by Sofia Grant
Mr. Crouse appeared in the doorway, flushed with excitement. “You’re on, love!” He stepped out of the way with a flourish and Peggy swept past, sashayed to the stage they’d erected at the front of the room, and clasped her hands with feigned delight.
“Oh my gracious, just look at all of you!”
Every word she would say for the next few moments was scripted and well rehearsed; Peggy would have said her lines even if only half a dozen women had attended. But as she went through her prepared welcome, she counted the women in the seats, aisles, crowded in the back of the room. There had to be fifty, sixty, maybe seventy-five of them.
“I know you’ve all come for the lingerie bag,” she said modestly, picking it up from the table where she’d placed it earlier. It was an inexpensive giveaway the store had had made for the collection’s debut, the Peggy Parker logo stitched into the pink satin. One hundred was the manufacturer’s minimum, which was a good thing, because they hadn’t anticipated such a high turnout.
Laughter and a scattering of applause filled the room—and Peggy knew she’d succeeded. Earlier in the week, Archie Fyfe had expressed doubt in a marketing meeting: wouldn’t the ladies be more impressed by elegance, by a show of glamour and wealth that transcended their ordinary lives? The “Peggy Parker story,” manufactured for the fashion reporters, hinted that Peggy had come from a lofty background, that she’d come to designing by way of a fabulous debut and social seasons in New York and Europe.
But Peggy had taken a gamble motivated by a memory of Thomas. On a wintry November evening just months before he left for the war, she’d come downstairs to discover that Thomas had gotten off early from his hardware store job and come for a visit. She had no plans for that night other than laundry, and she was dressed in an old plaid shirt knotted at her waist, her hair in a ponytail.
She’d been mortified, but Thomas had hooted appreciatively and swung her around in his arms. “You’re something special, Pegs,” he’d said. “I’m a lucky man.”
“But look at me!” she’d protested. “I’m a mess.”
“Nope. You’re home and heartland. You’re the reason the boys are signing on in droves. Look at you, Peggy—you’re every man’s American dream.”
Peggy had glowed with hopeful pride. She knew that Jeanne was the true beauty of the family, dark where Peggy was fair; elegant where she was ordinary, elusive where she had always been just the kid sister.
Only years later, long after he was dead, did she understand what had caught Thomas’s eye that day. But now she meant to use that knowledge to show these women that in the right dress, even an ordinary girl could have extraordinary appeal.
“The American girl’s life is busier than ever, isn’t it?” she asked, letting her gaze flit from one woman to another, taking in their expectant smiles. There were young and old, thin and fat, mothers and daughters and neighbors and friends. They wore gingham, rayon, dotted Swiss—inexpensive, washable fabrics suitable for homemaking. “We take care of the children and the home, we have our husbands’ favorite suppers ready when they come home. We do the wash on Tuesdays and the dusting on Thursdays and next week we start all over again.”
More applause. This had been a bold claim, because all of them knew that she was an unmarried woman. There was no mention of husband or children in the biography that had been printed on the invitation, which featured a smiling photo of her with a pen poised over a sketchbook.
But Peggy was counting on them to believe that she understood their lives. Where she came from didn’t matter. Where she went in the evening after work, where she lay her head at night, none of that mattered. I see you, she telegraphed with all her might. I know you. I want the best for you.
Lies, all of them, because they were a mystery to her. How could they smile like that, these women with their lumpy figures and unremarkable husbands and too many children at home, their scrimping and saving, their humble dreams of electric sweepers and Memorial Day picnics on a crowded beach?
“All of us girls could use a little glamour once in a while,” she continued. “Even if it’s just a trip to the market, a special blouse can make all the difference.” She picked up a cotton plissé blouse from the rack that she’d positioned nearby on the stage. She glanced up and saw Miss Perkins standing at the back of the room, an unreadable expression on her face. “Look at this darling self-fabric loop trim at the collar. I call it ‘spaghetti trim’ because it looks like noodles, doesn’t it?”
More laughter.
It was time to move into some of the pricier items in the collection. “Now let’s see how a few clever details can transform a plain dress.”
On cue, one of the models walked out into the crowd, threading her way among the tables, pausing to pose with a hand on her hip. Her name was Pammy—or Patty, something like that; all the girls looked alike, perky and wholesome and more pretty than beautiful.
“All of our cottons are Sanforized,” Peggy said, “including this gorgeous cadet blue number.” The women oohed and aahed, leaning in to examine the pinwale pique fabric, the topstitching along the pockets.
“And here’s a lovely three-piece ensemble for an afternoon of bridge,” Peggy went on, gaining momentum. A dark-haired girl walked out and took a spin at the front of the room, making the full skirt flare out. “Notice the bat-wing sleeves, the matching trim on the sweater. And, ladies, we guarantee shrinkage at less than one percent!”
This got hearty approval from the crowd. Unlike Peggy’s former customers, these women would all be laundering their clothes, pinning them to clotheslines, expecting to get a lot of wear from them. Peggy had been unrelenting when insisting on snag-proof zippers and only preshrunk fabrics, knowing quality issues could sink her line before it had a chance.
Another model emerged, wearing one of the few evening outfits of the show. “Oh, here’s a favorite of mine.” Peggy was ad-libbing now, getting into the spirit of the presentation. “Just look at that embroidered linen. Only guess what—it’s actually a printed Dacron-cotton blend! Would you ever guess? I don’t think anyone else will. Oh, and it’s machine wash and drip dry, and costs a mere ten dollars and ninety-eight cents!”
Actual gasps were heard in the crowd, followed by a hearty round of applause. Peggy beamed. In her final days in couture, there had been a spirit of contempt for the new synthetic blends. Lavinia had vowed never to let them through her doors; she had asked Peggy, genuinely perplexed, “Are we to expect women to toss their gowns into the laundry with the dishrags, then?”
But these women had no such hesitations. They were ready to embrace the future, with its promise of time-saving ease and miracle fabrics. And their enthusiasm was what she hoped would make Peggy Parker a success.
“I’ve got another special garment to show you,” she said, sorting through the clothes hanging from the rack, searching for the one she wanted. Mr. Crouse raised his eyebrows questioningly from the wings, and Peggy nodded at him and hoped he’d get the hint that she was going off-script. She found what she was looking for and held the hanger aloft. “At eight ninety-eight it’s a bit of a splurge for a simple skirt, isn’t it? But I don’t think you’ll mind saving up a bit for this beauty when you see it for yourself. Come on out, honey”—because she didn’t remember the girl’s name, or even which mannequin had been chosen to model the skirt, which until this moment hadn’t been a star of the line—“let’s show them the fabric that’s going to change their lives!”
There was a breathless hush as the model—too bad; she was one of the homelier girls with a profile that showed too much chin and a bit of a swayback—came tottering uncertainly out. Peggy tamped down her impatience; the girls were stupidly slow to improvise. She smiled and linked arms with the girl.
“This may look like ordinary chambray,” Peggy said, and indeed, the skirt was among the plainest pieces in the line. She’d originally designed it to go with a piped dolman-sleeved blouse, but manufacturing issues had forced the blouse to be cut, too late
to cancel the skirt. “It does have some lovely details, such as a hidden zipper and this faux button front. But the true genius of this skirt is . . . acrylic.”
One of their vendors had offered Fyfe’s a deal on a run of a new synthetic blend fabric. In anticipation of greater demand, he’d made too much and was willing to let it go at a discount. Peggy had discussed it with the buyer who was working with her on the line, and convinced her to take a chance on the fabric.
“There’s a reason he can’t sell it,” the buyer had protested. “Europe won’t touch anything like this.”
“Europe is not America.” This had become Peggy’s mantra ever since accepting the new position. “We’re practical here. We have a chance to be innovators.”
The buyer had finally given the go-ahead, lured by the savings. Now Peggy tried to remember what the vendor had said that warm day last August. He was sweaty from lugging his sample case to the offices on the top floor of the flagship store, and doing his best to sell her on his overstock.
“This fabric is made from a blend of sixty percent cotton and forty percent acrylic, and it’s virtually wrinkleproof.”
Peggy dared a glance at the back, where Miss Perkins watched with an inscrutable expression on her face. She could have been bemused . . . or furious.
Peggy plunged ahead—what choice did she have? In for a penny, in for a pound, her mother had been fond of saying, all those years ago.
“Yes, wrinkleproof!” Peggy repeated the word she’d just made up, her take on waterproof. “Tell you what, everyone, let’s let you girls see for yourselves.” She stepped down from the stage, dangling the skirt’s hanger from her fingers, and offered it to the first table she came to. Two heavyset blond women, sisters perhaps, touched the hem reverently.
“Go ahead—try to wrinkle it,” Peggy encouraged. One of the women gave the hem a cautious pinch, then crumpled it in her fist, looking up at Peggy with a tentative smile on her face. Then she released it, and gave a yelp of surprise that was better than Peggy had hoped for. “Tell the girls, honey—how does it look?”
“It’s—it’s perfect!” the woman said. That was an exaggeration, of course; there were faint impressions of folds in the fabric. But Peggy knew, because she’d tried it herself, that a quick pass with a cool iron would take them right out. So would a few minutes in the bath in the steam from a hot shower.
But she wouldn’t share those ideas now. They were the homely details of real life, and she was here to peddle magic.
“What’s your name?”
“Ida Cyrus,” the woman answered, blushing.
“Everyone, we’re going to have a skirt sent to Mrs. Ida Cyrus in gratitude for her help today.” Cheers erupted as if every woman in the room had been the recipient of the gift. The feckless mannequin, who was loitering at the edge of the room, finally caught on and joined Peggy among the tables, women reaching out from all sides to touch the fabric of her skirt. Lively conversation swelled around the room, and Miss Perkins gave Peggy a little wave before disappearing through the doors.
MISS PERKINS CAME to her office several hours later. She clutched a folder to her chest and smirked.
“Guess how many pieces were ordered today?”
Peggy, who hadn’t been able to concentrate all afternoon, tried not to let her nerves show. “How many?”
“All of them.”
Peggy opened her mouth but couldn’t think of a thing to say. “You mean . . .”
“We’ve had to cut into Newark’s shipment. We’ll pull advertising from that market and see if we can order a second run, but from now on we’re focusing on next season. If things go as well in the other markets as they did here today, there’s no way we’ll be able to meet the demand this fall. But that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Anticipation might be our greatest ally right now, my dear. Deprive the ladies of what they want and it only makes them want it more—we learned that back in the Crystal Salon, didn’t we?”
“Wait,” Peggy said weakly. She thought she might faint. “You’re telling me . . .”
“Every skirt, every dress, every blouse. All right, we’ve still got a few things in sizes two and four. You were right about that, I’ll admit it now.” Peggy had tried to remind Miss Perkins that the ready-to-wear customer didn’t have the time or means to starve herself, as many of their old customers did. “But other than that—poof!” She flapped her hands to mimic the clothes vanishing into thin air.
“It was the chambray skirt that did it,” Peggy said. “They ate it up.”
Miss Perkins gave an exaggerated shudder. “‘Wrinkleproof.’ God help them.”
“We really should be using a net underlining,” Peggy said, her mind already on to a new direction. “The gathered waistbands we’re seeing aren’t going to be stiff enough in the blends, and they’ll end up emphasizing the stomach.”
“Then maybe the ladies should be introduced to cottage cheese,” Miss Perkins sniffed. “Glamour isn’t free. It takes work.”
But Peggy barely heard her. The entire collection . . . gone. And to think she’d been worried about keeping her job. “So there’s definitely to be a second collection?” she asked.
Miss Perkins laughed. “Oh my, yes. I shouldn’t say this, but Archie is absolutely ecstatic right now. I wouldn’t be surprised if he offers you your own office. He wants you to do your show in all the markets. They’ve already started making the arrangements—it has to be booked fast. We want to make it seem as though we planned it all along. I’ve got to call the papers—talk to marketing—oh, I’ve got a thousand things to do. Take the rest of the afternoon off, Peggy, you’ve earned it.”
“But it’s almost four-thirty.”
“Is it? Imagine that!” Miss Perkins turned to go. “Well, enjoy an extra hour off, then. Go to the movies. Treat yourself to a martini.”
And she was gone.
The delirious first blush of success stayed with Peggy only for another few seconds before it began slipping away like sugar between the planks in a wood floor.
Something amazing had happened today, and there was one person in the world Peggy wanted to share it with. But Jeanne was lost to her.
Seven
Crêpe
You can manufacture crêpe out of anything: wool, silk, acrylic, nylon, or a blend. Frequently it has a slightly crimped or puckered appearance, achieved with a twisted ply. The lighter and smoother the crêpe, the more pins you should use, because it can be slippery and shift during cutting. And use a walking foot so it doesn’t bunch in the bobbin case!
You do know, don’t you, that crêpe is not to be confused with crape? The latter is for mourning, and who among us has not pressed our tear-stained face to the stiff black bodice of a grandmother or great-aunt? That is crape—that matte black tight weave that seems to suck the very life from a garment. As, I suppose, it should.
April 1951
Jeanne
As the weeks ticked by, Tommie settled into her new routine without complaint, though her prediction seemed to have come true: there were no invitations from other girls, and when Jeanne picked her up in the afternoons, she was never part of any of the little groups of girls assembled in front of the school. And things weren’t much better academically. After a promising early start, her teacher praising her quick wit and strong reading skills, she’d begun having behavioral issues. “Strong-willed,” the teacher said, “uncooperative and reluctant to participate.”
Just like her mother, Jeanne thought, but of course she couldn’t share that, because the subject of Tommie’s parentage was one she’d deliberately left vague. She’d hinted that her sister suffered from anxiety and had to be institutionalized, and the nuns accepted that information without comment; when Tommie insisted her mother was living in New York City, they gave each other knowing looks.
The nuns were a judgmental and sour lot; she imagined them gossiping behind closed doors, looking for signs of early madness in Tommie. And these years mattered. It wasn’t fair, of
course, but Tommie must rise above her circumstances, above the abyss of orphanhood into which Peggy had flung her, and make her way in the world.
There were girls in the classroom for whom the social graces came easily. Jeanne recognized them as her own. How she’d ruled the halls at St. Katherine’s! She saw in Tommie’s classmates the beginnings of a pecking order, the calculated rejections and snubs. At the ages of seven and eight, they were still experimenting, but soon there would be invitations to parties, mixers with the boy’s school; then it would be on to college, and in the blink of an eye the girls would be caught up in dating, engagements, marriage.
Against this backdrop of anxiety and worry for Tommie, however, lovely things had happened. The mill was fully operational and production for their third season was under way. Orders were trickling in, with the promise of more as word spread.
And—best of all—she was dating Anthony Salvatici.
She’d gone with him to the restaurant that day seven months ago when she ran into him on Fourth Street. Anthony had introduced her to his brother, Marco, as “the girl I told you about,” and served her a four-course lunch that left her barely able to move. Since then there had been many wonderful outings, when a sitter could be arranged or Thelma was visiting and could watch Tommie. There had been movies and a baseball game and long walks—and always dinner, in one little restaurant after another, all over the city. Anthony loved food, whether it was borscht in Northeast Philadelphia or pastrami in Oxford Circle or pierogi in Port Richmond, and Jeanne had already gained a few pounds.
One drizzly Wednesday morning, the plumbing in the showroom sprang a leak, nearly ruining a display of vibrantly colored cotton-polyester bengaline, and a plumber had to be called. Jeanne canceled her appointments for the rest of the day and stole out half an hour early for lunch, leaving Ned, the salesman they had hired when their volume exceeded what she and Frank could handle, in charge.
