Leaving Josef at the stables, I walk back to my cottage. When I get close enough, I see it’s one of the few that’s still bright, with the glow of a lantern coming from the curtains of my bedroom. I hesitate, debating whether to wait outside until the lights have gone out. I’d rather not talk to anyone right now; I’d rather just fall into my bed, curl my knees to my chest, and sleep.
I tiptoe through the front room where Judith and Miriam are sleeping, hoping that the light in our room is on by accident. Or maybe Breine and Esther just left it on so I wouldn’t have to fumble when I returned. But when I put my hand on the knob, I hear the scrape of wood and then a shriek of laughter—my roommates are unmistakably awake inside.
Opening the door, I blink a few times at the sight before me: Breine in her wedding dress, standing on a chair so she’s tall enough to see her full length in the one mirror on the wall. Esther, standing behind her on Breine’s bed, holding up a handkerchief meant to mimic a headpiece. Both are laughing hysterically.
“It’s—it’s so hideous,” Breine chokes out, wiping a tear from her eye.
“Shhhhhh.”
“It’s so hideous,” Breine whispers this time, and she grabs the handkerchief-veil to toss playfully at Esther’s head.
The dress fits Breine about as well as I’d thought it would, which is to say, not at all. The darting in the bodice that should define her breasts stops not at her nipples, but halfway down her midsection, sticking out obscenely around her waist. The neckline is too high, the waist is too low, and the hemline cuts at the most unflattering part of her calves.
“It’s not that bad,” Esther says loyally, grabbing a fistful of fabric from the back, pulling it to one side, then another, unsuccessfully trying to find a more flattering cut. “You’re beautiful.”
“It’s—why did I ever think I could get married in this?”
“You still can,” Esther starts optimistically but falters when Breine gives her a look. “Oh, Breine. Why didn’t you try the dress on when you first found it?”
“I didn’t think it mattered. I kept telling myself anything that didn’t smell like manure would be fine.”
As I close the door behind me, Breine and Esther notice my presence.
“Oh, Zofia, come and witness the horror of this,” Breine encourages. But as she beckons me in, a string of beading comes loose, flies off the sleeve, and drapes itself over the lantern. Esther’s and Breine’s eyes lock in the mirror. Esther maintains a dignified expression for approximately two seconds, then the sound of beads clanking against the lantern glass makes them helpless again with laughter.
“Come on, step down.” Esther extends her hand. “Let’s get this dress off before it murders someone.”
“Let’s get this dress off me and murder it,” Breine agrees.
“Wait!” They both look up at me and freeze in an awkward tableau, Breine halfway off the chair. “Do you mind if I take a look?” I ask quietly.
“At the dress? I don’t mind if you take it and burn it.”
“Could you step back on the chair, please?”
Breine exchanges a look with Esther. They think my request is odd, but Breine obediently steps back onto the chair.
I walk around her first, taking note of where the dress is too baggy and where it’s too tight; where the stitching is uneven, and how much of it could be taken apart without having to remake the whole garment. They see a dress that is hopeless. I see a dress that needs help. The kind of help I know how to give… or once did, at least.
Once I’ve made a complete circle, I step closer and feel the material between my thumb and forefinger, examining the thinness of the silk, wondering what size needle I would need for how delicate the fabric is. Pleating the silk between my fingers, I try to see what it would look like if it were taken in or gathered differently—the same way Esther had, but with better results since I’m practiced at this sort of thing and she isn’t.
Dresses are different from soldiers’ uniforms. It’s been a long time since I’ve sewn anything beautiful.
Breine and Esther have stopped laughing. I see them look at each other and then back at me with expressions somewhere between surprise and awe. I realize, in the short time they’ve known me, they haven’t seen me do anything I’m good at. Or anything, really, that was part of what made me myself.
Adding a sash might help the baggy waistline. The previous owner of this dress was obviously much thicker around the middle than Breine. Taking it in enough that it fits Breine’s waist would require ripping out almost all the stitches, and I don’t think the fabric could withstand that. But if I made a sash, I could gather the middle without much additional sewing.
Next, I move to the bottom of the dress, flipping over the hem to see if there’s any extra material that I could use to make a matching sash. There is. And, there would be even more extra fabric if the hemline were raised a few centimeters, which would also make the garment look more youthful and appropriate for a twenty-two-year-old woman like Breine. I wish I had a sewing machine. But maybe this work would be better by hand. I wish, at least, I had Baba Rose’s good set of needles and a spool of yellow silk thread.
Still, my fingers feel tingly and alive again, the way they did riffling through the donation box. I feel purposeful. A problem needs to be solved, and for once, I know how to solve it.
“I could fix this,” I say.
“Really?” Breine asks.
“The material is too fragile for me to completely remake it, but I could raise the hemline and do something to fix the waist. Maybe rework the neckline, and rearrange some of the beads so it looks a little more modern.”
“You know how to do all that?”
“I do. We owned a clothing factory.”
“You never said it was clothes,” Breine says. “My mother taught me to fix a button, and that’s all I’ve ever managed. She said maids would do the rest.”
“I can’t even do that,” Esther offers. “My father wanted me to come work with him at his newspaper. He told me editors don’t need home economics.”
“For private clients, we’d do fancier work, sometimes by hand,” I say. “I haven’t made anything like this in a while.”
“But you have before?” Breine asks.
I nod. “If you trust me, I can try to fix this. I can at least make it better.”
“Oh, Zofia, honestly. If you can even make it look like I have two breasts instead of four, I’ll love you forever.”
Esther hands me a pencil so I can make some markings for alterations, and then she and I slide the dress over Breine’s head, while Breine stands with her arms straight up and tries to remain motionless. But the fabric is old and fussy. She giggles every time a bead hits the floor and then apologizes, but then Esther starts giggling, and then I do, too.
“You know what, it doesn’t even matter,” I say. “We’ll remove most of them anyway.”
“Really? Remove the beads?”
“Really, truly. They’re not doing you or the dress any favors.”
“Be free, beads!” Breine yells, shimmying her shoulders until a dozen come off at once, and then we’re laughing again.