Edith Shay Chapter 3

Hello,

This is A.

Le Fay of Silvanocity and I'm going to share chapter three from Edith Shea with you.

Sizing up a dream.

The steam whistle from the textile mill down the street wrenched me from my sleep every morning.

I bolted out of bed in a panic,

Thinking there had been a fatal log jam.

The Mauston mill always blew the whistle when there was an accident at the logging camp.

My nerves were so ruffled it took a while in the shop to smooth them out.

I sat on a wooden bench in a murky room pulling a needle through fabric,

Making things for people I saw only long enough to collect their addresses for billing and listen to their complaints,

Which were many,

And compliments,

Which were few.

I'd stand behind the counter staring at a person I'd never met,

Watching their lips twist around some rude comment about our sewing or our fees,

And think back to the general store in Wisconsin.

Mrs.

Beaufield would listen to complaints with a wide smile.

She'd nod and hum a little to show that she was listening,

But all the while she'd be tugging on the small sign hanging under the extra gas lantern that said,

Fools who waste their time complaining about matters on earth will have no words left to describe the beauty of heaven.

I'd remember that sign,

Smile,

Then say,

We'll serve you better next time,

Ma'am.

Ellie would shake her head in disapproval,

But the Dyer sisters never noticed.

They rarely went to the counter.

They stayed at their table working in unison like some mythical creature with four hands and two heads.

As they worked,

The Dyer sisters whispered to each other as if they were in the back peel of a church,

Gossiping about the people who had come to hear the sermon.

When there was no one at the counter,

Ellie kept her mind on her own work,

Unless she was unhappy with my progress.

Then she mumbled to herself for the longest time.

One morning she took up a smock I had basted and said,

Edith,

I can't see why Aslan let you in the door.

You've got eight thumbs for fingers.

This is far too tight.

Rip it out and do it over.

She dropped the smock in my lap and returned to her end of the table.

A few minutes later,

I heard her mumbling over her work.

She was always clearest when she pulled the thread tight after making a stitch.

Takes her right off the street.

Stitch.

Doesn't know her from Eve.

Stitch.

Can't sew a lick.

This went on until she got tired of hearing her own voice.

I wanted to stand right up and say,

And how did you learn to sew?

Did you ever baste a stitch too tight in your life?

By the time the church clock struck noon,

I was worn to the nub.

I wanted to close up inside myself and forget everything.

I was tired of trying to get things right.

Sorry,

I'd ever left Wisconsin.

And I'm almost certain I'd never make my own way.

I'd sew myself into a stupor of self-pity.

Then look at what I'd done.

My stitches would be crooked and the thread bunched.

Plastic cap,

I'd say,

Ripping the stitches out.

Get it right.

As days passed into weeks and my stitches stretched out long and straight,

The Dyer sisters' whispers were almost comforting in their quietness.

And Ellie started to leave me alone.

I even learned to sew a thing or two.

And in months' time,

I could cast a thousand stitches,

Each one straight and uniform,

Like a grain of rice.

I was beginning to think I could learn any task I set my mind to.

After the shop closed for the day,

I had to clean up before I went to my room.

I also had to let a young girl named Jillian into the shop.

Each night she worked her way through the shop to collect the scraps left behind after a day of sewing,

Tied them into tight cubes with twine,

Then bought them from Aslan at two cents a bundle.

With the scraps and some cotton backing sold at 30 cents a yard,

Jillian's mother Sharon sewed quilts in their home.

She sold them to hospitals,

Hotels,

And individuals who heard about her.

For days,

We whispered our hellos and set to work in silence in the flickering light of the hurricane lamps set out on the table.

Then one evening,

I noticed a book poking out of the pocket in her apron,

And I decided to ask her,

What book is that that you have there?

Jillian turned,

Her pale face blushing.

It's a primer.

Oh,

I nodded,

Remembering the books my mother gave to Thomas and me for Christmas.

Since there was no school in town,

She had used them to teach us how to read.

She bought them through a mail order catalog.

For me,

They were wonderful.

Thomas,

On the other hand,

Wasn't as happy.

The primers disappeared after mother resorted to putting Thomas into the corner to do his daily reading.

I found them years later under the floorboards of the attic.

That short conversation was the start of our friendship.

Each night,

We talked as we worked,

Recounting the events of our days.

Jillian was in the sixth grade,

And her class had a room all to itself.

I was fascinated by the idea of a building with separate rooms and school desks,

Classes in sums,

History,

And geography.

I remembered reading about a new school opening in Chicago once.

I had wanted to attend school so badly,

To sit with other girls my age.

We could share stories,

Go berry picking after school,

Hold tea parties,

Real ones with cups and saucers,

And little bowls for cream and sugar.

At school,

I could read from book after book.

Jillian's school had its own library,

And she could take any one of the books home with her for a week at a time.

Jillian allowed me to borrow books,

So thanks to her,

I learned about things such as the childhood of Abraham Lincoln,

The Pilgrims,

And the rivers of Illinois.

Jillian told me,

You know,

Edith,

If it weren't for you,

I'd forget half this stuff.

I love to listen to all your stories,

I told her.

It's almost as good as listening to Grandpa Jacob.

I wish my grandfather were alive.

He was from Germany.

Mother says he always talked about his village,

Where goats roamed the streets,

And there was a clock with a life-size bear carved out of wood that rung the bell in every hour.

My grandfather tells great stories,

Too,

I nodded,

Remembering how Thomas and I used to sit on either side of Grandpa's chair to hear him tell stories.

Grandpa spun tales of the past as I picked out the pine needles stuck in his pant legs.

He'd settle into his chair and clear his throat,

Then he'd lean his head back and start by speaking to the ceiling.

His wobbly voice echoed through the room.

Jillian sat down on the Dyer sisters' bench and said,

Tell me one,

Edith.

You're always hearing my stories.

I want to hear one of yours,

Right?

I took a deep breath and told the story the best I could,

But as I spoke,

I heard Grandpa's voice in my head.

The corn in the London homestead was knee-high when it was devoured by locusts in 1841.

The crop turned to dust and the house was taken away by the bank.

With nowhere to turn,

Grandpa packed up his family and moved to Malmstown,

Looking for work.

After settling Grandma and their boys in a hotel room,

He went to the general store,

Hoping to catch word of a job from one of the many farmers who gathered around the pot-bellied stove for warmth and gossip.

They welcomed him with silent nods as he walked up to the stove.

He stretched his hands out over the open flames and admired the scars of his hard work.

His thoughts drifted as he half-listened to the quiet murmur of the men around him until he heard a booming voice echo out of the corner.

Mark my words,

Gentlemen.

The great iron horse will carry this country into new lands,

Greater than anything we have ever seen.

Jillian laughed to hear me imitate the railroad man.

I smiled and kept going.

Grandpa used to push his way through the tight knot of men forming in the corner,

Peering over shoulders.

He caught sight of a railroad man describing the great iron rails that would bore into the western frontier.

Grandpa ignored what he called the romantic lines about open prairies and stout black mountains.

He wanted to know what he would get paid if he agreed to leave his wife behind and live out of a tent for several months of hard work.

He needed money to put good shoes on his feet,

A roof over his family's head,

And food in the cupboard.

The railroad man offered 75 cents a day to any man reporting to the Northern Pacific Office in Chicago by the first of February that year.

Did your grandfather go?

Jillian asked as she leaned forward.

I said,

Before the 22nd of January,

Grandpa and his three sons stood at the office doors with newspapers stuffed in their coats to cut the bite off the cold.

What did your grandmother do?

Grandma stayed in Milestone with her sister and waited for her family to return.

Grandpa and my father and his brothers laid the iron and wood that would one day lead the iron horse right to master,

Not more than an hour's ride from my family's front door.

They agreed to stay on and build the line from Chicago to St.

Paul when they were promised an additional five cents a day.

They sent their pay home and Grandma kept it safe behind the bricks in the fireplace.

By the time the rail reached the eastern edge of Wisconsin,

They were laying two miles of track each week.

Grandpa said there were days when he thought the company was trying to get them to build the rails fast enough to beat the wagon trains to California.

They were building a bridge over the Mississippi River when Grandma sent a letter to say she'd run out of room behind the bricks in the fireplace and had to put the money in the bank.

Jillian giggled.

My Grandma would do that too,

Smiling I told her.

Grandpa Jacob and his boys rushed back home on the very same rail they had built.

He was back in Wisconsin for less than an hour when he walked out of the bank with a pocketful of money and marched up to Jameson Stokes who was socializing in Bowfield's General Store.

He paid Mr.

Stokes twice its worth to get the London homestead back into the family.

Within a year my family had built our plank house among the towering pine trees.

I bet it was beautiful.

I could smell the pine trees.

I would have cried if I was alone.

But I jumped up and started sweeping instead.

I could blame it on the dust if I started.

That was a great story Edith.

Thanks.

I found myself wishing it was a little more than just a story.

I was feeling awfully homesick.

I'm glad to have Jillian there.

Jillian was a fine girl.

I enjoyed our time together.

Unfortunately I spent much more time with the women in the shop.

We worked from six until dusk in the choking summer heat.

It was almost like the city was so full of tall buildings shuffling clouds and rumbling buggies,

Carts and wagons that the heat,

Having nowhere else to go,

Packed itself into our shop.

But with all the work there was no time to think about the heat,

Let alone the museums or the libraries I longed to explore.

Every morning I got up at dawn.

I couldn't help thinking of Mother as I slid out of bed,

The room still filled with pre-dawn shadows.

She always woke up before everyone else to start a fire and warm the house.

I imagined her walking down the stairs at home as I made my way down to the shop.

I could almost spell the pine-scented oil she rubbed over her hands each morning to keep her skin from cracking.

I had to get things ready for Ellie and the Dyer sisters.

They always came in first.

Walking from home,

They arrived just after six each morning.

Opal would open the door for Louise and they'd be deep in conversation about something,

Such as a tale about a woman in the church whose breath stank of laudanum or the outrageous price of fruit at the market.

Good morning,

Miss Shea,

Louise would say,

Helping Opal tape off her coat.

Morning.

I never knew what else to say.

I couldn't figure out if there was such a word as a plural for Mrs.

Opal would always nod as she passed me to go to their bench,

Saying,

Edith.

I felt so alone as I watched them each day.

Opal would say one word and Louise could finish the sentence.

Opal retrieved things Louise needed without being asked.

Ellie would usually rush in shortly after them,

Chattering away about something a child had done,

Like cutting her off in the street or a wagon that nearly ran her over.

Ellie was forever complaining about the rush and rumble of the city.

One morning,

Louise said,

If it bothers you so,

Louise,

You should move back home.

If I had the finances,

I sure certainly would do just that,

Louise.

Not that it's any of your concern.

Ellie snapped as she nodded her head.

Oh,

Ellie,

Opal teased,

Be sore with sister.

She only sees how unhappy you are.

Ellie mumbled to herself.

Louise raised her voice to say,

Speaking of home,

Did I hear you from Virginia,

Miss Shea?

I looked up.

Louise stared at me with a blank face.

The smile on Opal's face reminded me of Reverend Farley after church services.

He'd say,

God bless you to a hundred people,

And the smile on his face looked painful,

As if he had a sneeze that was just tickling to get out.

It was an open invitation to talk about myself,

But I was ashamed.

Here was a woman who wore a dress that would take up all my clothes and fabric alone.

Ellie had told me Louise lived in an apartment with her husband,

Who had a desk job at a shipping company.

Opal lived just below them,

Behind the letter-writing service her husband owned and operated.

They would have no interest in a girl from a tiny town in Wisconsin.

Now,

A woman from Richmond,

Virginia,

Who had survived the traumas of war firsthand,

Would have a story to tell.

I started searching through my memories of the articles I had read about the siege of Richmond,

But I took too long.

Well,

Are you or aren't you?

Opal asked.

I was speechless.

I wanted to tell her I'd carried my two youngest cousins to the caves outside of Richmond,

A babe in each arm as buildings crumbled around me.

I could feel the ground shaking under my feet,

Hear the bombs erupting in air,

But I couldn't form the lies in my mouth.

Ellie was shaking her head in her usual disgusted fashion.

I tried to speak.

Uh,

Uh,

Is she all right?

Louise asked her sister.

She's fine.

Aslan stepped out to the table.

She's just not a talker like you ladies.

They giggled.

Aslan tapped me.

Follow me,

Lass.

I want to show you how to make a preacher's collar.

Yes,

Ma'am.

I bowed my head and scooted off the bench to go into the other room.

I was so embarrassed.

I could have gone all the way to the back door,

But I stopped at the sewing machine,

Then turned around.

Aslan came in and pulled the curtain between the two rooms.

She motioned to the bench below the window.

Have a seat there.

I sat down and put my hands in my lap.

When Aslan put the fabric she held down on the table,

I knew we weren't there to talk about sewing.

Edith.

Aslan sat down in front of me.

I know I've got no right to pry,

But what's the real reason a young girl like you is here in this beast of a city?

I stared at her.

She had her head slightly turned,

So she was looking at me from an angle.

I thought for just a second that it would be pretty easy to lie if she didn't look me straight in the eye.

I silently recited all the reasons I'd given myself.

It's a land of opportunity.

I could find a husband,

See the museums,

Read all the books in the libraries,

Buy fresh apples for a penny a piece in the open market.

But we had our own apples not a hundred feet from our front door back home.

I hadn't seen a museum since I arrived.

I stayed in Chicago because I was ashamed to go home.

But I couldn't tell Aslan.

She'd pitted me.

I could see it in the sad look on her face.

All right,

If you won't tell me,

Then I'll tell you a story.

Maybe that'll loosen your tongue up a bit.

A story?

Aslan could pull me in with a good yarn.

She never looked at me when she spoke of Ireland.

She always stared off as if she could see the events in her mind and she didn't want anything to interrupt.

When I was a girl,

There was a man me da knew who worked in the textile mill where we bought our cloth.

His name was Lyle,

Lyle Daugherty.

He had ten children.

We were beginning to think he'd have to send some kids out into the street to sleep.

Every Saturday,

Da came home from the pub with another story from Lyle.

He was a master at it.

Someone in the pub would be mourning about a problem and out of his own hat,

Lyle would pull out a long tail.

If he was listening close enough,

The fellow would realise that Lyle was using a story about somebody else to give an example of what could be done with the problem at hand.

Only thing was,

Lyle always ended his stories without saying what was right or wrong.

He left that up to the fellow himself.

Old Lyle considered himself a lucky man.

He had a fine,

Large family,

A gift with the tails,

A good wife and steady work.

Like a sight,

He wanted to give his family something more.

So one winter he took up a job telling stories for parties at the manor house.

That's the house belonging to the people he worked for.

The British snob of a lady he worked for told all her guests they owed it to Ireland to hear the stories of her peasant past.

Makes me want to spit when I think on her believing we were nothing more than an aisle of biggers.

But old Lyle,

He jumped the chance to spit his yarns in some fancy parlor with a grand piano.

He spent almost half a year's wages on a suit.

He turned a good shilling for near to a month.

Then he came down with a fever and before the spring thaw,

He and half his whole family were dead.

Aslan finished her story and stood up.

I put myself in Lyle's place.

I was as big as a fake as he was and Aslan knew it.

But what did she expect me to do?

Did she want me to run back to my parents in shame?

I didn't know what to do.

So I asked,

Why did you tell me that story?

Aslan stepped out of the room then came back with a velvet hat pinned snugly to her head.

Well,

No,

If I told you what the story meant,

Then that'd show I didn't learn a thing from Lyle's example.

Now,

Wouldn't it?

I took a deep breath and told myself I wasn't a fake.

I was myself and in time I'd be the seamstress I was trying to be.

I'll get better at the sewing,

Mrs O'Dell.

I don't give a flying fairy about the sewing right now,

Aegis.

I'm asking about you.

Why are you here?

I'm working.

Aslan suppressed a laugh.

Really now?

So where would you be doing that again?

I laughed,

Wishing my mother could tell a joke sometimes.

I started searching my mind,

Hoping to find a reason they would give me the right to be in Chicago.

I'm working to improve myself.

Improve yourself?

She smiled.

A fine girl,

Fine indeed.

What kind of improvements were you thinking of making?

I could feel the heat rising in my face.

I felt like a foolish child talking to such a fine woman about things like this.

I wanted to save up enough for a place of my own and some better clothes.

Aslan nodded.

And will you be living your whole life in this place of your own?

No,

I would like to find a husband.

It was more of an excuse than a reason.

The truth was,

I just wanted to prove I could stand on my own.

Show my family I could make a space of my own in this world.

Then I could think of courting.

Finding the man who could take me to see the world.

Find a husband.

Most girls are looking for a husband to find them.

No,

That's fine,

Edith.

Good in fact.

You seem to be the kind of girl who has her own way of doing things.

Yes,

Ma'am.

A husband,

Eh?

She nodded,

Looking out the window.

So what brings you to a city like this?

Why not look in the place you're from?

The boys where I'm from aren't the type of man I want to marry.

I see.

What type of man do you want to marry?

I thought of getting married.

I knew I'd have to someday.

And when I did,

I wanted a man who would respect me.

He wouldn't call me ma or hit me on the backside when I was cooking.

We'd walk side by side down the boardwalk and talk about the way clouds created rain.

We'll plan a trip to Ireland.

I smiled,

Maybe even blushed.

As I said,

A man like Mr.

O'Dell.

Aslan crossed her hands over her chest shouting,

My Ethan.

So tell me what kind of a man is he?

I shrugged saying,

You know,

He's intelligent and polite.

Of course,

She nodded.

Go on.

He tips his hat to women in the street.

He's traveled all over the world.

Not all over,

Lass.

There's a whole other world out there beyond Ireland and America.

Well,

I've never been to Ireland.

You and Mr.

O'Dell crossed the Atlantic and came all the way to Chicago from the East Coast.

Compared to the trip from Ireland,

That bitch was a run around the pond,

I suppose.

But I've never been more than 30 miles away from my own house before now.

Well,

Edith,

You seem to be a girl who knows what she wants,

But you aren't going to attract a man wearing the likes of that.

I was wearing one of the three dresses I brought with me.

It was a syrup brown dress my grandmother had sewn with a split collar trimmed in lace,

A wood flower pattern.

The hem swung above the top of my boots.

I'm sorry,

Lass,

But here if you aren't wearing a dress fit for royalty,

You aren't fit for courting.

Aslan grabbed a handful of fabric in her dress,

Then added,

If I wore this dress in front of me,

Ma,

She'd think I'd gone to make myself up as the queen herself.

Here,

Dresses like this are as common as blades of grass.

There are different dresses fitting for different places.

So I'd say you need yourself a Chicago dress.

Let's go and see that you're made up proper,

Aslan held out a hand to lead me out of the shop.

Now I can't think of any better time than the moment.

But the shop,

It's my shop,

Lass.

I can decide when I want to leave it and who I want to leave it with.

Thank you very much.

Of course,

I nodded and we went out the back door onto Kilpatrick Avenue.

The streets here are a might's change,

Aslan looked around at the buildings lining the streets.

You've got enough room for one side to the other to build an entire row of houses or shops.

Everything here is so spread out,

You'd think you'd,

Yanks thought you had the world to yourselves.

In comparison to where I come from,

Things are crowded here.

I whispered.

Aslan didn't hear me as she turned back to the top of the corridor.

Men choose their women by appearance.

If you're looking dashing,

They'll ask for your company.

The fact your father isn't here means they'll come to me.

Come to you?

Yes,

No man's going to walk up to a strange girl and ask to court her.

That wouldn't be proper.

Besides,

You wouldn't want strange men sauntering up to you now,

Would you?

I suppose not.

You're not from the city,

Are you,

Lass?

No,

Ma'am.

That explains enough to get me back to Dublin.

Excuse me?

That just means I understand a lot more of you now.

Oh,

Like I said before,

Appearances are everything when it comes to attracting a suitor.

What you do and say is what keeps him interested,

But you have to be attractive to bring him to you in the first place.

As we walked down the street,

I couldn't help but think of my mother and all her attempts to marrying off.

In the months before I left,

She was always looking for a husband for me.

I was 16,

And pretty close to marrying age.

Mother was only 15 when she married father.

Marriage was an unquestionable part of a woman's life.

How else was I going to have a house,

Food,

And clothes?

Besides,

The only women who weren't married were crazy or crippled or widowed.

There was nothing worse than being an old maid.

I knew I had to get married,

But I didn't want the boys mother chose for me.

Her head would turn when a young man entered church.

Her gaze would follow him all the way to his seat,

And she'd turn to me as if to ask,

Did you see him,

Catherine?

Usually I had,

And he was the same callous,

Dirty boy he had been a week before,

Except for the fresh shirt his mother had pressed for him.

Mother would make the question official over lunch.

She'd push her face into a cheeky smile and ask,

Did you see Brian Matthews in church today?

What a fine young man.

When I was in the general store last week,

Mrs.

Beaufield said he looks to inherit his father's farm.

Can you imagine that?

150 acres of nothing but crops,

And only a pond's width away from our place,

Grandma Margaret added.

I didn't want to imagine spending my life with Brian Matthews,

Staring across the same pond I'd seen every morning when I woke and pulled up the shade.

No boy from Moss Stone was going to take me away to new and unknown lands.

While my mother was trying to interest me in every local boy my age,

I imagined all the far off places I'd go on the arm of my husband.

He would be a lawyer or a judge called away to bring justice to lawless lands.

I'd be there with him,

Protected by his strength and the respect he commanded.

When the Wisconsin wind made my dress feel thinner than it was,

I thought of the petticoats and shiny skirts I would wear,

And the little shops where he'd buy me hats with feathers and bows tied on by careful hands.

I felt I was taking the first step towards finding such a man that afternoon in late September.

Aslan opened the door that day to another private Chicago.

We traveled to a small dress shop tucked into the garment district that didn't even bother to display its name on the front window because the proprietors wanted to keep unsuitable customers from walking in off the street.

Their advertising was done by word of mouth.

They had dresses that had been hand-sewn by the finest seamstresses in Chicago,

Aslan among them.

The proprietors,

The Mertel sisters,

Didn't sew.

Their talent was more unusual.

They showed a woman how to wear the clothing other people made.

The perfect dress for a picnic along the lake,

The best parasol,

The finest shoes,

Not to mention just the right hat,

Gloves,

And jewelry.

Their store was like a library of women's clothing and accessories.

Aslan knew the Mertels by their first names,

Rachel and Charlotte.

They had rings for each of their fingers,

Wore pearl hairpins,

And were ensconced in silk and taffeta dresses that carried on for several feet behind them.

Their faces were carefully painted to hide their emotions.

The white powder filled the creases in their cheeks that would have shown the effort they put into smiling.

To me,

The sticky pitch on their eyelashes made them look dishonest.

Rachel Mertel came around the counter with a fan dangling from her wrist.

She avoided looking at me altogether.

Mrs.

O'Dell,

Who have you brought to see us today?

This young lass works for me,

And she needs to prepare herself for suitors.

Charlotte Mertel,

A tall woman who resembled a coat rack embellished with taffeta ruffles and ostrich feathers,

Swung around behind her sister and took my hand.

Aslan,

Dear,

You can't be serious.

She's a mere child.

I'm sixteen,

Ma'am,

I said,

Pulling my hand away from Charlotte's cold fingers.

Aslan glanced over her shoulder.

Her eyes approved of my response,

But her lips were frowning.

She's a young lazy,

Hiding in her little lass's clothing.

I'll agree.

But she is a lady,

Just the same.

I had no interest in becoming a lady by the Mertel's definition.

I could see by the put-on look in their faces that the Mertels weren't just fussing over my age.

They didn't like the country look of me,

My scuffed boots,

Braided hair,

And thick cotton dress.

I wasn't a city girl,

Not prideful and flouncy like they were.

I didn't want to be stiff and proper with more clothes than compassion,

Trouncing around the room like someone newly crowned a duchess.

But I trusted Aslan and withstood the sisters' transformation.

The full,

Emerald green dress they chose for me required a corset and a bustle.

A corset feels like you've slid into a barrel that isn't round enough for you to pass clean through.

It forces your arms away from your body and keeps you scrambling for air.

Charlotte put her knee into the small of my back and yanked on the strings to tighten the corset,

And I was sure one of my ribs would shoot straight out of my mouth.

There's a figure in here somewhere,

Charlotte declared,

Giving the strings another tug.

Oh yes,

Rachel agreed,

Putting her hands on my newly formed waist.

She looks quite nice,

All cinched in.

I look like a porcelain doll with a cloth torso.

The bustle was another affair.

It felt like I had an egg basket hanging off my backside.

When they put the dress on over the top,

I understood why our horse team always shifted their feet when the harnesses went into place.

I felt a hundred pounds heavier in the mirtel's outlandish affair,

And it took everything I had just to keep my balance.

The sisters danced around me with ease,

Their belled skirts scraping the walls but never slowing them down.

Personally,

I didn't have the first idea how I was going to move.

As it was,

I had the sensation I was slowly sinking to the floor.

What do you think?

Charlotte stood back after she was finally satisfied with the lay of the ruffles around my egg basket backside.

She's got kind of a small head.

Would a hat be too much?

A hat?

I screamed silently.

Certainly a hat was ladylike,

But if they put anything else on me,

I was sure to fall over like a dead tree in a strong wind.

Aslan,

Who had been standing silently by the front door,

Shook her head.

Call me provincial,

Ladies,

But I would stay with a good snoot.

Snoot?

That was a new word that tickled the inside of my nose.

Right you are,

Rachel agreed,

Scuffling behind the counter.

Her hair is quite unremarkable.

We should spruce it up a bit.

It'll definitely have to come out of this ridiculous long braid that looks like a bell pole,

Charlotte added.

Unremarkable?

I had brown hair down past my waist.

My mother used to sit at the end of my bed to brush it.

My hair was so thick she'd be brushing for an hour.

I loved having her strong hands running slowly down my back as she flattened my hair with the brush.

If you held my hair to the light,

You could see hidden hints of red.

I wasn't about to tell them or tells that.

They'd probably suggest I walk around with a lantern strapped to my neck,

Stopping strange men to have them admire the red in my hair.

As it was,

They wanted to scrunch my hair up into some fool thing called a snood,

Which is really just a fancy net for your hair to keep it from shredding strands all over the dress.

It wasn't half bad,

To tell you the truth.

It would keep me from sewing any more hair into the curtains I was making at the shop.

There,

Charlotte stepped back after she pushed me into the proper posture.

You look quite fine,

Miss Shea.

Quite fine?

What do you think?

Rachel asked Aslan.

Aslan smiled.

She looks like a lady.

I took a step and the ensemble surged forward.

The similarities between the movement of that getup I was wearing and the way custard wobbles when you drop it onto a cold plate made me laugh.

She likes it too,

Rachel announced in response to my laughter.

Now,

Just keep your steps short for a while,

Young lady.

You don't want to trip on your skirts and for heaven's sake,

Pick them up when you go upstairs or you'll be face down before you can snap a button.

Aslan pulled her purse strings tight and I was seized with a greater problem than mobility.

But I don't have the money for all of this.

The Myrtel sisters reacted as if I'd taken the Lord's name in vain.

They covered their lips in shame as if the words had escaped from their own mouths.

You're not paying for it,

Edith Aslan corrected.

These fine ladies are two of our best customers.

They are doing this as a favour to me.

Thank you,

I nodded to the sisters then turned to Aslan.

Thank you,

Mrs.

O'Dowd.

You'll thank me enough by learning to sew one of these on your own.

Aslan escorted me to the door.

I couldn't imagine why I would want to do such a thing,

But I nodded in agreement to get outside and take some fresh air into my lungs.

Wobbly in my new attire,

I took the arm Aslan offered for support.

Thank you,

Ladies,

She said waving as we left the shop.

On the boardwalk,

Aslan squeezed my hand.

Blaspheme,

Never speak of money in front of a lady.

It isn't polite.

How do people pay for their goods here?

They're billed in the post.

Oh,

We walk in silence for a moment.

Then I was struck with a queer thought.

They'd taken two women to dress me.

So how was I going to get out of this outfit on my own?

I proved to be more agile than I expected when it came to getting undressed that evening.

With little difficulty.

I had the eye hooks undone.

I was beginning to slip the dress off over my head.

For a moment,

I was certain I'd never come to the hem of the dress as I fought my way through the folds of fabric.

But it finally slid over my head and slumped into a wrinkled pile on the bed.

The bustle was easily removed.

I just unbuckled it in the front,

And it dropped to the floor with a clank.

The corset was another affair entirely.

When I reached back to undo it,

I tightened it and nearly suffocated.

I pulled in it from side to side to loosen it,

But to no avail.

So I held my breath and tried to untie it again.

There was a popping sound when I released the strings.

I pulled it over my head,

Then ran to the window to take in some fresh air.

When the cool evening air hit my bosom,

I realized I was sticking my head out of a window in the middle of the city while I was only half-dressed.

There wasn't a single pine tree in sight to hide me from the view of the folks walking along the port book.

I slid to the floor and laughed until I cried.

After my first dressing experience,

It wasn't all that certain formal attire was for me.

In fact,

I saved the dress for my Sundays off when I went to the conservatory or the library.

What I did know was that I could learn a lot from Aslin Odell.

In fact,

I was right.

With her watchful eye,

Tight-lipped advice,

And gracious hospitality,

Aslin introduced me to the surging energy of a sewing machine.

She'd given me so much,

And I learned so little.

I haven't even told her my real name.

I could see Edith's suitcase from where I sat on my bed.

It was leaning against the wall by the door,

Almost as if it was waiting to leave.

I could feel the guilt of my lie,

Like a weight in the back of my heart,

But I didn't have the strength to tell Aslin the truth.

My thoughts drifted to the real Aslin.

Taking on her name and possessing her suitcase had brought Edith Shea into my life.

I had taken her name as easily as I carried her suitcase,

But the fact of the matter was there was a real Edith Shea out there,

A woman without her suitcase who had lived through the siege of Richmond.

What kind of woman was she?

A young woman like me,

Traveling to see the world.

A refined woman like Aslin who'd lost her earthly possessions in the Civil War and was seeking a new home.

An elderly woman who resembled the horrifying glory days of the old South when slavery and the old code of cotillions mixed.

When I was lonely and thoughts of my mother only made the loneliness worse,

I thought of Edith.

At first I imagined Edith would be the type of person to show me how to be a woman and serve a man and his wife,

Not teach me how to cook and try to set me up with an eligible man who crossed our path at Sunday services.

I created a woman who traveled with a store-bought hat,

A fine-wooled dress,

Leather gloves,

And carefully wrapped packages.

She took shape slowly.

I developed her in my daydreams as I sat at the showing machine with the dull whir of the needle lulling me into a stupor.

You know,

Catherine,

She'd say rocking in a chair next to a large window.

I worked as a young woman as well.

Her voice was low and smooth in rhythm with the chair.

Her face was shadowed by the fern above her,

But I can imagine the cloth on her lap.

She was embroidering bright red flowers.

I was a seamstress of a different kind.

I ran looms for a textile mill.

I wove the type of fabric you sew into dresses.

Hmm.

I'd hum in interest as she told me of the ears splitting noise and stifling heat.

Once I even caught myself actually acknowledging her out loud with a quick,

I see.

You see what?

Ellie asked,

Leaning forward.

I meant,

I fumbled.

I meant,

I think this seam is good.

I showed her my work.

She just frowned and shook her head.

Even though I spent my days with all those women,

I was really alone.

We rarely spoke as we worked,

So it was easy to slip into memories of dew-covered pine needles and the bubbling pine sap father used to fix leaks in the roof.

It hurt to think of home.

I forced myself to think of Edith instead.

When I'd start to think of going home and begging mother and father to forgive me,

I'd imagine Edith walking down the stone path of an enormous garden filled with snapdragons and tiger lilies saying,

You're a smart young woman.

You know there's more to life than land,

A home,

And family.

I could almost smell the flowers as I imagined sitting on a bench beneath a weeping willow tree.

But I want a family,

Edith.

Of course you do.

She'd smile,

A red snapdragon between her fingers.

You aren't meant to be alone in this world,

Or God wouldn't have divided his children into two sexes.

No,

A woman needs a man,

But she must be aware of her choice in the matter.

My mother thought she was giving me a choice by offering me every eligible bachelor and milestone,

But I couldn't find a man who would show me the world among them.

No one like Mr.

Odell would be hidden in such a small town.

But where would I find him?

He certainly wouldn't walk into the royal stitchery for a new dress.

Sunday afternoons were the only times I really explored Chicago.

I took advantage of the free public transportation to the conservatory and wound my way through the enclosed city jungle to find the quietest places possible.

It was a stone bench tucked under gangly green plants.

It was so nice to feel as if I were in the country again,

Listening to the birds sing.

There among the stiff green leaves and the pungent smell of pollen and moist soil,

I pushed away memories of towering Wisconsin pines after a spring rain and kept Edith Shea alive and talking.

You're right,

Catherine.

There are many different kinds of men in this world.

There are those who savor the hard work of the open fields.

They're just as loving as other men.

They simply express it differently.

They speak with silent smiles and the care they give to their land.

They'll work for their families,

Not themselves.

You know that,

Don't you?

I'd sit with my knees against my chest,

Hugging my boots with the ivy buttons,

Nodding.

Edith would lean back in her rocker and laugh.

My grandfather was such a man,

God rest his soul.

He never let an I love you pass from his lips,

But he picked the finest watermelon in the garden and cut open for me when I arrived.

I could almost taste the watermelon as she told the story.

It was a Grandpa Jacob story,

Really.

He always gave me the first slice of the first ripe watermelon every summer.

There are other men out there as well,

Men who would rather read a book than meet a fine young lady,

Or those rough cowboys who risk life and lamb to live in the wilds of the West.

And then there are the gentlemen,

Those whom you see,

A gentleman with a cowboy spirit for adventure.

Yes,

That is who I was looking for,

A man who would know exactly what to do with the extra silverware I had to set at the Greymoor.

He could order wine from their wine list.

No one knew the difference between a burgundy and a blush.

He wouldn't call me mother or answer questions asked to me.

He'd turn to face me saying,

What do you think,

Catherine?

When someone asked his opinion.

Best of all,

He'd love to travel.

We'd ride the train into the Appalachian mountains,

Take a steamship down the Mississippi,

Ride horses in the forests of Tennessee,

Stand on the beaches of California,

And admire the ocean.

But no man like that existed,

And if he did,

He wouldn't seek the hand of a country bumpkin like myself.

Still,

I imagined meeting a fine young gentleman who might share the same dreams.

If I was to take the hand of a gentleman,

I had to find a way to refine myself.

Drawn from my imagination,

Edith could know no more than I did,

And the more I talked with her,

The hungrier I got for the facts about the things I'd imagined.

I spent hours in the wooden echoing rooms of the Michigan Avenue Library reading Abigail Waters' society column and back issues of the Tribune.

No matter how enjoyable my imaginary stories became,

I still had to face the real Chicago.

When I added up my first month's earnings,

I realized a seamstress position wasn't enough to live on.

At 20 cents a day,

I was making $1.

20 a week for a total of $4.

80 a month.

That was enough for two meals a day from Grace's kitchen across the street with something left for a weekly newspaper,

But nothing more.

I could find a second job,

But Aslyn had warned me against that when she hired me.

I decided that the best thing to do was to approach her with my problem.

Aslyn was the last to leave every night,

So I waited until we were alone and then approached her with my pay in hand.

Mrs.

O'Dell,

Do you have time for a question,

Ma'am?

Ma'am,

Is it?

You must want a word or two about your pay if you're asking with such a proper name.

Yes,

Ma'am.

Out with it,

Edith.

I'm not going to take it back if you have a complaint about it.

It's just,

I couldn't bring myself to look her in the face.

I have to buy food,

And the cheapest meal I found is a bowl of soup for a nickel.

But I get hungry before dinner.

I just can't live on $4.

80 a month.

Aslyn laughed.

I'd never heard her laugh,

And it startled me.

It wasn't light and bouncy,

Like the laughter of most women I knew.

It rattled in her throat like marbles in a flower tin.

You are a peculiar one,

Edith.

You can't look me in the eye,

But you can tell me you need more money.

I'm sorry,

I should.

.

.

Aslyn jumped to her feet.

You should look me in the eye.

Yes,

Ma'am.

I looked up,

Expecting to see her face pulled into a tight frown.

She was smiling.

I don't have more money to get,

Edith.

The other ladies have husbands with jobs.

They work here to make the little extra money they need to pay the bills.

I pay them what I can,

And I've paid you what I can.

Most women who work aren't supporting themselves,

Edith.

It's a man's job to support a woman.

But just the same,

I see your point.

How about I bring in breakfast for you?

Oh,

You don't need to do that.

You'll take my money,

But you won't take my food.

She laughed again,

And the sound tickled me a little.

I'll be here bright and early with a good horse mule.

Now off with you,

So I can get home.

Aslyn went home.

I cleaned the shop,

Then went to my room and spent the night alone,

Rereading the paper I'd bought a week ago.

After a month in the city of Chicago,

I no longer believed it was a land of opportunities.

It was one giant maze filled with tests and tricks.

Aslyn was there to help,

But I had to find a way out or a way up.

Something that was a bit more than just surviving.

I caught myself thinking that my mother and father would be able to work out a plan.

They had found a way to build a plank house in the land of log cabins.

They even saved enough to buy a new stove and ship it all the way from Pennsylvania.

They were probably sitting in front of that very stove right now.

Mother repairing the latest tear in father's shirt.

He was always catching it on a branch.

Father would have his hands around a coffee cup.

He loved the warmth of the tin against his skin.

The more I began to wish I was there with him,

The madder I got.

I had come to Chicago to prove that I could make my own way,

And after only a short time,

I was longing to be back home in the warmth of the old kitchen.

No,

I wasn't going to have it.

I could provide for myself,

Take a second job,

Sew on the side like Jillian's mother.

I would definitely make it.

Yes,

Sir.

I fell asleep believing just that.

Thank you for listening to this story,

Which took you on quite an adventure in just one chapter.

A long one at that.

But it's important to recognize that on this journey,

Catherine London,

Aka Edith Shea,

Is traveling through many layers of her own identity,

Of her own capabilities,

And learning just what she's capable of.

I would say that in all their efforts to prepare us for a good life,

Our parents don't always help us explore the depths of our potential.

But we can do that ourselves,

And I hope this story inspires you to do just that.

Thank you.

This has been A.

LeFay of Silvanacity.

Be well.