“Are you going on a date?” He was slightly out of breath. She moved so fast.
She turned around and smiled. “Of course,” she said. She stopped at a small green box, latched like a suitcase. “Here we are.”
“Yes,” said Jake, still amazed that she had sought him out for some mysterious reason. Trigonometry and statistics were still years away.
“I didn’t want to give you this at school,” she said, speaking rapidly, crouching down and flicking at the latches. “I know how cruel the other kids can be, and besides, this little fucker is heavy.”
“I’m not very strong,” admitted Jake.
“Eat your vegetables,” said Diane. The latches sprung, she lifted the cover. It was a sewing machine, an older model, the color of liver.
“Holy crap,” Jake said, and covered his mouth with one hand.
“This was mine,” said Diane. “Everything I wore to high school I sewed myself. It was my way of rebelling against my mother.” She reached under the machine and popped out a smart little drawer. Inside, small instruments and apertures gleamed. “I even made my own prom dress,” said Diane, “but I won’t tell you what year it was, because a lady never reveals her age.”
“I love you,” said Jake.
“That’s inappropriate,” Diane said, and shoved away a cat, who sniffed around her legs. “I will tell you that the dress was awful. Green silk chiffon. You have no idea how hard it is to sew chiffon. I want you to have this.”
“I’m freaking out right now,” said Jake.
“Relax,” said Diane. “I see you in the hallways, and I see your outfits, and I can tell you’ve got flair, kid.” She checked her watch.
“Flair,” repeated Jake. He let the word hang there. It seemed like a profanity in this town.
“This is a Singer from 1952. It’s got a zigzagger, which probably means nothing to you.” She rushed through the introductions, unlatching a green and orange box hidden inside the lid. Diane pointed at things, and Jake struggled to keep up. “Here’s the foot pedal, and all your needles, and most important, instructions.”
“Instructions,” said Jake. Diane held up a miniature hardcover, water-stained but still legible: Sew You Want to Learn to Sew by Erma Thomas.
“Yes, I know it’s a terrible title,” said Diane. “Puns for idiot housewives.” She checked her watch again. “How are your math skills?”
“Right now, my class is dividing fractions,” said Jake. “I’ve been writing letters to Audrey Hepburn.”
Diane raised an eyebrow, and replaced the lid on the machine. She crossed her arms, and addressed him impatiently. Apparently, math was no joke to Diane Savage Connor. “I believe in hard work, Jake. That applies to math and that applies to sewing. And dating, which is why I must bid you farewell. Call me if you have any questions.” She was walking now, and Jake followed her to the front of the store. She continued to speak to him over her shoulder. “My mother has all sorts of fabric and I’ve told her to keep a look out for thread and embellishments.” Jake shuddered, his body covered in goose bumps. Embellishments.
Diane kissed her mother again, and was buttoning her coat before Jake could stop her. The goose bumps were replaced by a heat in his cheeks as he realized the truth of the matter.
“I can’t have a sewing machine in my house,” said Jake. “Bert would kill me.”
Diane paused, her hand on the doorknob. “We know your situation, Jake.” She exited into the cold air, calling out to him as she left. “Make sure to thank my mother.”
“I always do,” said Jake sadly.
Buley reached for his sleeve. “Don’t you worry, dear. I promise to keep the machine safe until you find a place for it.”
“Okay,” said Jake. She squeezed his hand and slowly rose, cats leaping to find another plush resting place. Buley and her bells tinkled as she made her way behind the counter, and began to ring up his purchases. As usual, she made up her own prices. Buley would never know the true worth.
* * *
Jake crossed the railroad tracks and turned toward the river. Parallel to the tracks, there was only one paved road, and it led to the newer cemetery in town. Thoughtfully, the snowplow driver had kept this road clear, and Jake passed the cedar mill on his right, built on the river. The days of transporting shingles by barge were long gone.
The cemetery spread out over acreage at the end of the road. When Jake was in grade school, the location had been a controversial topic around town. Rightfully, future mourners did not want their services interrupted by the thunder of trains passing, or the ringing of the bells at the crossing. They did not get their way. Across the tracks, Jake could see the Dirty Shame.
Frank’s plot was the newest, and Jake had no trouble finding it, despite the snow.