The Funeral Dress

by Susan Gregg Gilmore

  “She ain’t a doll, Runt.” Emmalee held the paper in her hands and studied the number scribbled in pencil. She traced each number with her finger. “And I ain’t used a phone but a time or two.”

  Runt had winked and reassured Emmalee she was a smart girl and would have no problem placing a call.

  Emmalee stared into the length of the trailer, cataloging the sum of Leona and Curtis’s life there including the black telephone sitting on the floor by a worn brown chair. She spied a ragged TV Guide left on the chair’s seat cushion; the rickety table set below the front window carried the weight of the old Atlas sewing machine and piles of different fabrics. She found family photos, miniature spoons, the clock tacked to the wall that kept perfect time, paper books by a man named Louis L’Amour, two bronze-colored hands clenched in prayer (the body nowhere in sight), a blue ceramic vase stuffed with plastic flowers, a wooden bear with the word Gatlinburg burned on his round tummy, and a yellow crocheted blanket draped across the back of the sofa, another piece of Leona’s handiwork Emmalee had not noticed yesterday.

  She took it all in as she traced her path back into the living room. Emmalee stood in front of the sewing table and ran her fingers across a piece of the deep red fabric the woman in the pretty suit had called damask. She glanced out the window as if she expected to see her standing in the drive with her hands pinching her slender hips.

  The fabric was more beautiful than anything Emmalee had ever seen at Tennewa. Trees with vines hanging low from willowy branches and awkward-looking birds with long legs and skinny necks perched along a river’s bank were all woven into the cloth. She pulled the fabric to her cheek and wrapped a piece across her shoulders like a treasured shawl. The crimson color would highlight Leona’s gray hair.

  With the fabric wrapped around her body, Emmalee rushed to the bedroom at the back of the trailer. She crawled over the bed as she hurried to the mirror mounted above the oak dresser. Emmalee stared at herself, the fabric draped around her neck. She imagined her hair white like Leona’s. “It’s perfect.”

  She opened the closet door and scanned the tight bunch of clothes, hunting for one of Leona’s Tennewa dresses. Emmalee lifted a pale blue one off its hanger. She examined its simple A-line shape. Surely this could be adapted into a more attractive garment, one much more appropriate for a proper burial.

  Emmalee picked the straight pins from the large piece of damask she had carried with her. She stretched it across the foot of the bed while she pictured the Tennewa dress adorned with an added belt or long sleeves trimmed with lace. Emmalee giggled with excitement as she imagined the dress taking shape. She placed the cotton housedress on top of the damask. There was more than enough fabric here, and there were yards more on the sewing table should she need it.

  Emmalee hurried back to the front room, stopping at Leona’s sewing table to grab a seam ripper she had seen there earlier. She settled into the reclining chair and kicked off the work boots she had left untied around her ankles. Emmalee flipped the dress inside out and slipped the tool’s sharp point underneath a stitch placed right above the hem. She broke the thread and slipped the U-shaped blade underneath the next stitch, each gentle tug unraveling the work of women Leona had known. Emmalee settled deeper into the chair, pushing the blade underneath another perfect stitch. The seam disappeared as she moved the length of the dress, cutting one stitch after another and pulling it free.

  She slowed her pace only as she neared the sleeve. This seam was set with double stitching, and Emmalee could see why the sleeve setters were held to a lower quota. She wondered who had done this work she now so carefully undid with the flick of her wrist. Maybe Patsy Brown or Ivory Daniels. Both of these women had been at Tennewa almost as long as Leona, and Emmalee wondered if they were grieving for their fellow employee or merely focused on their daily quota.

  Again, Emmalee slipped the seam ripper underneath a stitch and tugged. The thread snapped clean. She moved quickly around the sleeve-to-shoulder seam until the sleeve fell into her lap with the breaking of the last stitch. Another sharp pain radiated from her left side. Emmalee gasped but ignored the breast now hard and growing hot. Instead she turned the dress and began working on the other side. She worked faster, following a familiar rhythm. But as she drew nearer the second shoulder, Emmalee stopped. She cut four or five more stitches. She studied the dress held together by a simple collar and wondered if perhaps she had stitched this one or if it had been Leona’s work.

  The threads pulled easily from their place. Emmalee’s stomach churned, and her hand dropped to her lap. Her head fell against the back of the chair, and Emmalee closed her eyes. Her breasts throbbed from their heavy load, and a sharp pain moved fast from her chest down her left arm. She had been busy with her work and had not tended to them as Mettie had encouraged her to do, stopping to milk them if they grew too full. Her left breast was twice the size of the other and felt as though someone had struck a match to it.

  Emmalee hated the baby at times for turning her body into something she did not recognize anymore. And she hated Emmalee for taking her from her work at Tennewa, from the collar makers and the other seamstresses there. The paycheck she received each week felt like a miracle, and she liked knowing she was part of making dresses worn by women she’d never know, in places she’d never see. She might not have shared a cigarette with Laura Cooley or have been asked to walk to the drugstore with some of the other women for a Coca-Cola after work, but Emmalee felt happy in their presence, like a baby starling snuggled cozily beneath its mother’s feathered wings.

  Emmalee knew they made fun of the girl from Red Chert who didn’t have the good sense to know she was expecting a child. She knew some of the older women gossiped about her lazy work—her late arrivals and her quotas falling short, though she’d tried as hard as she could. Many of them took turns running to the office and confessing to Gwen about a cousin or a sister who could do a better job given the chance to sit in Emmalee’s chair, but Emmalee had fought to stay and to belong, with Leona’s help. Touching their work only reminded her how much she ached for them.

  Emmalee rubbed her hand across the cotton. She fingered the buttons. “This is silly,” she said aloud. “There are thousands more dresses like this one.” But she hated to lift this collar from its place, to remove another part of Leona Lane from this world. The collar hung limp in her hands, held to the dress by a short piece of thread. “I’m sorry,” she said and pulled the last stitch free.

  Emmalee knelt on the floor and winced as she struggled to spread the damask across the carpeting in front of her. With one hand, she pressed the fabric flat between the sewing table and the reclining chair. It was too thick to cut double. She pinned the front of the housedress to the cloth, then two collar pieces, and four sleeves, adjusting their position for the best fit, working it like a jigsaw puzzle as she had seen the pattern makers at Tennewa do. Emmalee cut into the fabric, keeping the scissors’ blades steady as she worked, tossing scraps of damask into a growing pile at the foot of Curtis’s chair. On the floor in front of her, the form of a dress took shape.

  When she closed her eyes, she saw Leona laid out at Fulton’s. She looked beautiful, and everyone in town—the Tennewa women, Mrs. Whitlow, Mr. Clayton, the preacher—filed by and admired her beautiful dress. They dried their eyes with a tissue and asked who had done such lovely work. They hugged Emmalee and complimented her design and obvious skill. In her imagination, she smiled in return and admitted Leona had taught her much of what she knew.

  Emmalee spread another piece of damask on the floor and pinned the back of the housedress in place. Again, she guided the scissors along the pattern’s edge, careful to make the rounded turns along the shoulder and neck. Only with the second piece cut free did she look at the clock on the wall and see it was long after midnight. She had been in the trailer since late morning and had not stopped to notice the passing of another day. Her eyes were weary, and the pain in her chest had spread across her back. Emmalee ign
ored the binding damp with milk and stretched out on the sofa. She covered her body with the yellow afghan. She would rest for an hour and then tend to her body. Emmalee slept while the trailer gently cradled her on the mountain’s bluff.

  She woke hours later to the sun shining on her face and a knock sounding at the thin metal door. Emmalee panted like a hurt dog, finding it difficult to catch her breath as she pulled herself up from the sofa. Both breasts were stone hard, and the binding was soaked with milk. She held her hands to her chest as she peered through a narrow opening in the curtains. Wilma stood on the stoop holding a bundle of mountain laurel. Easter stood behind her with a casserole in her hands. Emmalee opened the door and stumbled back to the sofa, not bothering to greet or welcome the women into Leona’s home.

  “Why Emmalee, we didn’t expect to find you here,” Wilma said, standing at the trailer’s door. “What are you doing on Old Lick?”

  Emmalee said nothing as she leaned into the pain.

  “Not sure we really expected to find anybody here. Figured we should do something though,” Easter explained, holding up the casserole in her hands.

  “You know Easter looks for any excuse to make this chicken noodle dish. She knows there ain’t no family to feed, everybody’s dead or gone on, but we thought some of the church people might be stopping by.” Wilma cleared a place on the sewing table to rest her vase of mountain laurel. She bent to smell the arrangement of carnations and roses already there. “Somebody done beat me up here,” she said. “We were hoping Leona’s sister might be in from Ohio. Or is it Oklahoma? I know it begins with an ‘O.’ Maybe it’s her brother in Oklahoma. You know, Easter, which it is?”

  Easter shook her head and headed into the kitchen. “Her brother died six years ago, remember? And I think her sister’s in Virginia. I don’t know for sure. I just know I need to cook at times like this. I figure somebody’s going to turn up hungry sooner or later. You hungry, Emmalee?” Easter pushed a tin of muffins to the side and set down her dish in plain view. “Looks like I’m not the only one who needs to cook,” she said and laughed.

  Emmalee held her arms across her chest.

  Wilma picked up a piece of the damask. “You know, I believe the preacher did say something about you making a dress for Leona.”

  “That’s right, he did mention a dress,” Easter echoed her friend. “Now where’s that baby girl of yours? You never brought her around for us to admire. What’d you end up naming her?”

  “Sure ain’t Viruslee,” Emmalee said.

  “Oh honey, we all knew she probably wasn’t a virus,” Easter said. “And you sure can’t go paying attention to what those other girls say behind your back. Now what’s her real name?”

  Emmalee kept one arm across her chest. She didn’t bother looking at Wilma or Easter.

  “Kelly Faye. Her name’s Kelly Faye. Faye’s after my mama.”

  “That’s pretty,” Easter said as she eased back toward the sofa, her large body forcing her to maneuver carefully past the sewing table and reclining chair. The trailer floor rattled underneath the weight of her step. “You know, hon, I knew your mama when she come to town, right after marrying your daddy. Not sure I ever told you that. She come by the church looking for work. Such a sweet young thing. You look a lot like her,” Easter said as she inched up behind Wilma. “She sure would be tickled to have a grandbaby to dote on. Ain’t that right, Wilma?”

  “She sure would.” Wilma glanced about the trailer. “Oh Lord, I can’t believe Leona and Curtis are both gone. I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to walk into that sewing room without feeling blue.” Wilma pulled a tissue from deep within her sweater’s sleeve. “Leona worked right in front of me for more than fifteen years. You can’t stare at a woman’s back that long and not miss the sight of her.”

  Emmalee moaned.

  “Emmalee, hon, are you all right?” Wilma asked while Easter talked on about casseroles and Curtis and the Cullen Church of Christ where she was also a lifelong member. Wilma tapped Easter’s forearm, signaling her friend to hush. “Emmalee, you don’t look right.”

  “I ain’t right.”

  “Honey, what’s wrong?”

  Emmalee lifted her shirt only far enough to expose the cotton binding. Wilma eased next to her on the sofa. She touched the edge of the bandage. Emmalee flinched.

  “Honey, where is the baby?” she asked, her voice calm.

  “With Mettie and Runt.”

  “When you feed her last?”

  “Don’t know. A little bit yesterday morning. Night before some.” Emmalee cried, and her chest throbbed even more with each heaving sob.

  “Oh sweetie,” Wilma said in a soothing tone, “you need to quit crying for one thing. Try to stay calm. Okay?” She gently pulled Emmalee’s shirt over her head and wrapped the crocheted blanket across her bare shoulders and then directed Easter to gather plenty of hot cloths.

  “This reminds me of the day Kelly was born. There ain’t another baby coming, is there?” Easter asked as she walked back into the kitchen.

  “Stop that kidding around and bring me them cloths,” Wilma said as she stroked the hair from Emmalee’s face. “I don’t think this girl’s finding that very funny.” Wilma reassured Emmalee she would be better soon. With a gentle hand, Wilma removed the safety pin fastened near Emmalee’s spine. “Easter, hand me those scissors.”

  Wilma placed the tip of a blade underneath the binding. Emmalee jerked as she felt the cold metal touch her skin. Wilma cautioned her to hold still as she cut away the cloth revealing Emmalee’s breasts, swollen, veins bulging through the tautly stretched skin, nipples cracked and dry.

  “Oh, baby,” Wilma said. She reached for a warm cloth. “Easter, better boil me some water with a handful of salt. This one here on the left feels real hot to the touch.”

  Emmalee moaned as her body absorbed the warmth of the wet cloths and the gentle touch of Wilma’s hands. As each cloth cooled, Wilma replaced it with a warm one. Emmalee closed her eyes, trusting her body’s care to the older women who talked in hushed tones as they hovered about her, stroking her hair and rubbing her arms and shoulders.

  “They felt better all tied up. I didn’t want to undo it like Mettie said. I didn’t want to nurse no more, with or without the baby,” Emmalee said, her voice choked with tears.

  “It’s okay. This is a lot for anyone, especially a young mama.” Wilma leaned close and patted Emmalee’s hand. “There you see, Emmalee, your milk’s starting to come on its own. We just needed to get you all cozy and warm. But I’m going to touch you a little. Need to help it along a bit. You holler if I hurt you too bad.”

  Emmalee nodded. Her body stiffened as Wilma placed a dry towel on her stomach. “Honey, I haven’t even touched you yet and getting all tight like that is only going to keep the milk from coming.” Wilma rubbed Emmalee’s shoulder first and moved her fingers in a small, circular motion down her chest. “Relax, baby,” she said as she kneaded the hard, tight skin.

  “Oh shit,” Emmalee yelled as the pressure of Wilma’s touch strengthened. “Don’t touch me no more.”

  “Squeeze my hand,” Easter said as Wilma mashed her fingers against Emmalee’s breast. Emmalee screamed louder, but Wilma pushed her fingers into the hardened mass. Soon the milk flowed more steadily, wetting the towel spread across Emmalee’s stomach. The women discussed collecting it for the baby but decided Emmalee was too uncomfortable to trouble with the effort. The milk flowed faster, and Emmalee relaxed on the sofa.

  Easter replaced the wet towel across Emmalee’s stomach while Wilma massaged the other breast. Emmalee grimaced, but this pain was not as sharp as the other. As the milk dripped onto the towel, Easter wrung out a small cloth soaking in a bowl of warm salty water and set it on Emmalee’s chest.

  “Easter, did you find any salve in Leona’s bathroom? These nipples here are a mess, cracked and raw. No wonder the girl got so engorged. I doubt you was taking the baby to the breast like you should. Probably becaus
e it hurt too bad, am I right?” Wilma asked as she lifted the cloth to better examine Emmalee. “The problem is you can get real sick if you don’t nurse the baby like you should. The milk gets backed up and you end up like this, or worse. You two need each other. The baby needs you to grow, and you need the baby to nurse real regular. When you going to see her next?”

  “Soon as I finish with Leona’s dress, probably tomorrow, maybe the day after.”

  “Well, first things first. Let’s get you feeling better,” Wilma said. She rubbed Emmalee’s breasts with a cold white cream and wrapped her chest in fresh cotton strips cut from an old sheet Easter found in a bathroom cabinet. She handed Emmalee a glass of water and watched her drink it all up while Easter warmed the casserole in the oven. They fed Emmalee, spooning each bite of chicken into her mouth and wiping her lips clean with a paper napkin. They covered Emmalee’s body with the crocheted blanket and kept vigil by her side as she slept on Leona’s bed.

  LEONA

  OLD LICK

  1965

  The sun kissed the horizon early as it climbed high into the July sky. The temperature would soar close to one hundred by afternoon even on top of the mountain. Curtis promised a thunderstorm would surely roll over the bluff later in the day, soaking the land with a quick but heavy rain.

  Leona smelled the thick summer air as she stepped from the trailer. The katydids had already begun to sing, and she knew their oscillating trill would escalate along with the day’s rising heat. This was her favorite time to work in the garden, before the day grew too hot and crowded with other chores. Curtis had bought her a new pair of work gloves, pink ones speckled with little white dots. The gloves were tucked in her back pocket as she reached to pick up a tomato that a squirrel had tasted and left behind.

  Leona moved into the bright morning sun and shielded her eyes with her hand, but she swore her garden had grown twice in size since yesterday afternoon. The tomatoes were already heavy with fruit and their vines, bent from carrying such a burdensome load, rested against the metal cages supporting them. Leona pinched a weak rambler between her fingers. She examined the leaves, checking for any signs of blight or other disease, and tossed it onto the ground.