The Funeral Dress (2 page)

She didn’t have any past work experience, which worried her some. But she didn’t have a criminal record, which made her feel better. Emmalee left those parts blank and handed the clipboard and pen back to Mrs. Whitlow, who was coaxing her hair higher on top of her head.

“Let me talk to Mr. Clayton,” Mrs. Whitlow said. “He’s the general manager here at Tennewa. I’ll be back in a minute. Here’s a magazine you can read if you like.” She handed Emmalee last month’s issue of
Ladies’ Home Journal
, featuring a four-layer yellow cake with chocolate frosting on the cover.

A young man with a bolt of denim fabric balanced on his shoulder and a stubby pencil wedged behind his ear passed through the lobby on his way to the sewing room. The noise roared loud as the door opened, and Emmalee bent forward to steal a peek. But the door slammed closed behind the man, shutting out the din of the machines.

“Emmalee.” Mrs. Whitlow walked in front of the counter, stopping to check her lips in a small mirror mounted on the wall. “Mr. Clayton is on the phone with a vendor down in Georgia, but he said if I felt good about you, we could go ahead and offer you a job.”

Mrs. Whitlow pointed to a man in a crisp blue shirt and red tie leaning against a window frame in the office
behind her. He held a telephone receiver to his ear. His hair was white along the temple and deep lines marked his face. Emmalee thought he was handsome for an older man. When he laughed at something said on the other end of the line, Emmalee saw a gap between his two front teeth. He winked at her and continued his conversation.

“How’s that sound?” Mrs. Whitlow asked.

Emmalee nodded. “Sounds good. Real good. And I’ll work hard. Real hard. I promise.”

“I have no doubt about that. But aren’t you the least bit curious to know what you’ll be doing?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Emmalee said. She tucked her feet underneath the chair and rubbed her hands together.

“Well, you’ll be making collars.”

“Making collars,” Emmalee said, repeating the words carefully.

“That’s right. You’ll be a Tennewa collar maker. You know what that is, dear?” Mrs. Whitlow asked.

“No, ma’am.”

“Simple really. You’ll be making collars for men’s shirts and women’s housedresses mostly.” Mrs. Whitlow reached for a notebook on top of the counter and opened it to a sketch of a plain yellow dress. “See, here, this is a housedress.” She handed the notebook to Emmalee. “Thought about starting you on pockets or lapels, but I think you can manage collars fine, what with your experience and all.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Emmalee said, studying the dress’s wide rounded collar.

“You’ll work from seven in the morning until four in the afternoon with thirty minutes for lunch. Take a break
whenever you need it. Just get your work done. We pay piece rate. I think collars run about a hundred and fifty a dozen for an eight-hour shift,” Mrs. Whitlow said.

“A hundred and fifty dozen.” Emmalee’s eyes popped.

“Of course, you’ll never make less than minimum wage, and that’s running right at two dollars an hour.”

“A hundred and fifty dozen,” Emmalee said again.

“Sounds like a lot, don’t it. It’s really not bad,” Mrs. Whitlow said. “Some women nearly double their quota, and that means more money for them. Two make more than seven dollars an hour. That’ll take some time, though.”

“Seven dollars an hour.”

“That’s right. But all we care about right now is that you do quality work. Mistakes cost money. Mr. Clayton there,” Mrs. Whitlow said again, motioning toward the man wearing the stiffly starched shirt, “don’t like mistakes. He’s a nice man, a family man, got four boys of his own and a lovely wife from a real good family outside of Montgomery. But he don’t like careless mistakes.” Mrs. Whitlow stepped back behind the counter. “Don’t worry, we’ll help you along for the first month or so till you get the hang of things.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m going to put you next to Leona Lane. She’s worked here forever, probably wasn’t any older than you when she started out. She don’t talk much. But she’s real good, and you’ll learn a lot just from watching her. Probably the best seamstress we got. But don’t go telling Cora Hixson I said that or we’ll have another fight to referee.” Mrs. Whitlow threw her hands up in the air; her gold charm bracelet jangled as she stressed her point. “Those
two are always suspecting one another of hoarding bundles or slipping work beyond the four o’clock bell. But enough of that.” She folded her arms in front of her waist. “Don’t want to scare you off before you get started.”

“No, ma’am.”

Mrs. Whitlow reached for a manila folder and fingered a piece of paper inside it. “Here’s the application for the work permit. Fill this top part out. Have your daddy sign here and bring it back to me as soon as you can. We like to have everything processed and on file within thirty days of your start date. So we have a bit of time.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Emmalee said, knowing she would forge Nolan’s signature. He could write his name well enough if his hand was steady, but he had been drinking hard for the past two days. Besides, Emmalee had grown accustomed to signing his name and believed she did a better job of it than he did, even on his good days.

Mrs. Whitlow pointed at the clock. “It’s only eight. You want to come back tomorrow, or you want to go ahead and get started today?”

“Today. I want to work today.”

“I figured as much.” Mrs. Whitlow undid the top button of her mint-green sweater. “Just promise to get that permit form signed.”

Emmalee nodded. “I promise.”

“Well, come on then.” Mrs. Whitlow slipped the sweater off her arms and draped it across the counter. “This time of year it starts out cool in the sewing room, but it gets hot quick. There’s nearly three hundred machines running nonstop in there, so I can promise you’ll never freeze here at Tennewa. I keep telling Mr. Clayton
that should be our company motto,” she said and pulled on the sewing room door. “So wear something comfortable. And best bring a lunch. A few of us walk down to the drugstore but that gets expensive real fast. Most the seamstresses eat here, outside on the picnic tables on the west side of the building.”

She motioned for Emmalee to follow her. “After today, you’ll enter and leave through those double doors there at the end of the building. That’s where you’ll punch your time card. I’ll show you where all that’s at.” Emmalee stepped close behind Mrs. Whitlow, clipping the heel of her pretty black shoe. “Right here are the sleeve setters. Myrtie there has been at Tennewa for nineteen years come Monday week,” Mrs. Whitlow said as she nodded to a woman snapping a long thread between her fingers.

Emmalee caught the stares of the other seamstresses. Some slowed their work; a few stopped and rested against the backs of their chairs as they examined the new employee. Emmalee pressed her hands down the thin cotton skirt she bought at the thrift store in the basement of the Methodist church and brushed her hands across her head. Still her skirt hung wrinkled on her body, and her hair fell messy about her face.

Young men dressed in blue jeans and short-sleeved shirts darted between the rows of seamstresses checking canvas baskets for finished work. In the back of the room, two long tables stood end to end, both covered in layers of pale yellow fabric stacked six inches thick. Three or four men stood around each table positioning patterns
for what looked like a dress or maybe a man’s extra-large shirt. They lifted the pattern pieces and positioned them again and again, working for the tightest fit.

“Only men set the patterns,” Mrs. Whitlow said as she leaned close to Emmalee. “Don’t ask me why. Just the way it’s always been.”

They walked deeper into the room. Mrs. Whitlow pointed to the right. “They’re bottom hemmers over there.” She pointed to the left and turned her face to Emmalee so she could be heard over the roar of the fast-spinning machines. “They’re pocket makers. And them there, behind the pocket makers, are the lapel makers.” Emmalee nodded.

She spotted Easter Nichols sitting among the other pocket makers in the far left corner of the room. Easter had a large goiter underneath her right cheek, and it looked as though it had grown some, further thickening Easter’s already fatty neck. Some of the kids at school said the sight of that awesome goiter killed her husband, shocked him right to death. It was an ugly thing to look at, but Emmalee had seen worse. She waved to her teacher, but Easter was focused on her work.

Pearl Tribble sat behind Easter. Pearl lived in Red Chert, too, and Emmalee had seen her walking to work many times. She hoped they might walk together soon and talk like the other women who arrived at the factory in cars. Next to Pearl sat Laura Cooley. Laura was a couple years older than Emmalee but had left school after the ninth grade. She lived on the back side of Pine Mountain near the small lumber mill Emmalee’s uncle Runt
operated on his own. Laura had pale skin and pale blue eyes and kept her bright red hair cut short like a boy’s. She looked up and stared at Emmalee before returning to her work.

“There. There’s the collar makers. That’s where you’ll be,” Mrs. Whitlow said. She pushed on through a tight aisle formed by a row of sewing tables to one side and the backs of women curled over their machines to the other. Baskets, already filling with finished collars, sat beneath each table. Mrs. Whitlow pointed to the floor, cautioning Emmalee to watch her step. She stopped in front of an empty chair and patted a woman on the back. With her hands, she asked again for the woman’s attention.

The older seamstress did not look up or slow her machine.

“Leona,” Mrs. Whitlow said, “I want to introduce you to Emmalee. She’s new here. She’s going to be working collars next to you. She knows how to sew a bit, but I need you to show her the ropes. You know. Get her started.”

Leona remained fixed on her work. Mrs. Whitlow tapped her high-heeled shoe on the shiny wood floor by Leona’s chair. She placed her hands on her hips. “Leona, I’m not asking for more than twenty minutes of your time. She’ll learn fast. She took sewing from Easter at the high school.”

Mrs. Whitlow leaned in close. “Go on and take a seat,” she said. “Leona ain’t going to stop until she gets through with that batch. She don’t like anybody messing up her rhythm. But she’ll get to you. I promise. Good luck today.” Mrs. Whitlow spun sharp on her heels and walked back toward the office.

From behind Emmalee, a woman half stood over the top of her machine and introduced herself as Wilma Minton. She had full cheeks shaded a bright pink and eyebrows drawn on her face. The tail of her left eyebrow was smudged, and Emmalee held her hand to her mouth, careful not to snicker.

“Wish I could help you, hon, but I’m a lapel maker,” Wilma said, holding up a raw lapel. “Have been for eighteen years. Gwen’s right, though. Leona’ll get to you in due time. She’s the best.” Wilma grinned. “Don’t go telling Cora I said that, ain’t that right, Leona?” She laughed out loud and talked on as if Leona was not there. “Don’t pay Leona Lane and her moody ways no mind. She’s a good woman even if she acts sour most the time. Ignores you most the other.”

Leona slipped another collar under the machine’s presser foot.

“You from Cullen?” Wilma asked. “I’d even go so far as to bet you’re a Bullard girl.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Emmalee looked back at Wilma.

“I knew it. I could tell by those big brown eyes of yours. You’re a pretty thing. Your daddy done one thing good and that was marrying your sweet mama.” Emmalee smiled. No one spoke of her mama anymore. “I heard Gwen say you had Easter for Home Economics. Me and Easter are roommates, and I’ll tell you right now she’ll want you calling her by her first name. None of that Mrs. Nichols talk like you had to do at school.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Emmalee said, but Wilma had returned to her sewing.

Emmalee faced her own machine. She ran her fingers
across its top. It was larger than any she had ever seen, and its casing was slick and cool to the touch. She wanted to press her flushed cheek against its metal. Silver lettering along the front read
U
NION
S
PECIAL
. She traced the letters with her index finger and then raised and lowered the presser foot as she had watched Leona do. She turned the wheel attached to the right of the machine and watched the needle rise and fall. She picked up a spool of thread and pretended to examine its color and quality as if she knew what she was to do next.

She slumped in her chair and fingered the lettering again, trying to look busy while Leona and the other women around her tended to their work. The noise of the machines ebbed and flowed, at times roaring so high Emmalee wanted to plug her ears. But as fast as it grew to a fevered pitch, it fell to a more gentle level as if the seamstresses were following notes on a sheet of music.

Emmalee pushed her foot against the floor pedal and the machine lurched forward. She yanked her foot back and her hands fell to her sides. She stared up at the painted windows and focused on the bits of sunlight peeking through glass where the gray had chipped away. Even for a girl raised in the dimness of the holler, it bothered her not to see the sky. She looked at the large clock on the wall behind her, rubbing against Leona’s arm as she turned toward the wall.

Leona snatched another bundle of collars tied with a piece of cotton twine and dropped them onto her lap. “Look here,” she said to Emmalee.

Emmalee rubbed her eyes and sat up straight.

“These are for housedresses,” Leona said and held the bundle out in front of her. “We usually make for housedresses and men’s work shirts, more than anything else, sometimes women’s blouses. But mostly housedresses lately.” She tugged on the collar of her own dress. “Some’ll go to JC Penney. Some’ll go to Sears. Same dress, just different label. Now there’s only a couple hundred in these bundles here,” Leona said, holding up a bundle in front of her. “More in shirt bundles. See this ticket. Attached to the bundle. This is like cash to you and me. Proof of your work.”

“Like cash,” Emmalee repeated.

“Don’t try stringing them all together like I do.” Leona reached behind her machine and pulled on the collars threaded together like a piece of ribbon. “That’ll come later. I’ve probably sewed a million collars since starting at Tennewa. Blue, green, yellow, denim, flannel, cotton—don’t make no difference to me. Don’t even ask if it’s going on a housecoat or a shirt no more. That don’t matter. All that’s important is that I go past production.”