I Bring Sorrow_And Other Stories of Transgression

by Patricia Abbott

  The man smiled. “Red. Is not—come si dice?—garish?”

  Joseph nearly laughed. As if a fur cape on a man could be anything but garish. “Not garish at all. Moto elegante.”

  “Si. Uno minuto,” the man said, turning the pad back so it faced Joseph. “Necessita un taglios per mie mani.” He drew a finger along the sides of the sketched cape. “Qui penso.”

  A slit for his hands! “Normally a cape ties at the neck, sir, allowing complete mobility for your hands. You won’t need a…slit.”

  The man shook his head. He looked Joseph right in the eyes for the first time. “Cucire un taglio?” He mimicked the action.

  There was no arguing with a customer. “Certainly. A slit would satisfy that requirement.”

  The man fairly hummed with pleasure. He was probably imagining himself in this fine fur cape already.

  “A black lining, yes. As long as I can acquire the proper materials, it shouldn’t take more than a few weeks.”

  In truth, Joseph was a novice with fur. He used no regular furrier. Nor did he know what working with this amount of mink would entail. He’d suggested it because it was the fur he saw most often when he went uptown to look in shop windows. The one he had used for a stole or two. Perhaps his machine would need a special needle for the job—even a particular needle foot. Could he get such a thing on short notice? But he’d learn quickly, get what was needed at once, because the price of this assignment would keep his family in coal for the winter and put red meat on the table.

  Perhaps there’d be money enough to purchase Mr. Hoover’s new machine for Tina’s precious carpets. She’d been swept off her feet, so to say, by a demonstration of its efficiency at a local fair. And if this cape suited his customer, perhaps his friends would make their way downtown. Or, even better, perhaps Joseph would make his way uptown.

  “You’ll never guess, Tina,” he told her that night. “An elegant man came into my shop today and asked me to make him a fur cape. Me,” he repeated, putting his thumbs under his arms. “He seemed to know my work.” Was this true or had his head puffed up the way his mother always warned it would?

  “Oh, Joseph, that is fine news. And where did this gentleman hear about you?” she asked, echoing his first thought and calling into question his last.

  “I never asked him,” he admitted.

  “What is his name?”

  “I never asked him that either.”

  “Oh, Joseph. What if you make the cape and he never returns?”

  The excitement had apparently wiped questions like these from his head. He shrugged.

  He could see the wheels turning in Tina’s head.

  “I wonder if it was that forest green dress you made for Mrs. Walton. It had fur trim around the hem and neck. Perhaps word got around.”

  He’d forgotten that gown. Mrs. Walton had worn it to her son’s marriage to a society girl in Connecticut last winter. Perhaps that was where this customer saw it. Up in Darien, he thought. Of course, he’d hand-stitched that fur onto the neckline and hem. His stitches were so tiny that Mrs. Walton asked for a magnifying glass to see them. This gentleman must have attended the wedding too. It was settled in their minds.

  The next morning, Joseph began his hunt for the proper materials. A furrier on Mercer Street had several nice pelts and was able to provide him with advice and the proper needle foot.

  “For a man, you say?” Mr. Gross asked him.

  Joseph paused, wondering if it was a good idea to admit to that given the gentleman’s surreptitious visit. “For his wife, I imagine. A surprise, I think.”

  “She must be a large woman.” Mr. Gross looked with interest at the measurements. “Enormous shoulders, hasn’t she?” His hands indicated what might cause that feature and Joseph blushed.

  The job went more quickly than he expected despite the handwork needed. The cape was ready in less than a month. Tina stood over him every night, offering her opinions on the alterations in the pattern he’d made. She found the perfect binding for the slits, in fact. It was a black braid with a faint gold thread running through it. Sturdy yet elegant.

  “Is it really for a man, Joseph?”

  “Yes, yes. And one I have seen before if I could just remember where.”

  “This cape will make you famous.” She ran her hands through the fur again. “But why these silly slits?” She poked her fingers through the openings and wiggled them.

  Joseph shrugged. “Rich people. Who can understand them? Something to make them stick out at the theater.” That thought almost rang a bell.

  “Stick out indeed,” Tina said, wriggling her fingers through the slits again.

  Enrico Caruso walked into the zoo in Central Park in November, 1906. Over the summer, he’d taken his exercise at the Bronx Zoo uptown, but the recent commotion over Benga, a pygmie who slept in a hammock in the monkey house, brought him down here. John Verner’s exotic find had brought riff-raff into the quiet of the monkey house. Benga, famous for shooting arrows into the bull’s-eye of a target set up amidst the primates, also marauded about the zoo on a hot day. He had a talent for finding a person who would find his attention repellent rather than amusing. On one distressful occasion, he followed the tenor himself, pretending to steal his cotton candy to please the crowd. Caruso would have no more of that attention. He did not go to the zoo to be part of the attraction. He would save that talent for the stage.

  The zoo in Central Park was far less impressive but would do for Caruso’s purposes and save him the longer carriage ride.

  The cape was more glorious than he’d even anticipated. He felt embraced by the soft fur: warm and elegant. He strolled toward the monkey house, breathing in the chill air. Once inside, adjusting his eyes to the darkness, he spotted her. He preferred blondes, and this woman was ideal for his game in her thin winter coat. She stood in front of the orangutan cage, watching a female nurse her baby. Her intense interest in this activity gave him an advantage.

  Caruso looked around. Although his fur cape allowed him to blend into the dark enclosure, he had to be sure that pesky guard had not spotted him. A few weeks earlier, the man had tapped him on the shoulder with his nightstick, warning him about standing too close to the women. He couldn’t identify himself in such circumstances so he was forced to accept such treatment. With a bowed head, he moved away. Of course, the fur cape was still too warm to wear in October. Now it freed his hands to roam less conspicuously.

  Caruso stood right behind the blonde, his knees pressed against her thighs. His fingers darted through the slits, grabbing a handful of the woman’s bottom. Just as quickly, he stepped away. Her scream echoed through the empty monkey house.

  “Sir,” she said, spotting him in the dark. “How dare you.”

  He looked around to suggest another person might be guilty of the crime. It was then that the same guard stepped out from behind a pillar. He gestured to the famous tenor. Within minutes, the cop had handcuffed him and led him away. Luckily his cape made the cuffs nearly invisible.

  “Joseph, Joseph,” Tina cried, waking him. “You will never believe who it was that bought your cape.”

  Joseph was more asleep than awake.

  “What coat?” he asked, throwing the blanket aside. His bare feet hit the chilly floor in a rush.

  “Your cape, your cape. The fur one.”

  In a flash, Tina was standing at the kitchen table with the New York Post spread open. Drowsily, Joseph made his way across the room. Had his cape turned up on the society page?

  Joseph saw the face first—the face that had haunted him.

  “Enrico Caruso,” his wife said before he could read the caption. “He’s been arrested for fondling a woman in the monkey house in Central Park.” She giggled and then covered her mouth. “He told the zoo guard a monkey did it. A monkey named Knocko.”

  “I suppose it is possible
,” Joseph said. He had stood too close to the cages himself on more than one occasion. The creatures were always looking for food. Always trying to grab the loose scarf or hat.

  “They are looking for the woman he…touched. Her name is Hannah Graham.”

  “I can read it myself, Tina.”

  “The police want to know where he acquired a fur coat with slits for his wandering hands,” Tina continued despite his comment. “They think the tailor was in cahoots with Mr. Caruso. That’s you, Joseph,” she added unnecessarily.

  Joseph’s heart sunk. Was he now to be part of a criminal case? Would conspiring with a masher ruin him? How was he to know the nefarious purpose for the slits? Such an intention never occurred to him.

  “He’s going to have to go to court,” Tina told him, unwilling to let him read a single word of the story himself. “But they’re allowing him to meet his obligations at the Met.”

  “The Met’s patrons run city hall.”

  This was a subject they often discussed. The city was run for the rich and by the rich. Only the crumbs from their table fell on the Lower East Side.

  “Why would a man with good looks, money, and a voice like his need to find his fun in the monkey house?” Tina asked. “I can’t believe you didn’t recognize him. He’s in the newspaper every day.”

  Joseph shrugged. “It’s a game he’s playing probably. A rich man’s game.” Although then he remembered reading that Caruso had been born in the slums.

  “They’re talking about closing it down,” Tina read. “There’s a petition by a women’s group.”

  “The Met?” Joseph said, scanning the article for further mention of his cape.

  “No, Joseph, the monkey house. You silly man.” She paused, and then giggled. “Where will he ever find a place so dark?”

  “The subway is finished, let him go there,” Joseph said. “It’s dark on those platforms. Darker than a monkey house.”

  He was angry for some reason. His beautiful cape had been merely a means to a horrible, reprehensible act. He was glad Mr. Caruso had paid him in cash the day he picked up the cape. It would be difficult to extract it from him now.

  “What upper-class gentleman would use the subway?” his wife asked.

  “What society gentleman would pinch a woman’s bottom in a monkey house?”

  The coming days were tense in the Valente household. Every time the bell rang, Joseph expected to see a uniformed policeman enter his shop. But such a thing never happened. Mr. Caruso paid a small fine and continued to charm opera lovers across the globe. The fate of the cape is unknown.

  How to Launder a Shirt

  I can’t stop thinking about my husband’s new wife.

  She must toss his shirts into a dryer because I haven’t seen them hanging on the clothesline. In fact, the line is wrapped around one of the metal poles behind the house—as if it hasn’t been used in years. She’d be surprised at the difference fresh air can make. Maybe Helene didn’t grow up in a place where you could hang wash outside in the bright sunlight, capturing that scent. I bet she grew up in the city, where clothes hung outside sometimes had to be washed again. Or the feel of them, gritty and stiff, wasn’t something you wanted on your skin. Funny how often Joe’s skin was an object of concern.

  Helene stands on our porch all the time. Joe never did like putting furniture outside, so it’s empty—just like it always was. The floor still needs painting and has the same loose board as you step up to the door. He said a chair on a porch was an invitation for folks to visit, and he didn’t care for strangers in his house. Nor on his porch.

  I said “our” porch when what I really meant was “their” porch. No one ever talks about the difficulty of altering pronouns once a marriage is finished.

  She stands there smoking as I did once—burying the butts around the yard as I did too. She’s probably hoping for a car to pass by. Or idly watching the brazen crows pick corn from the farm next door. Maybe waiting for an airplane to fly overhead. The days can be long so you try to break them up with almost anything. I still remember that—the way a ringing phone, the mail delivery, or a crop duster became something exciting.

  If it’s late in the day, Helene’s waiting for the school bus to drop off my kids. I still think of them as mine, of course. Her hair, which is long, wispy, and reddish-blonde, blows prettily in the wind. The back of her hand shades her gray eyes when the sun starts to drop to eye-level. I kept my hair short after a few mishaps, so nothing could grab hold of it.

  Towels—towels need a dryer with one of those little paper sheets to make them soft. Hang them on the line, and the wind can blow the softness right out of them. It takes a long time to learn which routine works best. Trial and error. But Joe isn’t the most patient man. You’d better get your Ps and Qs straightened out fast where he’s concerned.

  Helene wears slacks—the dressy kind with pleats. Joe never liked me to wear trousers, as he called them. Said a woman with legs as good as mine owed it to her husband to show them off. I didn’t mind. Well, yes, I did mind, but when a request—or an order—comes along with a compliment attached, what can you do? Joe had a specific skirt length he preferred. Too long and he said I looked like an Amish woman. Too short and I looked like a, well, you know. Since we didn’t have a full-length mirror in the house, I figured he knew best.

  I wonder when Joe started liking pleated slacks. Maybe Helene’s legs don’t draw men’s glances. Despite what he says, it’s just as well that they don’t. That’s one of the tricky things about Joe—he blames you for what happened when you were just following his orders.

  Perhaps his new wife sends his shirts to a laundry. Maybe that new place on Elm Street in Marine City tends to their things now. Chinese people are known for their skill in laundering shirts. If this is the case, Joe must’ve changed his mind in the last year or two because he couldn’t tolerate commercially laundered shirts in my day. Said the chemicals they used were poisonous—just like that MSG they put in food. Told me the machine that tumbled the clothes dry was filled with other people’s germs.

  Joe was very particular about most things. His shoes always had to point north in his closet. Point them east or south and you were likely to spend some time in the closet with them. Forget to insert the wooden trees and…

  Joe worked for—well, he still does, come to think of it—the Ford dealer in Warren. Sales were down to almost nothing that last year of our marriage. I kept telling him I could get a job and he kept doing what he did when he got angry. Now the car business is back on track, I hear. If things had recovered more quickly, it might be me looking for the school bus from the porch.

  It’s possible Joe’s wearing wrinkle-free shirts now, although it would surprise me. That kind of shirt was around in my day, but neither of us was satisfied with the way he looked in them. They had the sort of sheen that looked like they’d melt into your skin if you stood too close to a fire. Actually, I didn’t think they were bad, but Joe said he lost sales when he wore one. Said it looked like he couldn’t afford anything better—or that no one was taking good care of him.

  I felt my eye twitch as I watched him finish the knot on his tie the last day, wondering if I’d carelessly put too much starch in his shirt collar. It looked so stiff against his neck somehow. Joe’s neck was tender, and getting the starch right took some doing. I can’t tell you how many fights we had early on over those shirts. I wish I could warn Helene about that. I know it might be unusual, but I’ve grown fond of her over time and grateful for the way she looks after my girls.

  Although the laundering of shirts seems like a simple thing, it’s one that comes up every day. The care and maintenance of shirts involves equipment and processes that choke, burn, and electrocute. It’s easy to fall going up and down the cellar stairs with baskets of clothes. One can strangle on a clothesline that twists cruelly on those metal poles. Things you care about like you
r good coat or the kitten that climbed up on the porch one day can turn up inside a clothes dryer without any warning.

  I just can’t stop thinking about my husband’s new wife. She’d do well to get the procedure for the care of Joe’s clothes sorted out as quickly as possible.

  Unless, of course, she wants to rest under the back forty with me.

  My Social Contracts

  Weddings after a certain age, say thirty-five or forty, often smack of a bargain. It may not be spelled out in a contract or even verbalized, but it’s there. The mistakes made in earlier relationships make us turn a jaded eye on the next one. Fool me once or something.

  My first husband, Leonard, suffered from a need to participate in various rituals, a psychiatric condition I’d not heard much of at twenty-three. An illustration: he spent considerable time deciding what type of tea to have before going to bed, making a ceremony of selecting, brewing, and serving it. Harmless, yes, but a wearying ceremony to observe at the end of a long day. That’s what comes from marrying an older man. Another obsession: the music of Philip Glass, which had to be played during sex and on special occasion dinners. Thankfully, our evenings of both sexual activity and special dinners dwindled quickly, and Glass’ compositions became a dim—or should I say din—memory.

  Truthfully, I had little else to complain about with Leonard. He surpassed me in his obsession with neatness. In fact, he may have nurtured the quality in me, leading me to a full-blown compulsion. I remember marveling at the order in his color-coded closet and bureau drawers when he invited me up early on and I took a peek.

  But when he died suddenly, I found out all those little rites and rituals—most I have not shared here in the interest of brevity—had come at the price of an adequate inheritance. Never once did he allude to his dwindling portfolio. I am making myself seem more craven than I was: I loved Leonard in my own way, and he loved me in his. It just wouldn’t figure into a romance novel.

  I lived on his money for nearly a decade, but then it was time to figure out the next move. I was not the bright young thing of twenty years earlier, but my goal was a modest one. I was looking for a man with a steady job who wanted a stay-at-home wife but no children. And also a man requiring scant romance in his life and even less fussing over. I was particularly loath to do that.