The Funeral Dress

by Susan Gregg Gilmore

  “Only men set the patterns,” Mrs. Whitlow said as she leaned close to Emmalee. “Don’t ask me why. Just the way it’s always been.”

  They walked deeper into the room. Mrs. Whitlow pointed to the right. “They’re bottom hemmers over there.” She pointed to the left and turned her face to Emmalee so she could be heard over the roar of the fast-spinning machines. “They’re pocket makers. And them there, behind the pocket makers, are the lapel makers.” Emmalee nodded.

  She spotted Easter Nichols sitting among the other pocket makers in the far left corner of the room. Easter had a large goiter underneath her right cheek, and it looked as though it had grown some, further thickening Easter’s already fatty neck. Some of the kids at school said the sight of that awesome goiter killed her husband, shocked him right to death. It was an ugly thing to look at, but Emmalee had seen worse. She waved to her teacher, but Easter was focused on her work.

  Pearl Tribble sat behind Easter. Pearl lived in Red Chert, too, and Emmalee had seen her walking to work many times. She hoped they might walk together soon and talk like the other women who arrived at the factory in cars. Next to Pearl sat Laura Cooley. Laura was a couple years older than Emmalee but had left school after the ninth grade. She lived on the back side of Pine Mountain near the small lumber mill Emmalee’s uncle Runt operated on his own. Laura had pale skin and pale blue eyes and kept her bright red hair cut short like a boy’s. She looked up and stared at Emmalee before returning to her work.

  “There. There’s the collar makers. That’s where you’ll be,” Mrs. Whitlow said. She pushed on through a tight aisle formed by a row of sewing tables to one side and the backs of women curled over their machines to the other. Baskets, already filling with finished collars, sat beneath each table. Mrs. Whitlow pointed to the floor, cautioning Emmalee to watch her step. She stopped in front of an empty chair and patted a woman on the back. With her hands, she asked again for the woman’s attention.

  The older seamstress did not look up or slow her machine.

  “Leona,” Mrs. Whitlow said, “I want to introduce you to Emmalee. She’s new here. She’s going to be working collars next to you. She knows how to sew a bit, but I need you to show her the ropes. You know. Get her started.”

  Leona remained fixed on her work. Mrs. Whitlow tapped her high-heeled shoe on the shiny wood floor by Leona’s chair. She placed her hands on her hips. “Leona, I’m not asking for more than twenty minutes of your time. She’ll learn fast. She took sewing from Easter at the high school.”

  Mrs. Whitlow leaned in close. “Go on and take a seat,” she said. “Leona ain’t going to stop until she gets through with that batch. She don’t like anybody messing up her rhythm. But she’ll get to you. I promise. Good luck today.” Mrs. Whitlow spun sharp on her heels and walked back toward the office.

  From behind Emmalee, a woman half stood over the top of her machine and introduced herself as Wilma Minton. She had full cheeks shaded a bright pink and eyebrows drawn on her face. The tail of her left eyebrow was smudged, and Emmalee held her hand to her mouth, careful not to snicker.

  “Wish I could help you, hon, but I’m a lapel maker,” Wilma said, holding up a raw lapel. “Have been for eighteen years. Gwen’s right, though. Leona’ll get to you in due time. She’s the best.” Wilma grinned. “Don’t go telling Cora I said that, ain’t that right, Leona?” She laughed out loud and talked on as if Leona was not there. “Don’t pay Leona Lane and her moody ways no mind. She’s a good woman even if she acts sour most the time. Ignores you most the other.”

  Leona slipped another collar under the machine’s presser foot.

  “You from Cullen?” Wilma asked. “I’d even go so far as to bet you’re a Bullard girl.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Emmalee looked back at Wilma.

  “I knew it. I could tell by those big brown eyes of yours. You’re a pretty thing. Your daddy done one thing good and that was marrying your sweet mama.” Emmalee smiled. No one spoke of her mama anymore. “I heard Gwen say you had Easter for Home Economics. Me and Easter are roommates, and I’ll tell you right now she’ll want you calling her by her first name. None of that Mrs. Nichols talk like you had to do at school.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Emmalee said, but Wilma had returned to her sewing.

  Emmalee faced her own machine. She ran her fingers across its top. It was larger than any she had ever seen, and its casing was slick and cool to the touch. She wanted to press her flushed cheek against its metal. Silver lettering along the front read UNION SPECIAL. She traced the letters with her index finger and then raised and lowered the presser foot as she had watched Leona do. She turned the wheel attached to the right of the machine and watched the needle rise and fall. She picked up a spool of thread and pretended to examine its color and quality as if she knew what she was to do next.

  She slumped in her chair and fingered the lettering again, trying to look busy while Leona and the other women around her tended to their work. The noise of the machines ebbed and flowed, at times roaring so high Emmalee wanted to plug her ears. But as fast as it grew to a fevered pitch, it fell to a more gentle level as if the seamstresses were following notes on a sheet of music.

  Emmalee pushed her foot against the floor pedal and the machine lurched forward. She yanked her foot back and her hands fell to her sides. She stared up at the painted windows and focused on the bits of sunlight peeking through glass where the gray had chipped away. Even for a girl raised in the dimness of the holler, it bothered her not to see the sky. She looked at the large clock on the wall behind her, rubbing against Leona’s arm as she turned toward the wall.

  Leona snatched another bundle of collars tied with a piece of cotton twine and dropped them onto her lap. “Look here,” she said to Emmalee.

  Emmalee rubbed her eyes and sat up straight.

  “These are for housedresses,” Leona said and held the bundle out in front of her. “We usually make for housedresses and men’s work shirts, more than anything else, sometimes women’s blouses. But mostly housedresses lately.” She tugged on the collar of her own dress. “Some’ll go to JC Penney. Some’ll go to Sears. Same dress, just different label. Now there’s only a couple hundred in these bundles here,” Leona said, holding up a bundle in front of her. “More in shirt bundles. See this ticket. Attached to the bundle. This is like cash to you and me. Proof of your work.”

  “Like cash,” Emmalee repeated.

  “Don’t try stringing them all together like I do.” Leona reached behind her machine and pulled on the collars threaded together like a piece of ribbon. “That’ll come later. I’ve probably sewed a million collars since starting at Tennewa. Blue, green, yellow, denim, flannel, cotton—don’t make no difference to me. Don’t even ask if it’s going on a housecoat or a shirt no more. That don’t matter. All that’s important is that I go past production.”

  “Production?” Emmalee asked.

  “Your quota. You don’t know nothing about this, do you?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Put the collar under the presser foot starting here.” Leona pointed to a corner. “Then stitch all the way around like you’re drawing a line. Stop here at the other corner and leave this end open. See?” Leona pulled apart the collar pieces. “It’s not up to us to turn them. When you’re done, let it fall into the basket on the other side of the table. The bundle boys come by every couple of hours and pick them up. It’s as simple as that.”

  “What if I make a mistake?” Emmalee asked.

  “Inspectors’ll check your work. You make your own repairs. And don’t go arguing about them, just do them. Saves time in the end. The finishers’ll press them before they go to the collar setters.”

  Emmalee nodded.

  “And girl, be sure your threads always match the color of your fabric. Seems plain, don’t it? You’d be surprised how often that don’t come out right. Some days I think half the girls in here gone color blind.” Leona pushed her glasses down on her nose. “You got yellow o
n there so you’re good to go. Your thread’s in that cabinet there on your left. These here are mine, you understand? When you need you some more, go to the supply closet. Don’t take from nobody else. Most important, you don’t draw but one bundle of them raw collars at a time.”

  “One bundle,” Emmalee said.

  “Some here struggle more than others to meet their quotas. Some work real fast and don’t take no break like Cora there.” She pointed to a heavyset woman with long gray hair pulled into a loose bun. “They’re the ones putting food on tables that would’ve gone bare without them. And some here mostly to get off their husbands’ farms like Sarah over there.” Leona nodded to the right. “Tired of picking beans and cooking for hired hands. But don’t matter to me why you’re here. Just do your work.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And girl, these machines run fast, real fast. Watch your fingers. They’ll slide right under that needle in the blink of an eye. Seen too many women stitch their fingers together. Just last week Ida Lawson done stitched her tit.”

  Emmalee held her arms across her front. “That must have hurt,” she said, hugging her chest tighter. She’d never heard of such a thing, and she’d never heard a woman say the word tit before.

  “Lord, no, it was her fake one. Lost the real one to cancer years ago. But Gwen didn’t know that. Passed out right there on the sewing room floor.” Leona tilted her head back and laughed. “That poor woman. Can’t stand the sight of blood.” Leona handed the bundle of collars to Emmalee. “Go on. Enough talking.”

  Emmalee picked up a raw collar and placed it on the machine, positioning the needle at the far-left corner. She lowered the presser foot and stepped on the floor pedal. The machine’s needle sped up and down, and Emmalee fought to keep a straight seam. She jerked her foot off the pedal, adjusted the collar, and started again. She finished one, and then another, but her sewing was slow and messy compared to Leona’s. Her bottom grew numb and tiny beads of sweat formed on the tip of her nose as she worked to finish her first bundle.

  Emmalee guided two layers of thin cotton fabric underneath the needle. She eased her foot off the floor pedal, struggling to keep the pressure steady like Leona. Instead the machine hesitated and lurched before climbing to a steadier purr. The needle rose and fell at awkward spurts while Emmalee stitched the collar closed, and the motor burned hot on her legs.

  While Leona neared the end of a bundle, other women stood up and pushed their chairs underneath their worktables. Their talk was fevered as they bunched together and hurried out of the building.

  “Lunch, hon,” Wilma said as she touched Emmalee on the shoulder. “You bring something to eat?”

  Emmalee looked up at Wilma, but she was already pushing back her chair, intent on joining Pearl and Easter walking on ahead of her.

  Emmalee pressed her hand against her stomach.

  With her canvas loafer, Leona tapped a brown paper bag on the sewing room floor.

  “There’s a sandwich in this bag down here. Take it if you want.” She pushed another collar underneath the presser foot. “Go on. From looking at those bony arms of yours, I’d say you need it worse than I do.”

  Emmalee inched closer to Leona’s chair like she was reaching toward an angry dog. She pulled the bag to her lap and peeked inside.

  “Curtis made it, so guess it’s fried bologna.” Leona stood and pushed her chair underneath her sewing table. “You ain’t supposed to eat in here, not anywhere near the machines or the fabric. But go ahead this time. No one’s watching but me, and I sure ain’t going to tell.” Leona walked away, leaving Emmalee alone in the sewing room, the paper bag in her hands.

  EMMALEE

  RED CHERT

  Three Years Later

  Light leaked into the holler, slow and quiet. Emmalee lingered by the front window, waiting for the first speck of sun to crown the trees crowding her view. Dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a faded green T-shirt stretched too tight around her belly still swollen from giving birth, Emmalee pulled a wool coat across her shoulders.

  The baby had fussed during the night, never sleeping for more than an hour. Even when Kelly Faye did drift into a peaceful slumber, Emmalee lay there wide-eyed, thoughts spinning. Hidden in the dark underneath the quilts her mama had stitched long ago, she plotted every detail of her last day in Red Chert. Now with morning about to break, Emmalee was eager to set about her chores while the baby finally slept in the back room.

  She would pack the few things she cared about, careful to leave the house appearing as though nothing had changed. She would bake a fresh skillet of cornbread for Nolan if there was enough meal in the cupboard and cook up the pinto beans she had soaked overnight. When her chores were done, she’d hike to the small cemetery at the top of the mountain. Come spring the azalea would bloom fierce there but for today Emmalee would carry a bundle of cedar and holly ripe with red berries to place on her mama’s grave. A shiver ran through her body, but Emmalee tossed it off as she looked behind her.

  Nolan’s cot sat empty, pushed into the far corner of the room. It wasn’t suspect for her father to go missing for a day or two, but it was never something Emmalee could plan or schedule. Even as a child, she had treasured those days she woke to find herself alone in the holler. Besides, she had never felt truly lonely there—at least not until Kelly Faye was born. But for the first time Emmalee interpreted her father’s absence as more than good fortune. It was an omen, a sign from Jesus or God or perhaps her mama, that her leaving was right.

  An early gray light washed the top of Pine Mountain. Emmalee buttoned her coat snug around her neck and rushed outside. Her body shook against the cold, but she treaded deeper into the wet mist already clinging to her face and hands. A towhee with snips of fuzzy oak gall in his mouth darted past her, nearly brushing her left cheek as he flew to a low-hanging branch. Emmalee did not flinch.

  She primed the pump set off in the yard and filled two large buckets with water. She carried them back to the house, stopping only once to rest her arms. A couple of pots sat ready on the woodstove. Emmalee struck a match and tossed it into the open hole. Once the fire took hold, she replaced the iron plate and poured the water into the kettles, leaving it to heat while the baby slept on.

  She walked back outside, this time heading toward the narrow dirt road twisting through the holler’s tallest pines and cedars stretching to find the sun. She dug the tips of her boots into the compound of leaves and twigs carpeting her path and kicked them up into the air. The red rocky chert covering this land was still soft and thick from the recent rains, and Emmalee stumbled as her toe sunk too deep into the mud.

  She stopped sharp at the edge of her father’s property and listened for any hint of his beat-up truck rumbling toward home. She leaned forward and turned her ear closer toward the main road. Someone in the far distance hammered a steady note. Emmalee shuffled through the leaves toward the trunk of the large oak left misshapen from a bolt of lightning long before she was born. The trunk stood thick at the bottom and tapered thin like a sharpened pencil at the top. Its woody flesh was nearly camouflaged in her crosses, each no more than half a foot long and crafted from twigs collected from the hillside behind the house. Those from the oak and poplar were Emmalee’s favorites, although not as fragrant as those from the cedars speckled about the holler.

  On occasion Nolan carried a twig home from his long walks among the mountains if the shape called to him right. He’d leave it on the table without ever saying a word, but Emmalee knew its purpose. She preferred to hunt for her own. There was a time when she had felt close to her mama whenever she was in the woods gathering twigs for her cross-making. She had sworn she once heard her mama’s voice skittering through the tops of the pines, calling her name. But eventually Emmalee felt her mother ease away, and her voice grew silent.

  She continued making her crosses, somehow convinced that with each one she kept a tiny bit of the person passing with her in Red Chert. Even the dead she didn’t know, s
he was desperate to keep close for a time, preferring to believe that this ever-changing family of angels watched out for her. Emmalee stood a moment longer and studied the trunk.

  She fingered Ida Lawson’s cross. The wood looked fresh and new compared to the others. The cancer that had teased Ida once long ago took her life fast this time. Emmalee thought that was particularly unkind, and for that reason alone, she made Ida’s cross a little larger than the others. Leona told Emmalee they had buried Ida without a bra or her fake breasts. “Ida was tired of pretending she had something that wasn’t there and didn’t want nothing binding her in heaven,” Leona said. Ida had even insisted she be buried barefoot, wanting only a pair of knitted socks “to keep her feet warm.”

  Emmalee smiled at the memory of the older seamstress who had always been kind to her. Then she looked toward the top of the trunk and to the only cross she couldn’t leave behind when she left this place for good. Balanced on her toes, she tugged on the one belonging to her mama. But she stumbled backward empty handed. She approached the trunk a second time, stepping onto a knotted root. Emmalee reached for the cross with her other hand and lifted it free from a nail driven deep into the oak. She stood steady among the leaves and raised the cross to her lips.

  A creaking, rattling sound echoed in the distance and disappeared. Again Emmalee turned her ear toward the main road. She tucked the cross inside her coat and ran back to the house. Tomorrow she would carry Kelly Faye out of Red Chert to where Leona and Curtis would be waiting for her.

  LEONA

  OLD LICK

  Late Afternoon

  Worn out from another long day at the factory, Leona eased from the pickup, her navy purse and a grocery sack dangling in her right hand. Curtis lingered behind the steering wheel, jiggling the key in the truck’s ignition. He pounded the dashboard with the palm of his fist, but the engine sputtered and coughed as if it had taken ill. Leona turned her back to him and walked across the gravel drive, staring with glazed eyes at their home of twenty-one years.