’t seen Mrs. Gower. He had only telephoned. His brothers were disappointed, his mother and father relieved.
         Henry went to bed early. He sat by the open window of his small, third floor bedroom and spied down into the living room of the next house. The Colonel was settled in a plush easy chair, a glass in his hand. A newspaper was folded in his lap, but he was not reading. A television was flickering in a big console, but he was not watching. Mrs. Ward could be heard chatting away, but Henry could tell the Colonel wasn’t listening.
         He slipped the Colonel’s medal under his pillow and got into bed. Soon enough his mother came in to check on him. She gave him a kiss, automatically felt his forehead and asked if he felt all right. He nodded in reply.
         “Mom, do you think the Colonel was a spy in the War?”
         “Well I don’t know, honey. Did he tell you some story?”
         “No.”
         His mother waited for more but got nothing.
         “So, how’s the uniform?” He was still wearing the shirt.
         “It’ll do.”
         Henry rolled over on his side, facing the wall, and mumbled goodnight. He heard his mother’s breathing as she sat on the edge of the bed, waiting. Eventually she sighed and went downstairs.
         He got up quietly and stood by the window. A three-quarter moon shone down as he looked over at the darkened Gower place.
         It was very complicated. The old man had meant to keep him away, but Henry had been insistent. He had seen a gray woman in a gray dress in a gray house, hanging, motionless.
         He could recall every detail. Curlers had stood out on one side of Mrs. Gower’s head, as if she had been halfway through doing her hair when she suddenly decided to kill herself.
         Henry felt no regret, no fear, no pride about what he had seen. And there was no need to discuss it. He was a spy.
         Gazing down, he saw the Colonel in his easy chair, the untouched drink still in his hand.
         Henry turned and caught his own moonlit reflection in the mirror. Staring back at him was a pale, skinny boy in blue with a summer crew cut. He studied himself until he was satisfied. He was certain no one else would see the change.

Daniel R. Bronson is a professor of English and journalism at Montclair State University. He has also worked as a write/editor for NEXT and  US  magazines among others. "Uniforms" is the first in a series of stories about Henry Allen.