Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
“I can pay,” I said, my face burning with a sudden, hot pride.
“Take the thread, Nicole,” Martha said, her voice turning flat and firm. “Your father was a good man, but he was stubborn. Do not inherit the stubbornness before you inherit the skill.”
I looked at the blue spools, their wound threads looking like small wooden pillars on the counter.
“Thank you,” I whispered, picking them up and dropping them into my pocket.
“You will need a sharp needle,” Martha called out as we reached the door. “Chambray is tighter than it looks.”
By eight o’clock, the wind had picked up outside, rattling the loose storm window in Clara’s small sewing room.
The room was crowded with three wire dress forms, piles of folded gingham, and a single, low-hanging yellow lamp that smelled of hot dust. The oldest blue shirt lay flat on the cutting mat, its sleeves already pinned down with silver T-pins.
“Hold the shears with your index finger along the blade,” Clara said, standing behind my shoulder, her breath smelling faintly of peppermint. “Do not squeeze with your whole hand. Let the weight of the iron do the work.”
