Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
“The faded green one with the ink stain on the pocket,” Clara said, gesturing toward the box we had brought from the house. “He wore it every Tuesday. We will need matching thread, though. Heavy duty. Not the cheap polyester stuff I use for alterations.”
“How much does the good thread cost?” I asked.
“Too much for a Tuesday,” Clara said, picking up her car keys from the counter.
The bell above the door of Martha’s Fabric and Notion Shop gave a single, tinny rattle when we stepped inside at four o’clock.
The air in the narrow shop was thick with the smell of dye, musty paper patterns, and starch. Behind the counter sat Martha, a woman of sixty with thick iron-gray curls and three different measuring tapes draped around her neck like scarves.
“Clara,” Martha said, setting down a pair of reading spectacles on an open catalog. “I heard about Albert. I am so very sorry. The whole town is talking about how quiet the school basement feels now.”
“Thank you, Martha,” Clara said, walking straight to the wall of wooden drawers where the thread spools were kept. “We need cotton-wrapped polyester. Blue. The shade of old chambray.”
