Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
Clara looked at the black sewing machine, her fingers tracing the gold decals on the side of the arm.
“Mrs. Gable wants her money back for the ruined silk by Friday,” Clara said.
“How much is the silk?” I asked.
“Two hundred and forty dollars for the three dresses,” she said.
“And the roofers won’t start without half the patch money down.”
She stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the gravel driveway.
“The man from the fabric warehouse in South Bend called this afternoon,” Clara said.
“He offered to buy the Singer machine.”
The room was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator in the corner.
“You can’t sell the Singer,” I said.
“It was my mother’s.”
Clara did not turn around to face me.
“It is the only thing in this house worth four hundred dollars, Nicole,” she said.
I looked down at the table, my thumb rubbing the scarred wood corner where my father used to rest his elbows.
“We have forty-eight hours before the rain comes back,” Clara said.
By nine o’clock, the wind had picked up, rattling the loose storm window in the sewing room.
