Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
Above her, a steady stream of gray water was pouring through a split in the ceiling drywall, splashing directly onto three plastic garment bags.
“The silk dress for Mrs. Gable,” Clara said, her voice thin.
She reached out to pull the rack away, but her foot slipped on the wet linoleum.
I grabbed her elbow to steady her, my boots squelching in the pool of water that already covered the width of the back room.
The water was dark, stained with old soot from the attic rafters.
“We need to get the winter coats down first,” I said, reaching for the heavy wool jackets stored on the upper shelf.
“It is too late for the Gable dress,” Clara said.
She unzipped the top of the nearest plastic bag, and a cup of dirty water poured out of the hem.
The pink silk fabric inside was streaked with black grease lines that looked like ink.
“Can we wash it?” I asked.
“It is dry-clean only, Nicole,” she said, looking up at the ceiling where another seam was beginning to bulge.
