The Shoemaker's Wife(70)

Joe Neal had first attempted to flirt with Enza. When she did not respond, his taunts escalated. Now he lay in wait to bully and provoke her, choosing his moments carefully, usually when Enza was alone. He hid behind rolling racks of blouses, or stepped in front of her when she turned a corner. Night after night, Enza endured his insults. She held her head high as she passed him.

Joe Neal sat on the cutting table, legs dangling. Instead of a smile, he sneered at Enza. “Dago has airs.”

“I don’t speak English,” Enza lied.

“I’ll fix you.”

Enza ignored the comment, pushing the bins filled with bundles to the end of the line. She checked the clock and headed to the lunchroom for her break.

“Over here!” Laura Heery waved to Enza from the far end of the break room, a concrete box filled with unpainted picnic tables and attached benches.

Laura was slim and reedy, a blazing candle of a girl, a redhead with vivid green eyes, a small nose covered in freckles, and perfectly shaped pink lips. Of Irish descent, Laura accentuated her height by wearing long, straight skirts and matching vests over starched blouses. Like Enza, she made all of her own clothes herself.

The girls in the factory were usually cordial during work hours, yet rarely did the friendships continue outside the cutting-room doors. Laura and Enza were the exception, having recognized their simpatico natures over an argument about fabric.

Every few months, the mill owners cleared the fabric inventory and put out ends, yardage of fabric that hadn’t been used on an order, or samples dropped off by eager-to-please salesmen. These fabric pieces of various sizes and lengths, rolled on bolts, were useless to the owners but could be salvaged by an expert seamstress to create or adorn clothing.

On Enza’s first day of work, she was invited to peruse the ends with the other operators. A piece of pale yellow cotton printed with small yellow rosebuds with green leaves caught Enza and Laura’s eye at the same time. Laura grabbed the fabric as Enza reached for it, held it up to her face, and yelled, “Yellow and green are my colors!”

Enza was about to yell back, and instead said, “You’re right. It’s perfect with your skin. Take it.”

Enza’s act of generosity moved Laura, and from that day forward, they shared break time. Within a few months, Laura began to teach Enza to read and write English.

Enza’s letters to her mother were filled with stories about Laura Heery, like the time they went to the Steel Pier in Atlantic City one Saturday afternoon. Enza had her first hot dog that day, dressed with yellow mustard and sauerkraut. Enza took pains to describe the pink sand on the beach, the one-man band on the Steel Pier, and the bicycle built for two on the boardwalk. She wrote about the wide-brimmed sun hats decorated with giant bows, whimsical felt bumblebees, and enormous silk flowers, about the bathing costumes, sleek, scoop-necked tanks with belts. Everything was new to her, and so American.

Enza had found a best friend in Laura, but so much more. They both loved well-made, fashionable clothes. They both aspired to elegance. They both took time with whatever they made, whether it was a hat or a simple skirt. They groaned when the Walkers bought cheap cotton from a middleman, and the lot of blouses made from it had to be scrapped. They were hard workers, conscientious and fair. The stories in Enza’s letters proved that the values instilled in her by her mother had remained intact.

“You look awful,” Laura said as she handed Enza a paper cup filled with hot coffee, light with cream, just like Enza liked it.

“I’m tired,” Enza admitted as she sat.

“Signora Buffa soused again?”

“Yes.” Enza sighed. “Whiskey is her only friend.”

“We have to get you out of there,” Laura said.

“You don’t have to solve my problems.”

“I want to help.” Laura Heery was twenty-six, had attended classes in secretarial school, and worked as the night manager in the office. It was Laura who had shown Enza how to fill out the forms for employment, where to be sized for her work apron, where to pick up her tools, and how to earn the promotions that took her from operating the machines to becoming the lead girl in finishing. She taught Enza how to add money to her paycheck by doing additional piecework on the blouses during deadline crunches.

Laura broke a fresh, plain buttermilk doughnut in two, giving the bigger portion to Enza.

Enza said, in perfect English, “Thank you for the doughnut, Miss Heery.”

“Nice.” Laura laughed. “You sound like the queen.”

“Thank you kindly,” Enza said with a perfect inflection.

“You keep that up, and pretty soon you’ll be treated like one.”

Enza laughed.

“Get ready. The next thing I’m going to teach you is how to answer questions on a job interview.”

“But I have a job.”

Laura lowered her voice. “We can do better than this dump. And we will. But keep that under your hat.”

“I will.”

“And Signora Buffa still doesn’t suspect anything, right? That’s how they keep you on a cot in a cold basement, you know. If you don’t learn English, you’re dependent on them. We’re about to spring you from that awful trap.”

Enza confided, “I hear her say terrible things about me to her daughter-in-law. She thinks I don’t understand.”