Sewing Can Be Dangerous and Other Small Threads

by S. R. Mallery

  “I want to know where am I in all of this? I don’t want to have anything to do with drugs!” Peter’s fist slammed down hard on the load bed’s edge.

  José jumped out of the cab and stamped back over to Peter. “Amigo, you always in the middle. Those wallets you and me pick up every week, eh? You always in the middle.”

  Peter’s mouth dropped. “But…but…I’m innocent, I had no idea…”

  “Señor, we gonna take good care of you. You stay with us for a few days. Then the Federales not find you, OK?” José was already heading back towards the cab.

  That night, as they all huddled together in the back room of a small, dilapidated house, overwhelmed by cat urine and tobacco, an angry Peter stayed warm under a bolt of fabric he had wrapped around him by nursing his murderous thoughts.

  But just one look at Eduardo, and he melted. As the moonlight beamed in through an open window, he spied a tear drying on the young boy’s cheek, and he wondered what the child was thinking if he was awake, or dreaming about if he had just fallen asleep. It was the last thing on his mind before drifting off into his own turbulent dreams.

  A loud knock startled Peter out of a police-filled nightmare the next morning. Seconds later, José was bending over him. “Señor Rosen, is not safe for you to return to the United States yet. Too much trouble at the borders. We can keep you for a week or two, here in town, OK?”

  “Listen, where the hell is Jack Reinhold? Where is he? I want to talk to him!” Peter demanded.

  “I so sorry, Señor Reinhold,” he muttered, lowering his eyes. “No is here right now. I am so sorry. We do not know where he is.”

  “That’s just great! Just what I need! He gets me involved in this mess and then disappears! Just wait until I get my hands on him,” Peter growled. “What about the rest of my children? I need to get back to the clinic, and do my real work, you know?!”

  “Sí, sí, Señor Rosen, I understand. Is your job. And now, is my job to protect you, so please, stay here ‘til I say is OK.” He heel-turned and walked out of the room.

  After that, Peter’s sleep was fitful, and during the day, his appetite had shrunk down to nothing. Forget José, he finally decided, I’m going to return to the clinic and complete my operations. Suddenly, he felt better than he had in two weeks.

  Café Orlando was an intimate place where pretty waitresses served cafe espressos and cervezas that tasted better than the usual warm beers offered in other local hangouts. Settling down at a table in front of a large glass-plated window, Peter zeroed in on the front door of his clinic across the street and waited. Soon, a mother entered the clinic with her little girl whose head and lower face were carefully covered with a colorful Mexican shawl. When the two quickly came out again, the mother was trying to calm a sobbing, inconsolable child.

  I should be there for them, Peter agonized, gulping down his last sip, and as he raced across the street to try to catch up with the mother and daughter, he smiled, knowing in his heart that he was at the right place, doing the right thing.

  He never made it.

  Two Mexican drug officials nabbed him as soon as he got over to his clinic, whisking him away to the border, where they handed him over to two U.S. drug enforcement officers.

  “But wait, I must see my patients at the clinic. They are counting on me.” Peter pleaded. The officers just laughed, shaking their heads and shuffling through papers.

  His trial didn’t last very long and the judge was fairly lenient with him in comparison to Jack. His doctor’s license was suspended for now, but because of his charity work, there would be a possible future reinstatement based on good behavior. When they read Jack’s sentence, Peter glanced over at his former partner and noticed that the suit was still gorgeous and expensive, but the face looked gray under the tan, and the knuckles were definitely white.

  Most days Peter feels quite sorry for himself, sorry he ever got involved, and how he would like to kill Jack. For an innocent man, eighteen months in jail is a long time to be locked away. But then, when he really feels depressed, all he has to do is get out Eduardo’s letter again for the twentieth time:

  Señor Peter,

  I write letter to you. Thank you for my life ever one love me now. I go to school other persons play with me now. I never forget you. I love you.

  con mucho cariño, Eduardo

  Sometimes in the exercise yard, Peter runs into Old Bill, the “Lifer” who manages to pull himself up onto an iron bench and pontificate about how crime doesn’t pay. Once in a great while, the other inmates even stand around and listen to the old guy for entertainment. But on those occasions, just thinking of Eduardo, Peter smiles and walks away, shaking his head. Maybe, just maybe crime does pay, after all.

  EMMA AT NIGHT

  The women in my family, I am told, have collectively handed down our ancestral folklore as long as anyone can remember, beginning with my great-great-great-great-great-great grandmother Eugenie. She was one of the most eloquent of our clan, recounting these tales to her daughter, who then sat down with her own daughter and so forth and so on, until one day, centuries later, my mother enriched me with the life of Emma, perhaps the most gifted cognate of us all.

  According to Eugenie, Emma had always felt at one with the night. She claimed it was only then that there were no class distinctions; the world mostly emerged balanced, a balance totally ignored during the day. Indeed, for her, the daylight had often brought scorn and envy from many of the villagers around her.

  “Pray, pardon me, m’lady, if thou wouldst not mind. I should like to pass,” sneered the teenage boy angling past her in the narrow, mildewed corridor of the local abbey. Smacking her dress aside with his right hand, he made the parchment papers she had been holding fly out of her arms. She stood still for several seconds, refusing to appear weak, but kneeling down to gather up the frayed pieces of paper, her tears came in quickly.

  A gentle pat on her shoulder caused her to look up into the creviced face of an elderly monk with compassionate eyes. He spoke softly, tenderly. “I have watched thee, child for several years hence, coming here, reading, nay, devouring the words on our pages, and it doth touch my heart. Pray tell me, wherefore didst that young man be so cruel to thee? In faith, ‘tis beyond my comprehension.”

  “Father Mathew, thy abbey hath taught me to read now for three years hence. Verily, in the village they doth loathe me for it.”

  “I hear tell thy embroiderie is some of the best in the village. Is that not enough pride for thee?” His words scolded, yet his demeanor remained kind.

  “Yes, I am proud of that which I sew; still, I ask thee, shall we all be punished for not being noble born?”

  The monk hesitated. “Pray, do not despair, child. Come here in a fortnight with thy family. If all goeth well, I shall have a surprise for thee. In addition, prithee, bring some of thy embroiderie samples.”

  A summons to the abbey was a true gift from God, an event so powerful if it weren’t for the charitable monk coming towards them two weeks later with outstretched arms, her family would have been far too apprehensive to stay.

  The monk addressed Emma’s father. “I hath spoken with Lord Buckingham, and he hath agreed to help thy family. If thou, good sir, wouldst be willing to go fight in the Crusades for our King Richard, his Lordship will treat thee well in return. Taxes shalt not be collected and thy daughter shall live in his manor. ‘Tis her skills in embroiderie that giveth him interest, and he hath assured me she shall be given an excellent position in the Wardrobe. She shall be expected to embroider tablecloths, pillows or the like, whatever Lady Buckingham doth desire.”

  To her surprise, her father acquiesced, ignoring any danger he might encounter, simply expressing gratitude for the great honor bestowed upon his daughter.

  The next day, Emma set out on the long journey to Buckingham Manor with Father Jerrold. Walking down familiar roads bursting with trees, stone fences, and thick brushes dotted with wild flowers, she smiled, thinking how the count
ryside had never looked so beautiful. By the last bend in the road, they had passed at least two flocks of sheep grazing lazily in neighboring fields and in the middle of the Buckingham moat itself, three territorial swans flapped their wings menacingly at the travelers scurrying over the drawbridge, eager to arrive at the massive, front door.

  After a few knocks the door opened, its unoiled, metal hinges groaning against the swollen wood. A tall, dark-haired servant with a close-cropped goatee appeared, took one look at Emma, and sniffing haughtily, led them both into the high-ceilinged hallway. But the seamstress took no offense; she was too occupied gawking at all the coats of arms draped over the jutting spears.

  Set deep into a thick, stone wall was a staircase and as they entered into its cavern and ascended up the cold, unlit steps, they both lost sight of the stairs momentarily, moving mostly by instinct. At the top, they could see light streaming in from narrow stain-glass windows in what was obviously the Wardrobe room. There, at least twenty young women sat, sewing intently, noiselessly, their needles flicking in and out of the various cloths. They all raised their heads in unison as Emma was brought in, eyeing her suspiciously.

  The manservant barked a quick order to one of the women. “Get thee to thy Ladyship and tell her the new wench is here. Be gone!”

  Waiting for Lady Buckingham, Emma seized the opportunity to look around her. Intricate floral embroidery was everywhere—in pillows, long tablecloths, or chair covers, filling Emma with a wave of insecurity. She was about to turn to Father Jerrold to tell him they had made a mistake, when she heard the gentle rustle of petticoats entering the room. Looking up, she contemplated one of the loveliest women she had ever seen.

  Lady Buckingham, dressed in emerald green velvet, graciously smiled. “Pray tell me, Father,” she resonated, “is this the young wench of whom thou hath spoken?” She inched in closer to inspect the young seamstress. As if on cue, Emma obediently withdrew her embroidery sample from a thin cloth satchel and held it up for her ladyship to judge. Lady Buckingham caught her breath, then examined the needlework more meticulously.

  Several seconds passed before she spoke again. “Thou truly doth worthy work, child. Therefore, thou shalt be my personal sewer, and will henceforth work with me both day and night.”

  Two weeks later, it still felt as if the seamstress were caught in the middle of a dream. Waking up each morning to clean sheets, the smell of sausage, eggs, trout, kippers, and hot bread from the nearby kitchen all made Emma realize just how changed her life was. No more hauling heavy milk pails or emptying chamber pots before dawn. No more hateful townspeople making her life wretched. Here, it seemed, all she was required to do was to behave herself and sew until her fingers ached.

  And sew she did, most of which was done during the afternoon and at night, perched on a round wooden stool in front of the huge hearth by the north wall of the Wardrobe. Sometimes her back developed spasms when she stood up, making it difficult to lie down at night to sleep. But in the mornings, everything was restored once she saw Lady Buckingham’s radiant smile and received such high praise for her handiwork from her mistress.

  Yet within six months, she noticed the smiles had lessened, replaced by dark purplish circles under the once flawless eyes.

  “Thee hast done well here, child and for that, I am truly grateful, more grateful than thou shalt ever know,” Lady Buckingham whispered to Emma one day.

  Emma paused, waiting for more, but the only sound in the room was the crackling of the wood burning in the small stone fireplace at the head of the Wardrobe chamber.

  “Her ladyship is pleased with the lettering?” Trying to connect, she was about to say more when she noticed a single tear sliding down Lady Buckingham’s right cheek.

  Immediately, her ladyship wiped it off. “My…my…my cold hath gotten the better of me. I must rest.”

  “’Tis a good idea, madam.”

  “Thou hast such a simple life, my dear. Thou shouldst indeed be grateful.”

  Lady Buckingham sounded so wistful Emma couldn’t help herself. “I crave your pardon, yet I wouldst give anything to have thy life, my lady!” She blurted out.

  “Oh, Emma, Emma, if thou couldst know. If thou only couldst know…” Her words trailed off, leaving the seamstress more curious than ever. But the moment of intimacy was over and Lady Buckingham quickly drew herself up to announce, “Well, ‘tis time to go to bed for I must sleep. Goodnight, and if I am well enough in the morn, I shall see thee on the morrow.” She nodded curtly and hurried out of the room.

  Again Emma couldn’t sleep. Within the safe confines of the manor, she had come to feel even more comfortable with the night, often exploring until the early morning hours. The ‘Moon Worshipper’, her mother used to call her. “Thou shalt have danger with this obsession. Only people connected to the devil or robbers or evil fairies hath anything to do with the night, mark my words. There shall be no good from it,” she warned.

  Stepping by the kitchen, Emma could hear several of the servants washing the manor’s clothing as they gossiped in solemn tones, unaware of her presence. “I tell thee, thou shouldst watch out for Lord Buckingham. Our noble madam shouldst watch herself as well. I dare say he is up to no good deed.” All at once their voices hushed and Emma had to strain to hear.

  “I shouldn’t want to be married to the likes of him. Indeed, m’husband is no prize to be sure, but in truth, he doth not wish to kill me!”

  Emma rammed her ear up against the doorjamb. Whatever were they talking about? Then she remembered all the changes she had seen in her ladyship recently and as she crept back to Lady Buckingham’s chambers, past the turrets mildewed from heavy rains and early morning fogs, she was surprised how protective she felt.

  At her mistress’s wooden door she heard voices coming from within, and quickly ducked into a nearby alcove. Suddenly the door swung open and Lord Buckingham stood in the doorway, looking back into the room. “Hark now, me thinks ‘tis for thy own good. The doctor hath recommended this potion, therefore, thou must continue to drink it!” As Emma’s dealings had been primarily with the mistress of the manor, she had not seen much of her master. Rattled, she was immediately struck by the power and harshness of his voice.

  In comparison, Lady Buckingham’s pleading voice sounded weak, vulnerable. “Please, kind Sir, it doth maketh me ill, I swear it. Do not force me to keep taking this liquid. It shall be the end of me, I feel it.”

  Lord Buckingham snorted. “Fie on thee! In faith, thou art my wife and therefore must do as I bid thee!” Stomping off, his boots scuffed sharply against the cold stones.

  All protocol evaporated as Emma rushed in, full of concern. “Prithee m’lady, by your leave, if ‘tis anything I can do to help,” she murmured to her weeping mistress.

  Lady Buckingham stopped crying long enough to access the girl. How could she trust a servant, someone from the village? It was unimaginable. But her fears were engulfing her. “Dear, dear Emma, I do need to trust someone. Indeed, I hath no one else. My Lord hath locked me in his manor, privy to no friends, and no one to help me. I do not know what else to do.”

  “Your ladyship, thou canst most certainly have my trust. I willst not betray thee, I promise on the graves of my family.” Something about the seamstress’ intensity relaxed Lady Buckingham, and she nodded solemnly.

  After that, Lady Buckingham kept Emma even closer to her side. She demoted her personal maid, and insisted on Emma performing higher duties so she could be with her for many more hours than she had before. The maid was bitter, pouting and glowering for several weeks, but Lady Buckingham stood firm. She needed an ally.

  “I fear I shall not be long on this earth,” she admitted one evening to Emma as the rain beat against the windows, embedding a permanent dampness in the walls.

  “My lady, thou must tell me how I can help, you must. I realize thou ist not happy. Still, thou wouldst not let me help thee.” Emma was surprised at her own boldness, but choices were rapidly fading alongside h
er mistress’ well being.

  Lady Buckingham hesitated a few seconds before answering. “My Lord is not the man thou thinketh he is.” She canvassed Emma’s eyes carefully.

  “I cannot divulge too much information. In truth, I am not convinced of it completely myself. I only know that he is involved in something evil, a plot against our king, Richard. Now, thou must swear not to tell what I have just told you to any person!”

  Emma, caught in mid-nod, flinched at Lord Buckingham’s jarring voice at the door. “Lady Margaret, I must see thee at once!” He charged into the room, stopping at the sight of Emma.

  “This wench needs to be gone! ‘Tis of the utmost urgency that I speak with thee alone!” His darkening face turned towards the seamstress and she froze, unsure of what to do. Should she stay and defend her mistress or should she leave?

  Lady Buckingham interrupted her thoughts. “Go now, Emma, I shall be all right, I promise thee,” she urged, forcing her anxious voice to sound calm.

  As she exited, Emma could feel Lord Buckingham’s eyes penetrating through her back. Pretending to go downstairs, she quietly backtracked up to the bedroom and leaned her head against the closed door, listening.

  His voice bellowed. “In a fortnight, there shall be a ceremonial dinner in honor of the High Minister from King Richard’s court. I expect thee to be a grand hostess. Indeed, thou knowst what to do, you have done so before. I command you to also think of a ceremonial present that wouldst please his lordship. ‘Tis important he remember me well.”

  “And why is that so important, pray tell? Thou hast never cared for Richard the First and his court, and his High Minister even less so. What manner hath changed?” Her voice had garnered some strength.

  He strode towards her menacingly as she shrank back into a corner of the room. “Out upon it! Never question my intentions! Thou shalt do only thy wifely duties, nothing more! I expect a perfect meal as is befitting our position. Do not disappoint me!”