her bust and waist and hips, clucking at the minute difference between the numbers.
“You’ve got a flapper’s figure.”
“Doesn’t sound like much of a compliment.”
“Maybe because I’m jealous. I see them all over town here, looking so stylish, and here I look like a basket of melons in a dress.”
Dorothy Lynn made a thoughtful sound and slouched, contorting her body in the way she’d seen women do on the covers of magazines. She brought an imaginary cigarette to her lips. “We don’t have any flappers in Heron’s Nest. I could be the first.”
“I don’t think your fiancé would take to such a thing.” Darlene never had much of an imagination. She jabbed Dorothy Lynn’s thigh. “Stand up straight. I have to measure for the length.”
Since pregnancy hindered Darlene’s movements, Dorothy Lynn slipped off her shoes and climbed up on a chair. Simply being here— up here—made everything else seem so far away. She looked down at the top of her sister’s head, only half-listening to the one-sided debate over the hemline. Not once did Darlenelook up to ask her anything. She must have assumed Dorothy Lynn had no opinion. After all, she’d lived her whole life in the simple frocks Ma pieced together or the ready-made dresses from Sears and Roebuck that came in plain brown packages in the daily post. How could she have an opinion about something that was no more than a series of confusing-looking solid and dotted lines and diagrams spread out over the kitchen table? She had no idea what sateen was, or that lace came in the color of roses, or that she would be called upon to walk not only in shoes, but in shoes with heels.
Most of all, though, she had no opinion because it all seemed so far away. Seven weeks was forever; Heron’s Nest, a world away. She closed her eyes and tried to picture Brent—not as he would look at the head of the aisle as she made her way toward him, but as he looked when he was sitting at her family’s kitchen table. Or on their front porch. Or in his designated chair at the front of the church. Or when he kissed her. Or when—
“Dorothy Lynn!”
Darlene’s voice cut through the fog, and she opened her eyes.
“Girl, you’ve gone white as a sheet. Are you feelin’ all right?”
“I’m fine.” But she wasn’t. A cold clamminess formed a second skin over every inch of her, yet she could feel a band of burning where Darlene once again held the tape around her hips.
“So?” her sister asked, expectantly.
“So . . . what, again?”
Darlene let forth an exasperated sigh. “So, do you want to create more of a bustle effect at the back? If so, we might consider using organdy or dotted swiss instead of the sateen.”
The words sounded like the gibberish of an unknown tongue.
“Whatever you think is best, I guess.”
“Bustle it is. Now, organdy or dotted swiss?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Well of course it matters. Because otherwise, the sash . . .”
Dorothy Lynn couldn’t breathe. Darlene’s babble wrapped around her like a tape, constricting her lungs, her throat. It squeezed, measuring her smaller and smaller. She wanted to rise up on her toes, look for a pocket of air, but Darlene flicked a red-tipped fingernail against her ankle, forcing her down to her flat, bare feet.
That’s when her knees buckled.
At the edges of the haze, she heard her sister talking, blaming the long bus ride, the heat, hunger, and the excitement of the day as Darlene caught her in her arms and brought her gently to rest on the cool linoleum floor. A clatter of sound, and two giant little boys loomed over her, one pointing a stubby gun and pow-powing her dead. If she’d had the power, she would have lifted her arms, caught the boy, and taken him in an embrace of gratitude.
Anything to be out of this misery.
Dorothy Lynn spent the rest of the afternoon on one of the two narrow beds in the boys’ room. The boys themselves made occasional visits, once to offer
“You’ve got a flapper’s figure.”
“Doesn’t sound like much of a compliment.”
“Maybe because I’m jealous. I see them all over town here, looking so stylish, and here I look like a basket of melons in a dress.”
Dorothy Lynn made a thoughtful sound and slouched, contorting her body in the way she’d seen women do on the covers of magazines. She brought an imaginary cigarette to her lips. “We don’t have any flappers in Heron’s Nest. I could be the first.”
“I don’t think your fiancé would take to such a thing.” Darlene never had much of an imagination. She jabbed Dorothy Lynn’s thigh. “Stand up straight. I have to measure for the length.”
Since pregnancy hindered Darlene’s movements, Dorothy Lynn slipped off her shoes and climbed up on a chair. Simply being here— up here—made everything else seem so far away. She looked down at the top of her sister’s head, only half-listening to the one-sided debate over the hemline. Not once did Darlenelook up to ask her anything. She must have assumed Dorothy Lynn had no opinion. After all, she’d lived her whole life in the simple frocks Ma pieced together or the ready-made dresses from Sears and Roebuck that came in plain brown packages in the daily post. How could she have an opinion about something that was no more than a series of confusing-looking solid and dotted lines and diagrams spread out over the kitchen table? She had no idea what sateen was, or that lace came in the color of roses, or that she would be called upon to walk not only in shoes, but in shoes with heels.
Most of all, though, she had no opinion because it all seemed so far away. Seven weeks was forever; Heron’s Nest, a world away. She closed her eyes and tried to picture Brent—not as he would look at the head of the aisle as she made her way toward him, but as he looked when he was sitting at her family’s kitchen table. Or on their front porch. Or in his designated chair at the front of the church. Or when he kissed her. Or when—
“Dorothy Lynn!”
Darlene’s voice cut through the fog, and she opened her eyes.
“Girl, you’ve gone white as a sheet. Are you feelin’ all right?”
“I’m fine.” But she wasn’t. A cold clamminess formed a second skin over every inch of her, yet she could feel a band of burning where Darlene once again held the tape around her hips.
“So?” her sister asked, expectantly.
“So . . . what, again?”
Darlene let forth an exasperated sigh. “So, do you want to create more of a bustle effect at the back? If so, we might consider using organdy or dotted swiss instead of the sateen.”
The words sounded like the gibberish of an unknown tongue.
“Whatever you think is best, I guess.”
“Bustle it is. Now, organdy or dotted swiss?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Well of course it matters. Because otherwise, the sash . . .”
Dorothy Lynn couldn’t breathe. Darlene’s babble wrapped around her like a tape, constricting her lungs, her throat. It squeezed, measuring her smaller and smaller. She wanted to rise up on her toes, look for a pocket of air, but Darlene flicked a red-tipped fingernail against her ankle, forcing her down to her flat, bare feet.
That’s when her knees buckled.
At the edges of the haze, she heard her sister talking, blaming the long bus ride, the heat, hunger, and the excitement of the day as Darlene caught her in her arms and brought her gently to rest on the cool linoleum floor. A clatter of sound, and two giant little boys loomed over her, one pointing a stubby gun and pow-powing her dead. If she’d had the power, she would have lifted her arms, caught the boy, and taken him in an embrace of gratitude.
Anything to be out of this misery.
Dorothy Lynn spent the rest of the afternoon on one of the two narrow beds in the boys’ room. The boys themselves made occasional visits, once to offer
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