More Thank Making Ends Meet

By Phyllis Carito

Viviana, propelled by loss, has developed a patience to survive. Coming to America as an immigrant child without parents, she built a family of her own, but was left alone after their tragic death. Kathleen's life has been without ambition and hampered by the selfishness of others, leading to self-doubt. She came to America as a young woman to be a nanny and finds work sewing, just to subsist.

 

Viviana shares stories about her clients—a daughter showing her father she can take over the family publishing business, a young woman who through her relationship with a thief learns about her own ability to choose, and a woman haunted by the death of her transgender twin. Each story sparks a conversation on how Viviana and Kathleen can take control of their own lives.

 

Viviana tries to stay positive and nurtured through her stories; while Kathleen struggles to maintain a living, and is confronted with a decision to return to Ireland and her family.

 

More Than Making Ends Meet displays camaraderie and comfort during Viviana's and Kathleen's weekly meetings on a park bench as they commiserate about their jobs as a cleaning lady and a seamstress.

• Language: English
• Publisher: GusGus Press
• Release date: Aug 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223643128

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

A Day Off

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I SEE MY friend coming down the path now, and she’s limping again. Sit, sit, Kathleen. Your limp is worse.

Ah, Viviana, I’m hurting.

Well, I have something for you. Mrs. M. had me take some bags of clothes from her daughters and I found this, still in the package. I hand Kathleen a knee brace.

What are they giving away all new things for?

Oh, they don’t think anything about it. They are spoiled, each with their own room, clothes and shoes that overflow their closets. You see so many times the clothes I bring still have the tags on them. They just throw them out if I don’t take them.

Kathleen opens the package and looks at it. This won’t ever fit over my knee.

Sure it will. Let me see. I try not to overreact, but Kathleen’s knee is blown up like a balloon. We’ve got to get some ice on that knee!

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WE SIT ON the bench for a while, with the ice on her knee that I obtain from the snow cone vendor, and the swelling goes down enough to pull the brace onto it. We often meet on our Thursdays off. I clean houses, and we originally met when one of my clients asked me to bring some clothes for hemming to Kathleen. We became fast friends. I understand her, and I appreciate her talent. It is sad when people don’t get to explore their creativeness. Life becomes mundane and is often difficult.

A few hours later, we leave the park and I drop Kathleen off at her apartment with the bags of clothes. She’s an amazing seamstress and she can recreate some of the new blouses for her private customers, and bring the rest to the consignment store, so she’ll make a few dollars.

Kathleen and I connected even without sharing the details of our lives, because we know our experiences of coming to America out of need, and that we’ve each had our struggles. She came as a young teen, to be a nanny for a wealthy family. But I should let her tell her own story.

Lately, I’ve been reading about telling stories, and I think I’m a good storyteller. I certainly have stories to tell, but who would want to hear my stories, besides Kathleen? She’s always encouraging me to write them down, and send them out to magazines.

I came to America as a child to live with a great aunt. I never saw my father again. My mother had died giving birth to my younger sister when I was three. I struggled with English, I struggled with a deep loneliness, but I kept on trying. My aunt secured a job for me in a local wedding dress shop and I learned the business. I was determined to do well. Once my aunt was gone, there was no reason to stay, so, I moved to a city and a larger shop and in time I became a buyer. The men who I worked with were often scheming, letting me do the work of checking the fabric, choosing the styles, but then taking the larger commission. My travels took me to China and Spain and even once back to Romania. There was nothing left of my family, and I never saw my sister again. I swore I wouldn’t ever go back there. Although I was lonely many times, I kept trying to make something of my life.

My loneliness disappeared when I met my husband. Together we built our family life here in Ford, Washington. We had a lovely daughter and I cut back on my work to raise her. Family. It felt so good. I didn’t miss the travel, and after a while I was glad my work time was limited.

Sometimes I wonder if I must have become too comfortable, forgot where I came from and how my unfortunate early life had been turned around. I know I didn’t create or change my past or future, but it is how I felt when my dear husband and sweet girl were killed in a car accident. They were hit head on by a drunken man who walked away without a scratch. I don’t talk about it. Picking myself up wasn’t easy. I was angry. I was sad. Still now, there are days I can’t even look at their photographs, stuck in time.

It didn’t take long for me to get tight on money. I had to do something, and I didn’t have the energy and enthusiasm to work buying wedding dresses again. I started to clean houses, and found out I’m good at it. I clean; I go home, and there are no worries for how many sales, meeting certain quotas, or clashing with the owners, almost all men. For me cleaning is a dreamland that I can float through seeing these lives, these families. I do this without angst because I’ve learned a most important lesson day after day while being in their homes. How fortunate they are to have beautiful homes, but it doesn’t necessarily make them happy either.

I feel that workers like Kathleen struggle every day to make ends meet, but also don’t get to express and build their creativity. She’s really an artist with material and color. I have no such talents.

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THE NEXT THURSDAY when I see Kathleen her knee is better but her spirits are down. Yes, the brace and icing are helping, she says as she joins me on the park bench. But I am worried that I won’t be able to maintain my rent. The dry cleaning store is no longer paying me a salary, just whatever I make from individual jobs. I don’t think they wanted a crippled woman in their window sewing—bad for business. The daughter has been kind, and said she’ll bring me the sewing projects and pick them up daily. I said to her, ‘A hem, no problem, but some jobs I’ll need more time.’ She said, ‘My brother is taking over the business and that’s how he wants to market it—one day repairs!’ She said she’ll work with me, and of course there will be less distractions when I’m not in the shop. I’m worried, but I can’t say no. I need this job.

Did you ask them for more money, to raise the sewing rates? And do they pay for all the thread, needles, etc.?

Oh, Viviana, you are business woman, I am just trying to pay my rent. They are bringing a second sewing machine to my place.

We sit quietly for a while. I’m thinking there must be a way to get Kathleen more compensation for her sewing, although when I look at her arthritic hands, I wonder if she can handle an increased amount of work.

My jobs are changing too, and cleaning for and after the big parties wears me out for a few days. I shrug. "I had a dream the other night. I was looking for a house, I guess to go clean. It was supposed to be #5, but I couldn’t find it. I