by Deb Spera
14
Gertrude
I always loved to sew. Mama had a sewing machine in the house when I was small, and for as long as I can remember I wanted to use it, but Daddy said no. Said a six-year-old child had no place around a machine. But as soon as he left for the fields, Mama let me stand along the backside of that machine and work the pedal. I pumped and pumped while she sewed and sewed. She said I wore her out. When I was seven she sat me at the machine, and by the end of the day I made my first apron out of a flour bag.
I told my girls that story over dinner last night. I said Mama’s words, “Between us we got all the talent in the world, but we got to use every bit to pull ourselves up. We been down,” I told them, “but we ain’t down no more. We got to look at this chance like we’re being born all over again.”
We only had four chairs around the table, so Mary sat in my lap. We all were having watermelon from the yard for dessert and the girls spit black seeds in a bowl that was sitting in the center of the table. They had themselves a contest, and none of them wanted to pay attention to what I had to say.
Alma spit two seeds at once, and they landed in the bowl. She put her arms up and hollered, “Winner!”
I couldn’t help but laugh. We all did.
After they settled down I said, “While I work at the Circle, Edna and Lily, it’ll be your job to mind the house and get Alma and Mary off to school.”
“School?” Mary asked.
“How else you going to learn to read and write?” I said. She laughed and clapped her hands with happiness at the thought.
“Once chores and school is done, ya’ll go house to house and business to business ’til you scrounge up work. Alma, you keep Mary with you. Ya’ll understand me?”
All of them nodded like they heard. I placed the nickels Mary received from Mr. Coles to the center of the table. “Every nickel is bread in our mouths. I don’t care if you scrub a porch or take the needles out of a porcupine. If it pays you do it. Mary, you bought our bread for this week and next. We are much obliged.”
She was solemn as could be. “You’re welcome, Mama.”
“Edna and Lily, get supper started at night ’til I can get home to help. We have to portion out what we got to eat if we mean to make it last. There won’t be much, but it will be enough. Alma and Mary, ya’ll set the table and help clean and put away the dishes. I’ll try to get us a head start best I can with money and what we need, but we got to keep a clean house and steer clear of trouble. We’re weak alone but mighty together.”
I looked double hard at Edna and Lily. They’re the ones that got to hear what I’m saying. I put my hand in the center of the wooden table, our table now. They laid their hands in mine and for the first time in a long time, I felt like we were home.
* * *
The Sewing Circle is a wide and airy room drenched in sunlight, like a golden palace. Forty sewing machines sit side by side in rows of five and two large presses rest on each end of the north wall. All of the sewing machines are manual Singer machines out of Chicago, just like Mama used to have. They face a wall covered in floor-to-ceiling windows so you can see out to the natural world while you work. The windows are all opened. It’s the beginning of September and some breeze blows through the room, which helps fight the heat inside. The smell of Carolina pine is everywhere. Marie tells me it’s good the trees are there ’cause the morning sun never blinds. Sitting along the side wall are rows and rows of all sorts of brightly colored burlap for seed bags, and up in the corner by the presses is a dumbwaiter and shaft that carries fabric from an upstairs room.
Mrs. Coles steps up on a wooden box and claps her hands. Her son Lonnie stands beside her. She’s taller than him standing on that box, and she lays her hand on his shoulder, to keep her balance or to calm him, can’t say which. I never saw so many women in one room together without more men around. They all take their spots and stand waiting for the Missus to speak. I keep along the back wall, unsure where to go since I ain’t been assigned. Marie says I got to talk to Lonnie first.
“Good morning, ladies,” the Missus says.
And everybody says right back, “Good morning.”
“Let’s take a moment to welcome the newest addition to our Circle. Gertrude Pardee, welcome,” she says.
Everybody turns, looks and claps. I study the shoes on my feet—Mrs. Walker’s shoes. They’re too big, but they cover my toes. My eye still ain’t right, so I keep my head toward the left shoe ’til they turn back around and the Missus continues.
“Today is a special day, and Lonnie and I have brought you all a present.” She looks to a side door that Marie opens. Four men are on the other side waiting like it’s all been planned out. They haul in, two at a time, six new sewing machines. The women in the back stand on tiptoes to see over each other.
“These are industrial electric sewing machines, ladies, the most modern on the market. This machine is fast and efficient, and there is a small bulb behind the rear cover that glows while you work.”
Everybody likes that, you can tell. Lonnie stands on his tiptoes and whispers in his mother’s ear. She nods in agreement for whatever he’s said.
“Today we are announcing our expansion from seed bags into menswear. We will start with shirts, one design in three different colors. With the advent of electricity, these six machines will take us into the future. In a few years’ time, we will have replaced all these old relics with newer and faster models. Lonnie and I intend to expand our line to include not just men’s shirts, but women’s wear, too.”
The women talk among themselves with excitement, and I can see how that pleases Mrs. Coles and Lonnie.
“Ladies,” she says again to get everybody’s attention, “this is a new era. It is our hope that you will continue to work and grow our little company. We are quite proud of what we have built here together, and we hope you are, as well.”
Everybody claps. Miss Annie points to the men in the back, near where I am standing, and they begin unwrapping the brown paper from the machines like it’s a ceremony. Six sturdy machines set atop gleaming wood. They’re black and trim, like a cat with gold markings. So fine you want to run your hand along the top just to feel the curve.
“These fine gentlemen will explain the working procedures of the machine to the women who will be operating them. We will begin making shirts as soon as patterns are cut and machines are learned. We already have our first order. Tell the ladies what it’s for, Lonnie.”
He turns red from embarrassment.
“One h-hundred shirts for B-Berlin’s of Charleston,” he replies.
“One hundred shirts,” Mrs. Coles repeats. “Isn’t that something?”
A hoot goes up and everybody laughs. These are satisfied women. They got good jobs, they got strong purpose, and now I am among them. It don’t seem real.
“Lonnie, will you read the names of the women who will be handling the shirt line, please?”
Her son helps her down, and she walks to the side door to sign papers. Lonnie steps up on the box to read who’s been chosen, calling off six names. Marie is among them. She turns and smiles at me and I smile back, proud to know her. One lady squeals, she’s so happy, and everybody laughs. I’m put on a machine to sew seed bags, but I don’t mind. I like to work alone. All I got to do is sew three sides of burlap all day. There’s two fifteen-minute breaks before lunch, and two more before the day’s end. I use that time to take apart Mrs. Walker’s dresses so I can see how much fabric I got to work with. If I go fast, I can put together one new dress a day for each of the girls and do the finishes by hand at night. Come lunchtime I eat the bit of food I brought, corn bread and fig jam. Marie is swallowed up and pulled outside by a crowd of women. She tries to include me, but I don’t want to talk. I welcome the quiet. Though none of them asks, I see how they look at my face. All of them know, or know somebody, who’s been marked by
a man’s fist.
The old dresses come apart easy. The threads have loosened over the years, but you can tell where they’ve been mended because of how much tighter the stitch is. I save the blue dress for our last fifteen-minute break. It is a dress for a fine lady and looks store-bought, but I recognize the hand stiches around the collar and pockets, so I know it’s not. Once the dress is turned inside out, I study the seams. The stitching is from a machine. This dress is well made and lined with silk so soft I can’t believe worms made it. It will take time and care to undo this dress, more than the few minutes I got, but I can get a start. I will mar the cloth with my scissors unless I go slowly. Let out the hem, Mrs. Walker wrote, so that’s where I begin. Along the bottom, into the hemline, I make a small cut and ease the threads apart, one by one, so I can cut them, careful not to tear the delicacy.
Mama used to sew newspapers onto the backs of her quilts to keep them stiff so she could sew on the batting without a wrinkle, and that’s what Mrs. Walker’s done along this hemline. There’s a stiffness that holds the bottom of the dress in a straight line, like something bought out of a catalogue. When I get an opening big enough to fit my hand through, I reach in to pull out the paper, only it ain’t newspapers I pull out. It’s dollar bills, eleven in all. Eleven one-dollar bills and a letter that reads, “I know you wouldn’t take this if offered, Oretta. It’s all I got of value, so it’s only right it go to the one person of value to me. Go to Charleston and remember me when you do. Your friend, Dorothy Walker.”
* * *
Edna tells me Lily’s sick in the bed and has been most of the day, so she and Alma have cooked some of the canned tomatoes and grits. A pan of corn bread will last us through breakfast. I go and set my hand on Lily’s forehead, but there ain’t no fever, which gives me relief. She turns away from me when I ask her where she feels bad, and I don’t have time to worry after her if she can’t be bothered to talk to me. I can’t quit thinking about that money. Eleven dollars is enough to cover the let on this house for a month.
After dinner, Alma and Mary do the dishes while Edna helps me draw out dress patterns on the newspapers and brown bags I got pinned together on the parlor floor.
Eleven dollars.
Edna slides her dress over her head and lays it out straight on the paper and pins it down so I can draw around it. I can’t be charitable in the pattern I draw for Edna. She’s not like her sisters, who haven’t finished growing. She is a full-grown woman now. We got to make this to fit, with nothing to spare.
“Am I to have the blue cloth, Mama?” she asks.
Eleven dollars could buy a whole bolt of fabric. More than any blue dress can provide.
“Mama?”
“I don’t know, Edna. Can’t say as yet.”
“Who’s going to get the blue? I think it should be me since I’m oldest.”
“I said I don’t know. Go get Lily. I need her dress.”
Eleven dollars could buy a good-sized piece of a butchered hog. That would give us enough meat for winter. Edna goes to get her sister, and I hear Alma and Mary outside laughing while they clean the dishes.
“She says she don’t want to come.”
“Lily,” I shout from the parlor. “Get in here.”
Eleven dollars could buy shoes for all four girls.
Lily don’t come, so I get up off my knees and go to her. She’s got her face turned to the wall.
“Lily, take off your dress so I can make your pattern.”
“No,” she tells me.
“What is wrong with you, girl? Don’t you want a new dress?”
“I don’t care about no dress.”
I pull the covers from her, and she curls into a ball and screams at me.
“Stop it! I don’t want to.”
“Get up and let me have that dress.”
I yank her up by the arm and off the bed so she is standing, but she fights me when I try to lift the dress up.
I shake her and yell, “Stop it!”
There is a great rip under the arm seam when I try to pull it over her head that I will have to spend the better part of the night to repair. When I finally get the dress off, she runs from me to the parlor. From where I stand, I see what she’s hidden from me, what I should have seen for myself but didn’t. I see what I don’t want to see and now must, why she’s mad and why she fought me. The rise of her belly and swell of her breast ain’t natural for a thirteen-year-old girl. This is what she and that Harlan boy have wrought. After all I have done for her. A great blackness swallows me. No amount of money can fix what this is.
15
Retta
I hear the screams before I hear Mary yelling my name to come help. I’m out to the porch, and Odell ain’t far behind as she comes running up and into the yard. She’s crying so hard I can’t make out what she’s saying.
“Mary,” I shout, “you got to breathe so I can understand what you’re telling me.”
“Mama’s going to kill Lily,” she lets out between sobs.
I hand the dish towel I’m holding to Odell, who tells me to wait for him, but I’m already off the porch and out to the road before he can finish his sentence. He calls my name twice more, but Mary is pulling me to the house of my old friend where the yelling and screaming is so fierce it’s a wonder nobody’s dead yet. The noise is enough to bring all of Shake Rag out to their yards. In the parlor, the girls are tearing at Gertrude, trying to rip her from their sister, who lies half naked on the floor underneath her mama. Gertrude’s got her hands wrapped around her own daughter’s neck. She’s possessed and mad with rage. Alvin is everywhere, above her, below her, beside her and in her, as she tries to take the life she gave as if it is her God-given right. In three strides I am on the floor in front of her.
I slap her hard across the face and shout, “Turn her loose! Turn that girl loose.”
She lets go, but Alvin lingers in the room like a bad smell. The child scrambles up, coughing and sputtering, and runs past her sisters to the bedroom. She squats in the corner and watches her mother. Gertrude is on her hands and knees, panting like a woman in labor.
“Get out of my house,” she screams.
I first think she means me, but her eyes ain’t focused. She’s looking for the girl.
“Get her out of my house!” she tells her daughters.
“Mama, please,” the oldest cries.
“Get her out!”
All three girls weep.
“Stop it right now!” I shout.
I lower my voice so only who’s in the room can hear.
“All of Shake Rag is outside listening to your crazy. You want Miss Annie to turn you out?”
Gertrude stands and leaves the room, putting herself in the kitchen as far away from her daughters as the house allows.
I turn to the girls and say, “Go get your sister dressed. Stay in the bedroom while I talk to your mama.”
They go and shut the door behind them. I gather myself and step to the kitchen where Gertrude is. Every comfort a body could have from a friend used to be in this kitchen. It never held anything but laughter and confidences kept. Until I found my friend dead on the floor I knew no sorrow in this room. This is where we talked each other through the change of life, talked about our work, about God. This is the room that kept our wits. But I can’t feel my friend here no more. It’s like she’s been overtook by what’s come to roost, like her spirit’s been erased. I ought to be glad for that. It’s what I prayed for. But I ain’t. I’m sorry for myself and sorry for this house.
Odell’s come to the kitchen door and stands on the other side of the screen. How long he’s been there I can’t say. He knows I see him.
“You got a bigger problem than that girl in there,” I tell Gertrude. She needs to be made to see.
She’s breathing like an angry bull.
“I got a bi
gger problem?”
“Where’s your husband at, girl?”
She’s surprised at that question.
“That ain’t your business.”
“You’re yelling loud enough for everybody to hear, that makes you everybody’s business.”
“He left us. Ain’t coming back.”
“And you reckon since he ain’t coming back everything should work out fine? That why you’re so mad?”
“I don’t reckon nothing. You don’t know nothing about me.”
“Retta, come on,” Odell says from the door.
“Oh, you reckon all right. You got a reckoning happening all around you that you can’t see, but I do. What’d that man do to you, girl?”
“Get out of my house.”
This time she means me.
“You need to listen to what I tell you.”
She turns away from me and grips the counter to hold herself upright.
“He’s still got a hold of you.”
“Leave me be!” she yells over her shoulder.
“Oretta, honey, let’s go home,” Odell calls from the door.
“I’m coming,” I say to him.
But before I go, I step in toward Gertrude and say to her, “You lay another hand on that child, Gertrude Pardee, and I’ll see to it Miss Annie puts you and your girls on the street. We clear?”