*
Constance left the paper where she had laid it, carried those lines in her mind. She picked up the wide sleeve and studied the beading: imitation pearls and small rhinestones interspersed with a few of glistening colors: watery blue and aqua, palest rose and coral.
“You were suggesting we use these beads. In a simple design, you said. Something understated, so as not to take attention from my Queen Semiramis.”
“Exactly. But remember, even as an attendant, the mission of this group is to give all the women power, so think about that as we work on your gown and what it represents.”
Constance noted the glance Alice threw her to be sure she had recovered. She nodded ever so slightly and drew her fingers across the beading.
“Well, then. Lines. Curved lines. Strong lines.”
“Ah, what about this, Constance?” Alice reached for the pencil and a scrap of paper on the sewing table. Her hands moved quickly. The drawing was not expert, but it was legible.
“Yes,” Constance exclaimed. “Yes, I see it. Perfect.”
The sketch showed a bodice only, the simple lines of beads beginning together at the center of the bosom and sweeping down and out in widening curves above the waist around the bodice to meet in the center back—a virtual echo of the lines of the Brooklyn Bridge cables.
“That’s it exactly,” said Constance. “That’s it. It’s perfect.” She wanted to hug Alice in her excitement but contained herself. “You have it, Alice.”
“Now, what else? I need to have the whole design in mind before I start cutting. Or sewing fabric that winds up having the wrong lines for the beading and the embroidery.”
“What else?” Constance wandered the room. “I’m thinking.” She stopped and turned. “I wish I had my father’s books. I believe there were legends around Semiramis—you know how stories get mythologized as they are retold down the ages. Yes, a legend that she came from a fish goddess and was raised by doves.” Constance laughed. “How mythical can things be! At any rate, she rose from the water and into the sky.” She waved her hands above her, still laughing.
“Ah, now it’s coming. And it can be done with such subtlety,” Alice said. “Absolutely no competition with the queen. You can be anonymous and mysterious as you choose. Here. Let me show you.”
Constance watched Alice’s hand flick the pencil over the paper again. She took up the finished sketch. The drawing, awkward as it was, nonetheless was clear: the sketchy lines indicated a womanly figure, and tight doodles represented the beading, great puffs of sleeves, a narrow skirt flaring at the bottom, falling to a slight train over a small bustle in the back. Constance squinted at the lines of beading, trying to decipher their shapes. She turned to Alice, questioning. Alice’s finger began tracing the lines, as Constance’s had traced the lines on the back of her father’s newspaper so long ago.
“Here,” Alice said, pointing to the converging lines at the center of the bosom. “Here we put a dove, its beak releasing the curving beaded lines around the bodice, its wings open across the bosom, and the edges of its wings repeating the narrowing curved lines. Then, you see, the tip of your veil can repeat those same curving lines. In fact, we could put beading across the top of the veil, with a second line under your eyes. We have enough beads for that, I feel sure, between all three of these gowns.”
“I see it, yes. This will work, Alice. It’s wonderful. How ever did you think of this so quickly?”
“I believe we did it together, Constance. You brought the stories and the Brooklyn Bridge! Who on earth would have thought of that?”
“And down here at the hem and the train? Those lines look wavy.”
“They are. Smaller curves than on the bodice, but curves that repeat the lines and represent the waves of the water. On the train, the lines move apart, making room for a fish on each side, swimming toward the center. We could even anchor that design at the middle of the train with an outline like those Gothic arches on the bridge, just one narrow, simple geometric shape to hold the center.”
“You are utterly brilliant, Alice. Oh my! Where on earth did you come from?”
“The Midwest plains—a simple farm girl with a mother who knew how to stitch.”
Both women laughed, and Constance was aware of how long it had been since she had felt this light, how long it had been since she had laughed, since she’d felt like herself.
CHAPTER 28
However, the feeling of being herself, the self she was never allowed to be by her parents or her husband, was not to last. Not long at all.
As the afternoon progressed, the children came and went, staying longer each time, entranced at the process they were seeing. Their mother sat at a small table with six glass bowls in a line. With a tiny pair of embroidery scissors, she snipped away at the threads holding the intricate beading to the scraps of a once elegant gown. There was one bowl for creamy imitation pearls, another for sparkling rhinestones, and one for each of the muted colors in the design: the mixed beads of pale almond, hushed blue, silvery aqua, soft coral, and pink.
Constance grabbed for the bowl of rhinestones as Maggie pulled it from the tabletop.
“Oh, honey. Mama has to keep these very safe, or they will spill all over the floor. You mustn’t tip them like that. You must help me keep them safe. All right?”
Maggie turned a puzzled face up to her mother and released the edge of the bowl, but her face showed a cloud coming on. “I want to see the magic.”
“Of course you can see the magic. But you must ask first, and I will hold it down where you can see.”
“But I want to touch them. Will they make me twinkle like they do?”
Constance laughed. “No, angel. But you know what? You have a twinkle all your own.”
“I do?” A face of disbelief.
“You have a twinkle in your eyes that makes your mama so happy.”
“Can I see it, Mama? Pick me up to the mirror?”
Constance lifted her into her lap. “Well, now. I’m sorry to tell you that won’t work.” Maggie pulled at her mother’s chin in curiosity. Constance ran her fingers through the tangled hair and caressed her cheek. “No, you can’t see your own twinkle. Not even when you are grown up.” Isn’t that the truth? she thought. “Only someone who loves you can see it. That’s the real magic.” She joggled Maggie on her knee, then set her down beside Delia, who sat on the floor, watching. “Look into my eyes. Oh, you both are twinkling so brightly. Someone must love you so much!”
The two looked into each other’s eyes, pointing little fingers, giggling. “You got twinkles, you got twinkles,” came out in a singsong harmony as they ran off down the hall, passing Analee in the doorway.
Constance took note of Analee’s ashen face as the girls disappeared. She leapt to her feet and took Analee by the arm, then guided her into the room.
“What is it, Analee? Here, sit down.”
Analee shook her head and held out a folded sheet of paper that was wrinkled and soiled. Constance reached out to take it, eyes still on Analee. The paper felt brittle in her hand. She fought off an irrational impulse to throw it.
“What is this?”
“I don’t know, Miss Constance. Maybe don’t want to know.”
“Where did you get this?” Constance began to unfold it.
“Man come up to the front gate. I was sweeping. He handed it over the gate. He say, ‘Come here, nigger. You give this to that woman in there.’ And he walk off, whistling. I seen him before. Got one of those real thin mustaches make a line right up to his ears.”
Constance jerked the paper open. There on the dirty paper was the imprint of the Black Hand. Her eyes focused. She fought the scream. It released itself as a tangled, part sob. She grasped her arms around her torso and folded over. She struggled for breath, felt the world disappearing, absence enveloping her.