Seven Threadly Sins

by Janet Bolin

  Sally-Forth and Tally-Ho, both part border collie, were littermates. Sally always made it her duty to herd the two tuxedo cats, Mustache and Bow-Tie, during their short visits to the great outdoors. She did a surprisingly good job of it, and soon the young cats were safely inside again, and Sally and her brother were racing around my hillside backyard.

  In Blueberry Cottage, lights were on and windows were open. Clay and his company had renovated the quaint wooden structure after moving it up the hill from its original position, too close to the river and occasional floods. Edna’s mother’s spinning wheel whirred. Edna’s mother had helped plan the renovations to Blueberry Cottage. Since she’d insisted there should be space for her loom and spinning wheel beside the hearth, I hadn’t been surprised when she’d asked to be my tenant.

  She was a good one, though I had the feeling she was aware of everything I did, day and night, and I had finally installed drapes in my apartment’s wall of floor-to-ceiling windows facing Blueberry Cottage.

  Edna’s mother living in my backyard was almost like having a mother nearby. Or a grandmother. However, as Dora Battersby liked to point out, Opal and her best friends, Edna and Naomi, had only been seventeen when Haylee was born, and Dora was in her early seventies, rather young to be the grandmother of a thirty-four-year-old. She did like to supervise both Haylee and me, however.

  Sally and Tally ended their playtime and came in. The dogs and I went to bed. Mustache and Bow-Tie spent a good part of the night doing their best to remind us that cats were nocturnal creatures.

  • • •

  In my shop the next day, Ashley and I gave two machine embroidery workshops, one in the morning and another in the afternoon. One of my favorite hobbies, the one I’d built into an online business and this retail shop, was using sophisticated software to create original embroidery designs. Each year, the machines and software improved, and no fabric that sat still for longer than a few seconds was safe from the avid embroiderers of In Stitches. Many of our students lived in and around Threadville, while others came almost daily on buses from northwestern Pennsylvania and northeastern Ohio.

  In machine embroidery, we used a stiff backing known as stabilizer to keep the fabrics in our hoops from moving around or bunching up. Ashley and I demonstrated a new super-sticky stabilizer. We used sticky stabilizer so we wouldn’t have to insert thick fabrics like fleece, corduroy, and terry in our hoops. Instead, we clamped the stabilizer in the hoop, removed the non-sticky backing, and stuck the cloth onto the gummiest part of the stabilizer. With this new stabilizer and its fiercer-than-ever grip, there was no question of accidentally pulling the fabric loose. We placed water-soluble stabilizer on top of the fabrics to prevent our stitches from disappearing in the wales, nap, and soft cotton loops.

  While we worked and experimented, some of our students teased us to model the outfits we would be wearing in the fashion show that night.

  “You’ll have to come to the show,” I said.

  “We are coming,” they insisted, “but we can’t wait. Describe them.”

  Smiling, I shook my head. Ashley made a zipping motion across her mouth.

  After we closed the shop and Ashley went home, I fed the animals and took them out, ate a quick supper, trotted to the Elderberry Bay Conservatory, found my cubicle, and put on the lurid purple and gold pants set.

  The sun again reddened the sky above the glass roof as I joined the line of models waiting to march out onto the runway. Beyond the heavy blue curtains spanning the front of the stage, chairs scraped against the ornate tile floor, and people chatted and called to each other.

  Her clipboard in one hand and a man’s suit jacket in the other, Paula, who was again wearing a dress resembling a stretched and shapeless burlap bag, burst between the closed blue stage curtains.

  In navy suit pants, white dress shirt, and gold silk tie, Antonio surged through the curtains behind her, grabbed her shoulder, and demanded, “Give it back.” His pants were held up with the same belt he’d worn the night before, one with a large, shiny square belt buckle.

  Antonio’s wife whirled and came close to bopping her husband with that clipboard. “No way. You’re not gobbling candy and who knows what else during the show.”

  Loretta joined Paula and stood almost nose to nose with Antonio. Loretta’s outfit was similar to the flowing silk of the night before, but instead of plum and lime green, tonight’s was a richer silk, in ivory. “If you must eat candy during the next hour, Antonio, stay backstage to wrangle the models and I’ll narrate the show.”

  Like Antonio and Paula, she looked about to sprout a smokestack from her head.

  If anyone was going to “wrangle” me, I preferred Loretta to Antonio with the roving eye. Roving hands, too? Was he the man that Macey had slapped the night before?

  Paula must not have liked the idea of her husband wandering backstage among the models, either. She turned on Loretta. “You? You couldn’t—”

  Antonio interrupted her. “Who’s the boss here?” He glared at Loretta. “I am, and if I say I’m going to describe the fashions for our audience, then I’m the one who’s going to do it.”

  He lunged for the jacket that Paula held.

  She dodged him. “I’ll hang your jacket backstage. If you must feed your addiction, come grab a candy between segments. I took them off the podium and put them back in your jacket pocket.”

  Addiction?

  Antonio must have become aware of the silent line of models watching the argument. He smiled at us. “Giving up smoking is harder than you think.” He glanced at his watch. “Showtime!” Jacketless, he strode out between the curtains. The crowd hushed. He welcomed everyone, then the music began and the first model tripped out to the runway.

  Antonio’s descriptions were no more specific than they’d been the evening before. Everyone was “lovely” and wore a “beautiful” outfit. When it was my turn, I was glad that the lights in the conservatory were limited to the spotlights on the runway and the teensy lights tucked among the conservatory’s greenery. I didn’t see anyone I recognized. A video camera was on a tripod near the tallest of the palm trees, but no one was shooting flash pictures. Where was the sullen man in the muscle shirt?

  Back in my cubicle, I changed into the brown dress-for-success outfit and carried the shoes to the line. Macey handed me tissues and pointed to the humongous brown shoes. “Stuff those into the toes of your shoes so you can keep them on.”

  Shushing Macey, but speaking every bit as loudly, Loretta told Macey to pin my hair up again. She did, and then I headed for the spot where the stage curtains overlapped each other.

  The tissues in my shoes cramped my toes. Stumbling, I brushed Antonio’s jacket off the chair, but when I stooped to hang it up, Paula nudged my backside with the clipboard. “Don’t worry about that. Just get out there!” Her whisper was urgent, as if we were in the midst of an emergency.

  Out on the runway, I managed to smile despite fumbling with the necklace and the bright white briefcase, but this time, I looped the faux gold chain over my neck without tangling it in my hair.

  When I came back between the curtains, Antonio’s jacket was hanging on the back of the chair again, but the chair was still in the way of models going to and from the runway. I silently moved it about a foot from the opening between the curtains, but not too far, I hoped, from Antonio if he developed a sudden desire for candy.

  In my cubicle, I threw on the Bo Peep cocktail dress and gladiator sandals. I hoped that Loretta would leave my hair alone, but she again tied it up in ponytails high on the sides of my head.

  Telling myself that my childish hairdo didn’t matter, I sashayed out onto the runway with an exaggerated sway of hips, turned, started back, and looked saucily over my shoulder. Who cared if everyone saw the ruffled bloomers I wore under the short dress? The outfit was ludicrous, and I saw no reason to pretend I took it seriously.


  Applause, probably from our loyal Threadville tourists, broke out from the audience. I was afraid that Antonio might disapprove of my dramatics, but he winked.

  Maybe I should have been more sedate.

  I was more of a performer than I realized. During the Glitzy Garb segment of the show, I didn’t exactly ham it up in the slinky, slit-up-to-here-and-back-down-to-there velvet gown, but I didn’t walk like a prim schoolgirl, either, and I couldn’t resist a second pirouette on my way back up the runway.

  Whistles came from the audience. My customers and machine embroidery workshop students were obviously having fun.

  As I pushed my way between curtains, I again bumped into the chair holding Antonio’s jacket. Someone had put it back after I’d moved it.

  Antonio’s wife handed me an envelope with my name scribbled on it. “Change quickly,” she demanded.

  I slipped off my heels and zoomed to my cubicle.

  Inside the envelope were three pieces of paper. The full page was a typed letter, signed by Antonio, thanking me for participating in the TADAM scholarship fund-raiser.

  The half page was a printed voucher for a discount on evening classes at TADAM. Fashion design courses? They could be fun, and I might learn new skills.

  On a torn quarter page, someone—probably Antonio, judging by his signature on the letter—had scrawled my name along with the words Distinguished Dressing.

  Great. I had to go onstage during the awards ceremony, and I was supposed to wear that Little Bo Peep dress, the worst of all the outfits that I’d made and modeled.

  Maybe I was winning a prize for the silliest cocktail dress? Or the most flirtatious look over my shoulder?

  I put on the goofy dress, zipped up the gladiator sandals, and joined the line. TADAM students were in the front, while my Threadville friends and I were at the back. I was at the end, and would be the last model to file onto the stage. Good. I’d have less time out there to make a fool of myself.

  Loretta glanced at my hair, shook her head, muttered something about not having time to fix it, and left my nice, though hasty, French braid in place. Phew. I did not have to go onstage in those silly ponytails again.

  In front of me, Ashley wore the beautiful suit she’d made for the Ambitious Attire segment of the show. It was emerald green and featured one of her original freehand embroidery designs across the back, a true example of wearable art. If it were my size, I’d be planning to bid on it at the silent auction, but I towered over the seventeen-year-old.

  Cheers erupted when the first model, Macey, stepped out onto the strip of stage in front of the blue velvet curtains. Encouraged by the support, we all gave our best performances as we brushed past the curtains, walked carefully into the spotlight along the edge of the stage, and smiled into the dark conservatory, lit only by twinkly lights.

  We hardly deserved a standing ovation, but that’s what we got. Maybe it wasn’t an awards ceremony but merely a curtain call. Unsure of what to do next, some of us bowed and some of us curtseyed. The irrepressible Edna, in a bling-encrusted evening gown, put one hand above her head and twirled. All she needed was a set of castanets.

  Antonio was at the podium, still not wearing his jacket. He’d managed to endure the show without noticeably crunching candy. He smiled and repeated “thank you” until the audience settled back into chairs and silence.

  Antonio asked everyone to hold their applause and comments until all of the awards had been announced. When our names were called, we were to take two steps forward from the line—small steps, he cautioned us with a smirk, or we’d fall off the stage. Then we were to pirouette, carefully, to show off our outfits, and return to our places. We would pick up our certificates as we left the stage at the end of the show.

  Macey won the award for the most improved modeling student. Another student was the most improved design student. There were awards for creativity, attention to detail, and appropriateness for the occasion.

  Then he waved toward the Threadville ladies—in addition to Naomi, Edna, Haylee, Opal, Ashley, and me, there was Mona, who owned a home décor boutique. Antonio announced, “These seven women, who are not students at TADAM, have donated their time and talent to the fashion show, and for that we are forever in their debt.” He chuckled into the microphone. “However, between them, they’ve managed to commit what I like to call . . .” He chuckled again, a laugh that sounded both intimate and horrid. “‘The seven threadly sins.’”

  4

  A woman called out in a shocked voice, “What?”

  Edna gasped and stared toward the back rows of chairs.

  Was her mother in the audience? The voice had sounded like Dora’s.

  Antonio held up a hand. “Hold your applause, please, until the end.”

  I had not heard any applause, but people in the audience laughed, as if Antonio had been joking about the seven threadly sins that we had supposedly committed. Maybe he had been, but why did I suspect that his joke concealed at least seven deadly barbs?

  Antonio turned his head toward the lineup of models. “Naomi, please step forward and show us the outfit you made for Weekend Wear.”

  Antonio rested his forearm on the podium and purred into the microphone as Naomi modeled her ensemble. “Now, as you may be able to see, Naomi sewed together hundreds of little scraps to make her shorts and top. Hundreds! What threadly sin did that cause her to commit, do you think?”

  No one answered.

  “C’mon,” he cajoled, “can’t someone remember all of the deadly sins? Or are you all too busy committing them?”

  A smattering of laughter greeted his little joke.

  Antonio urged, “What would sewing a bunch of scraps together create?”

  “Quilts!” Again, the woman near the back of the audience sounded like Edna’s mother.

  Ignoring her, Antonio stabbed a forefinger into the air above his jet-black hair. “Stitching tiny scraps together would frustrate and anger anyone and would have to make that person commit the threadly sin of wrath!”

  The audience laughed and clapped.

  Next, Antonio called Edna’s name. Edna stepped forward and twirled, smiling. Her gown reflected lights in millions of tiny rainbows. “Edna has certainly followed my directions for creating Glitzy Garb,” Antonio proclaimed. “Just look at all the shiny things she’s attached to her dress!”

  People murmured appreciatively.

  “But here’s the thing.” Antonio flashed another of his conspiratorial smiles. “Has Edna left any sort of bling or bauble for anyone else in all of Threadville?”

  Edna nodded her head vigorously. Her shop was full of every sparkly trim and notion that any seamstress or crafty person could desire.

  “Impossible,” Antonio boomed. “She’s taken them all for herself! She’s committed the threadly sin of greed!”

  Again, amusement rippled through the audience.

  I tried to remember the other five deadly sins after wrath and greed. I was the seventh in line for this unusual honor. I doubted that wearing a ridiculous dress was a deadly—or threadly—sin.

  Antonio called out, “Haylee!”

  Obviously game for whatever fun Antonio was about to poke at her, Haylee waved and stepped forward.

  Antonio leaned even farther forward. “Now, you’d think that all of the Threadville ladies would be accomplished at making clothes.” Each of his breaths thumped into the microphone and was amplified throughout the glass-domed room. “Haylee owns a huge fabric store. I examined the outfits she made, including this business suit. Every detail is perfect. Now, we know that Haylee hails . . .” He smiled to show he was repeating the sound for maximum effect. “From New York City. So she obviously brought the outfits she wore this evening with her when she fled to this Lake Erie shoreline. Since she could not have made the clothes herself—”

  A woman in the
back of the audience shrieked, “Yes, she did!” Edna’s mother, Dora Battersby, was definitely in the audience. Not only that, she was in full battle mode.

  Again holding a hand in the “halt” position, Antonio went on smoothly, “I award Haylee the prize for committing the threadly sin of sloth!”

  Antonio’s allegations were unkind and untrue.

  What were the other deadly sins? I couldn’t think of even one. Opal’s turn was next, then Mona, and then Ashley.

  Ashley was only seventeen. Whatever Antonio was going to claim about Ashley’s creation, I would do all I could to remove the sting.

  I considered bolting from the stage and taking Ashley with me. Instead, I muttered to her, “Unless he says something nice to you, don’t believe him.”

  Ashley whispered, “Don’t worry.”

  Meanwhile, what would Antonio say to Opal? She stepped forward.

  Antonio made a show of staring at her, drawing it out until audience members snickered. Finally, he spoke. “Now, I don’t know how Opal made her outfits, but she made every single one of them out of yarn or string. Macramé? Cat’s cradle? I don’t know how she did it, but the end result is dreadful!”

  This time, Dora Battersby wasn’t the only heckler.

  Antonio quelled them with a look. “And her Ambitious Attire ensemble, which she stitched together, she tells me, from granny squares, whatever those are, is the worst outfit of them all. No one will want to buy any of Opal’s creations. So by showing off her talents with a knitting needle or crochet hook—does that make her a hooker?” He smiled at his own joke, but no one laughed. “Whatever she used, Opal has committed the threadly sin of pride.”