“Just the two of us. So, I got all the sewing time. And Mama to myself.”
“Will you teach me, Alice? Am I too old to learn? Do you have to begin as a girl?”
“I will teach you. Of course, I will. And we can teach these young girls together.”
Constance felt an unbearable longing to see something beautiful emerge from her fingers. Suddenly it was no longer enough to provide for the girls at the orphanage. She wanted to receive what they were receiving in their lessons with Alice. And she wanted the ability to give—not so much give, but share, something not physical. She wanted a hint of the sister she had never had, the sisterhood she saw in her girls.
*
The new scissors proved, indeed, to be razor sharp. Hesitant as she was to slice into these beautiful gowns, Constance took a deep breath and cut into the fine silks, tracking the seam lines, as Alice instructed. As each section became its own piece of separate beauty, rather than hidden in the wholeness of a gown, Constance watched Alice move the pieces, laying them out, different weights and textures beside each other, overlaying one another. As Constance became excited with seeing the variations, she, too, began to play—yes, play, imagine that—with various possibilities. She felt like the child she had never been allowed to be.
Between dismantling Dorothea’s magnificent gowns, repositioning elements into all sorts of possibilities, rearranging again, Constance and Alice took time out to mount the streetcar and return to the orphanage, Constance with her regular haul of donations and Alice with her skills.
Constance was always delighted with the excitement over new donations, but now she was even more enamored with watching the older girls hover around Alice to observe this or that new technique of cutting, pinning, basting, adjusting, and finally sewing. The girls were not just learning a trade to support themselves in life; they were enjoying the process. Alice made every step an adventure, every adventure a pleasure, whether it be measuring and pinning a hem, or deciding which stitch to use for a button or, even more alluring, which for the buttonhole. The girls fairly competed for her attention, but Alice had a quiet manner of assembling them so that all could see, remembering their names and addressing even the shyest to bring them into the discussion. She handled confusion in such a way that none hesitated to ask again, and soon the girls were sharing skills with one another, asking for one another’s help unhesitatingly. And all the while, Constance was learning from her, as well—not only the stitches, but also a way of being a woman in the world.
“You have such a way with these girls, Alice. I’m envious not just of your skills, but of your ability to share them and make even tedious steps enjoyable. I hope perhaps, as my girls get older, you will still be available to teach them. No one ever showed me so much as how to reattach a loose button.”
“I would love to teach you whatever I can. Perhaps in the evenings, after dinner. I have noticed your attention when I am showing the girls. I expect you have absorbed more than you realize.” Alice was picking up loose threads and poking pins back into the green felted pincushions. “As to your girls, well, of course! It would be a delight to work with them—if I am still in New Orleans, which I fervently hope to be. I must take some time in the next few days to begin looking for a permanent position. Your gown won’t take a great deal longer, now that we have a basic design in mind. Well, I say that, but it’s not entirely true. We know how much flare for the sleeves, the rounded neck, filled with lace above and a high-fitting collar. And we know the length of the train and only a very small bustle. It is the fine details that actually take the time.”
Alice replaced the pincushions on the shelf and organized the various spools of thread according to color, from white to black, then pastels from warm to cool, then vibrant to dark in the same system of order. Constance was always mesmerized to see the orderliness with which Alice realigned all that she did. When she had finished and surveyed the result to her satisfaction, Alice nodded.
Outside the tall windows, Constance and Alice could see the girls playing stickball, tag, blindman’s bluff. A few of the younger ones sat drawing in the dirt with twigs, pretending at school. Constance smiled. As did Alice, who turned to close the door behind them. There were days when the sadness of one or another of these girls brought tears of their own to Alice or Constance. On one such day, Constance had fetched an embroidered handkerchief from her pocket, instinctively wiped the tears from Alice’s cheek, and handed her the handkerchief. When Alice had tried to hand it back, Constance had shaken her head.
“No, that belongs to you now.”
CHAPTER 25
Today, as they mounted the streetcar, setting out on what seemed like endless forays for needed supplies, Constance returned to their previous conversation.
“What is it that you have in mind, Alice, once we are done with this extravagant gown?”
They both laughed, each a bit embarrassed.
“I’m not at all sure. Truly, I don’t believe myself familiar enough yet with the city to have anything in mind. I very nearly got myself in quite a jam from not knowing when I first arrived.” Alice settled into the seat, smoothed her skirt beneath her. “I found a position advertised in the newspaper that looked promising. When I went to inquire, I unexpectedly found myself in a . . . well, in a house of ill repute. Women in very fancy dress and women in pantaloons and camisoles, right there in the parlor and hallway. When I said I was there about the position that was open, the woman laughed—a raucous laugh, to be blunt. ‘Perhaps you’d be interested in a better paying job than sewing. You have the face and body for it,’ she said and poked me with her fan.”
Constance’s chest felt hollow. She clenched her hands, then released them. The image in her brain was of Benton, not Benton with a prostitute, but Benton hunched over a gambling table, that man with the sinister mustache eyeing him, expressionless. Then, just as suddenly, her mind leaped back to the startling situation Alice had unknowingly put herself in.
“So, you inadvertently discovered Storyville?” She struggled to keep her voice even.
“It appears that I did. I couldn’t get back out the door near quick enough.”
Constance was aware of Alice’s look.
“Are you all right, Constance?”
It took a few moments for Constance to get breath enough to respond. No, she would never be all right again in her life. When she was an old woman rocking on the porch, watching grandchildren, she would still carry Benton’s death within her.
“Yes. I’m fine,” she said. “It’s just that . . . Well, it’s just that the area has such a reputation. Not only the prostitution, but also a sinister reputation for violence of all sorts. And for all sorts of reasons.”
“What could be worse than prostitution, except, of course, murder? But why would anyone murder a customer? Then there would be no customer. Are you sure you are all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine now.” Constance stood, a full block before their dismount. She would be telling that lie always. “There is gambling,” she said, not turning her face back to Alice, grabbing for balance as the streetcar came to a stop. “It can destroy a man. More than prostitution.”
*
As the front gate clanged shut behind Constance and Alice, Analee came spinning out the door, her dark face ashen. Maggie was in her arms, crying, her face tucked into Analee’s shoulder, little fists twisted hard under her chin.
“Whatever is the matter?” Constance ran up the steps, rested her hand on Maggie’s blond curls, and gently turned the child around into her own arms. “What is it, baby?”