Woman of Light (47)
“Vogue,” said Lizette. “I like their recent designs better.”
Luz glanced at the pattern. She was surprised at how well it had come together. Lizette often talked about the dress, a gilded gown, as she called it. She had incorporated the usual style, a slim silk or rayon bodice, but she’d added notes for gold taffeta along the sleeves and collar, accented by pearl buttons. And she’d made a note for a hidden zipper beneath the left sleeve, rather than a more usual placement at the dress’s back.
Natalya returned the pattern to Lizette. She walked in her sidelong way behind the counter and retrieved a leather-bound ledger. She flipped several pages, and then ran her index finger over the sheet. She stopped. “I’ll order the taffeta special from my supplier. It won’t be cheap, and will take two months to arrive. You still want?”
“How much?” Lizette said.
“Hard to say. Five or ten dollars.”
Lizette sighed, and Luz thought of something that Diego once told her. Every sigh is a breath stolen from life. She handed the pattern to Luz. “Honest opinion?”
“It’s a lot of money,” Luz whispered, but then she considered the pattern once more. In her mind, she saw Lizette from behind, wearing a crown of red roses. She saw her turn her chin over her left shoulder, her dark eyelashes fanning downward toward the collar of her exceptional golden gown. Luz could see the dress clearly, fully made and sparkling over her cousin on her wedding day. “But I think you’ll have the dress you want.”
Lizette smiled in a sad way. “I can’t afford it, but thank you for checking.”
Natalya raised her gaze, and for the first time since they had entered the shop, the dressmaker really looked at Lizette. “Who made dress you’re wearing?”
“I did,” said Lizette.
“Where you first see it?”
“I made it up from nothing. Not even a pattern.”
“You know to sew like that?”
“Oh,” said Lizette. “Yes. But it’s nothing like a gown. I’m not that good.”
Natalya walked around Lizette, examining the dress’s woolen fabric, the closed seams and delicate brass buttons. She gently guided Lizette by the left wrist into a column of warm sunlight. She told her to spin around. “A princess seam? That’s very tricky. Who taught you?”
“My mother.”
“She’s a dressmaker?”
“No, but she sews up all kinds of things. Dresses, people.” Lizette laughed and nudged Luz.
Natalya removed the spectacles from her face. She wiped under her eyes, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Come back next Saturday. I need help around here, a girl with good hands.” She reached out and grazed Lizette’s right sleeve. “If I were a young, pretty girl, I’d want dress like yours. Maybe we can work trade.”
“You mean, you want me to help around here?” Lizette spoke with genuine disbelief.
Natalya returned to her ledger. “I said that, yes.”
Lizette looked to Luz and the two girls shrieked. Lizette came around the counter and startled Natalya, offering her a large, warm hug. “Thank you!”
“What about you?” Natalya said, pointing at Luz. “You have wedding coming? Need dress?”
“No,” said Luz, laughing and shaking her head.
Lizette took Luz by the arm, stuck out her tongue, and danced them toward the door. “We’re working on it.”
* * *
—
That night when Luz left Lizette’s, Avel was waiting for her out front beneath two crabapple trees. He was holding a white lily. His skin blended into night while his eyes and Stetson hat beamed with light. Luz grinned at his presence, the peaceful way he stepped out of the trees in his burly coat, moving with one hand in his pocket and the other presenting the flower. The wind had died, though the night still throbbed with a brisk undercurrent.
“Why, thank you,” Luz said, taking the lily from his hand. She gave it a good whiff and noted that the scent of lilies always reminded her of death.
“What’s your favorite flower?” Avel asked.
“Marigolds,” she said.
“Sweet but bitter. Ma always had an altar covered in marigolds.” Avel hooked Luz by the elbow and guided her away from the Westside. “They grow great big in Califas. Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“I’d like to see that,” she said with her chin lifted upward, her face absorbing the moonlight as if it were the sun.
The city felt dreamy. Parked automobiles and road signs were cast in stretched shadows. They walked arm in arm, Luz breathing the scent of Avel’s sandalwood cologne and his horn’s valve oil. Luz enjoyed the sounds of Avel’s bootheels clomping over pavement. She liked the way he made her feel. Safe, mostly, like she could walk the city at night without fear of being mugged or worse. She tried not to imagine what was worse. Mama had once told Luz that being raped was worse than being murdered, and Luz wondered how that could be. To be raped and to live seemed more desirable than to no longer exist. Luz did not want to find out. The fact that the protection she craved from men was mostly to ward off incidents with other men frightened her.
The couple soon came to a street corner beside the capitol where a smattering of people were leaving the front lawn. They carried hand-painted signs, WE DEMAND A LIVING WAGE, FIGHT POLICE BRUTALITY, STAND UP OR STARVE. An iceman’s horse carriage was parked nearby. The ice delivery man was high on his post, sleeping with his head falling downward, arms folded over his belly. The horses were fine and black, handsome though their eyes were shielded by blinders. Avel stepped forward first, spooking the horse beside the sidewalk. It jerked its veined neck, breathed fog into the dark. Startled, Luz accidentally dropped her lily in the gutter. She didn’t care for horses. Their size alone was intimidating, but more than that, she didn’t like how they seemed both intelligent and senseless at the same time.