Unfinished Business and Other Stories

By Rebecca Bowman

This collection of short stories by award-winning writer Rebecca Bowman attempts to make sense of those bits of unfinished business we all have in our past. Set in small town Texas in the Seventies and Eighties, they examine issues that at that time confused us but that we now know made us who we are. Like the tea that reappears over and over again, these glimpses into people’s lives are a blend of the bitter and the sweet. In this collection Bowman delves into the nature of violence and of love, of foolishness, of wisdom, of hope and disappointment and reaffirms the fact that the truth is a kernel to be found in all our lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312306776

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Unfinished Business and Other Stories

Rebecca Bowman

Unfinished Business and Other Stories

mediaIsla

Andar de ciegos

Kingwood, TX 2014

Copyright © Rebecca Bowman

Colección Andar de ciegos No. 12

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First Edition: June 2014

ISBN: 978-1-312-30677-6

Published by: mediaisla editores, ltd/lulu.com

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Unfinished Business and Other Stories

                                    To my mother, Pat

But what she believes she is doing, what she wants to do if she can get the time to do it, is not so much to live in the past as to open it up and get one good look at it.

Alice Munro - Runaway

Sewing Lessons

Her head was large and her body small. She stood, legs apart, clutching her arms to herself, her belly pudged out slightly, the shoulders tensed.

Anger swept out of her. You all hurry up now and get your shoes on. We’re leaving in three minutes. I told you we were going half an hour ago, so don’t you dawdle.

First we drove there. The heat of the pavement made the air misty, the sun was bright, the oak trees dusty looking in the heat. My mother reached for her pocketbook from the back seat, clutched it to her. We rolled up the windows, got out, slammed the heavy doors and walked to Woolworth’s.

The saleslady, the only one in the store, had on pointy eyeglasses, and her lips were a different red than her hair. Her body had the shape of a Bartlett pear and she wore a red skirt with polka dots, a white top and a tan sweater over the top. Her mouth pulled a bit to the side, and she was careful that her lips covered her teeth. She had on sensible shoes, brown, low-heeled, with a buckle across the front. She greeted us from afar but let us wander about, getting a sense of the place.

My sister and I walked around the store with our hands out, our fingers obsessed in touching each bolt of fabric, our eyes greedy with the colors. Reds, purples, blues, cool greens. My mother walked about the store as greedy as we were, then moved to the stools in the back, lined up along the table with the pattern books. She called to my sister and had her sit down next to her. They began leafing through the pattern books.

I got a pattern book of my own and started looking through it. There were drawings of women and girls, some men and boys, wearing clothes that were pressed and lovely, where you could see each seam. The eyes of these people were slightly slanted and the mouths were tiny tender things. You could feel that they came from a world of crisp linen and silky chiffon. A world where everything was in its place.

My sister and I were told to find simple things, an A-lined skirt, a pull on top. That the pattern should call for cotton and not a knit, that knits were too hard. No darts, few button holes, no pleats. That it had to be something modest, that didn’t require a lot of fabric.

My mother and my sister looked and looked, then argued for a while until they settled on one pattern. They then went to the back of the store and my mother opened a heavy tan drawer and started pushing envelopes back and forth looking through the files for the pattern they had selected. She found it, pulled it out, read the back. By then my sister was moving from one foot to another, bored, annoyed, unhappy that the peasant blouse she had chosen, the one that would make her look like Joan Baez, wasn’t an option.

They went from there back to the fabric part of the store and wandered up and down the rows, looking for something suitable. And something that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg. Remember that, Peggy.  When my mother finally selected a bolt of fabric and took it to the table the saleswoman flung out the cloth in a burst of color.

It was tiny white flowers on a field of dark blue. The flowers even more pure and simple against the dark background, a feeling of innocence right there. This will look good in a skirt, the saleslady said. I like the swing of the cloth. What a wonderful choice. The saleslady pulled on the fabric, letting the roll of cloth tumble about in uneven bumps, measuring the fabric out against the yardstick glued to the table, two and a half yards should be enough. You’ll need thread to match. And elastic. Can I see your pattern?  She whipped out a measuring tape and folded it lightly about my sister’s waist. You’ll want at least a yard and a half of elastic.

My mother nodded, the saleslady measured and cut the elastic tape, then wound it about her hand into a neat bundle and set that on top of the folded fabric.

Are you going to buy material for a top too?

No, my mother said, not until we see how she does with the skirt.

My mom was the kind who would strike up a conversation with anyone and tell our biggest secrets to them with no remorse. She told the pharmacist about my sister’s cramps and the grocer about my need for fiber and all the while we would have to stand there and take it. If we huffed out a blast of annoyance it just made matters worse as she would glance at us and then back at the listener and say, Oh, she’s embarrassed. And then turn to us. Honey, don’t be embarrassed. And then continue on.

So this is your first project?  the saleslady said turning to Peggy, in that friendly tone adults use when addressing teenagers. You are going to remember this. I remember my first sewing project. It was a handbag.

My sister grunted a reply, wishing she could disappear.

By this time I’d seen everything in the store, the cardboard spools of lace, of ribbon and of rick rack, the zipper displays, the buttons, the velvets, the flannels, the chiffons, taffetas and muslins. I was ready to go. I was hoping we could get a strawberry ice cream cone at the Savon’s next door, but looking at the cost of all the stuff displayed on the cash register, I didn’t think my mom would agree to it.

She went on these jaunts sometimes, deciding that we needed to have such and such a skill, investing our time and her money in cooking classes, or dancing lessons or shoddy violins. They didn’t last that long, these spurts of industry, and soon she’d be back watching the soap opera or gossiping over the telephone with a neighbor. The remnants of these aspirations would migrate to the back of one closet or another and only be remembered when they tumbled down on our heads.

We drove home in even greater heat, the windows rolled down, my head stuck out as much as I could without my mother noticing and screaming at me.

When we got back home it was time for lunch. We had peanut butter sandwiches and orange slices, sweet tea. Then my mother vacuumed the living room and called Peggy in. Let’s start.

Peggy was reluctant, but wouldn’t say so. It was all in her stance, she kept her weight on one leg, clutching her elbow with one hand, her head to one side, the toe on the other foot danced a bit on the shag rug. Soul Train is about to start. 

My mother was invincible. "You can cut pattern pieces and watch Soul Train at the same time. I’ll get the scissors and show you how to cut them out.

The thin tissue paper was soon spread out on the floor, like a map and my mother and sister were kneeling along the sides. Make sure you cut out the triangle shapes. Don’t cut straight across there. My mother said. Don Cornelius was talking in the background.

At first it was exciting, looking at the instructions, laying out the dark blue cloth with its white flowers good side down on the kitchen table and pinning the pieces to it. But it wasn’t as easy as they said. The tissue crumpled, the pins wouldn’t go through or else the paper tore. Once all the pattern pieces were pinned into the cloth and the cloth was cut up my mom dug out the machine from the back of her bedroom closet and discovered the light bulb had blown out. That’s ok. Your eyes are good. We’ll use a reading lamp.

Now it was time to thread the machine. My mother had to remember how to fill the bobbin, how to get the needle to take the thread from there. She had trouble. The saleslady had said the fabric was a good choice, and it was;  my mother had good taste, she just didn’t have a deft hand. Things never worked out easily for her. She always struggled. And she didn’t have much patience, but somehow that day she had more than usual and eventually the machine was ready.

Now, before you start I want you to sew on something else. Enough to teach you how to do a straight line. We’ll use this old tea towel. Here, watch me. With that she pressed her foot on the pedal and the machine whirred.

Her lines weren’t all that straight. Oops, I’m out of practice. You can use these guidelines to help you. And you don’t have to go so fast.

Peggy looked scared. My mom got up and my sister sat down. She pushed the tea towel at the needle.

You don’t have to push it; the machine itself will pull it. You just guide the fabric in. Here, watch.

They continued on like this for about twenty minutes until my mom was satisfied with my sister’s efforts. Then they got to work.

It was getting dark and my father was about to get home. My mother remembered about dinner and dug some leftovers out from behind the milk bottles in the Frigidaire. We had to put the sewing machine away to eat and then couldn’t resume until after dinner, when the dishes were washed, the counters and table wiped down and everything put away.

Don’t you tire yourself out, Helen. My father said. You know you aren’t supposed to.

We’re fine. I want them to know how to sew.

Some kind of prolonged glance passed between my father and her and then she focused again on the seam.

Peggy wasn’t that bad at this, not that I could tell. Her mouth was still twisted a bit, as if to show that she wasn’t buying into the whole thing, but I could see she was enjoying herself more than she let on. By eight o’clock the two side seams were sewn, and the little tube the elastic would go through was also ready. They just needed to insert the elastic and tie that. Sew that bit up, and then they could do the hem.

Let’s call it a night, my mother said, her voice a little weak. We have all tomorrow to finish this. We made a lot of progress.

Peggy and I brushed our teeth and got into our pajamas. We laid on our twin beds with the pink dust ruffles, with the bedspreads and sheets pulled down to keep us cool, a pedestal fan pointing directly at us, whirring away. I could hear my mom and dad talking in the other room but I couldn’t hear what they were saying.

I wasn’t very sleepy and kept thinking about that hour spent going  through the Simplicity patterns, dragging open the heavy drawers, picking out an envelope and looking at the pleasing drawings of perfect girls. The multiple possibilities from one pattern. You imagined you would make them all, that the cost would be worth it.

Some days are good and some days are bad. The next day my mom didn’t feel like doing much of anything in the morning. She spent a lot of time in bed and then took a long time over her coffee.

Peggy also seemed disinterested. It was a Tuesday and her best friend called to ask her to the swimming pool. So the skirt was left unfinished until Wednesday afternoon, when my mother said she felt up to getting the rest done. I must have been coming down with a cold, girls. That’s what I think. I’m better now.

But once Peggy tried it on they could tell something was wrong. It didn’t fit.

My mother sat still, not moving, looking at her daughter, who pushed and tugged at the waist, at the hem, but couldn’t get the seams to sit straight. What had seemed right wasn’t, and it wasn’t known until now. Let me see, honey, maybe we just need to redo one side. Let me have a look.

But Peggy said, No, it is just my hips. I’m not shaped right.

You’re shaped fine. We’ll fix this. We’ll rip out the seams; we must have sewn them too far over.

Peggy looked unconvinced.

We can go back to the fabric store. Ask the lady there.

When they went back I stayed home. It was too hot anyway. And I knew they weren’t getting ice cream. They came back with another pattern, some more fabric. This time a yellow floral print on a white background, and they used a different size.

Soon I could hear them fighting, my mother insisting Peggy rip out a seam and do it over, Peggy angry that nothing seemed to turn out right. Three days later they went over to a neighbor lady who helped them finish the thing.

But