Page 30 - the NOISE November 2014

A Stitch In Time.
story by Nathalie Goldston | illustration by Nick Lawrence
“How much?” Hannah couldn’t believe her luck. She had been searching all day for more thread and finally found some.
“How much?” she asked again.
The elderly shopkeeper stroked his chin. “Well, I don’t rightly know what would be a fair price.
I gotta think a minute.” He stared at the wicker basket.
Hannah shifted from one foot to the other impatiently. The second hand store had been
her last resort. When news of the stock market crash had reached her small town more than a week ago, McCready’s Mercantile closed. Some said Mr. McCready lost everything and jumped off Cotter’s Bridge.
“Why didn’t Mr. McCready wait until tomorrow? After I bought my thread,” she said to her- self when she found the store securely locked and out of business. An unfinished wedding dress hung in her shop. If she couldn’t find the right thread, it wouldn’t be ready for Miss Miller’s final fitting.
“No thread, no money, no shop, no food,” she said forlornly rattling the door in one final attempt to enter.
“Miss.”
Hannah jumped at the sound of the man’s voice behind her.
“Didn’t mean to startle you, Miss, but you might try the second hand store at the end of town. It’s the only place doing a brisk business right now.”
Hannah blushed at the sight of the handsome young man. He was tall, at least over six feet. At barely five foot, three inches, Hannah had to tilt her head way back to get a good look at him. He was well dressed wearing a dark brown suit and hat. She guessed he was her age, twenty- five, give or take a year or two. His green eyes sparkled.
“Thank you,” she said shyly. Words escaped her. She wasn’t used to handsome men talking to her.
“Have a nice day,” he smiled as he tipped his hat and walked away.
“You know there’s thread in there.” The shopkeeper’s voice brought her back to the present. He had opened the lid of the basket.
Yes, she knew there was thread inside, lots of thread all the same color, black. She almost didn’t buy the basket for that reason; but, what other choice did she have? She didn’t know anyone who could give her a ride to a store in a different town just for a spool of thread. Besides, not finishing the wedding dress was out of the question.
No thread, no money, no shop, no food, she reminded herself. Black thread would have to do. I’ll make it work.
“Look, mister, I’m running out of time. How much do you want for this sewing basket?” It was her final plea.
“One dollar.”
Hannah opened her change purse and counted out one dollar exactly. She thought about
negotiating a lower price, but she really was running out of time. “Thank you,” she grabbed her purchase and hurried away.
Her small tailor shop was situated in the basement of the National Bank. A sign, neatly paint- ed with the words “The Stitchery, Hannah Jones, Seamstress” advertised her business at the bottom of the stairs. Since the run on the bank, hardly anyone walked by anymore. Contrary to the headlines predicting the market was coming back, she could tell everyone was hurting right now.
Hannah slid her key into the lock and went inside. Miss Miller’s white wedding dress, her only project, hung on a peg nearby.
“What am I going to do? I spent the last of my money on black thread,” Hannah put the wicker basket on her worktable. She tossed her hat and coat on a chair next to the dress. She stood facing the gown with her hands on her hips. “Maybe if I make the stitches really small, no one will notice the color.”That thought lifted her spirits.
She opened the sewing basket and surveyed its contents. Spools of black thread lined up in
two short rows in the middle. A pair of scissors was on one side of the row and an old wooden spindle with the same black thread was on the other.
Hannah pulled the spindle out. “Well, I never,” she said in wonder.
When she was a little girl, she often sat and watched her grandmother spin wool. It was a long, tedious process, but she spun a skein of the most wonderful yarn. This spindle, however, was different. Round and made of wood like her grandmother’s, it was about a half inch wide and eight inches in length. This was run through another domed piece, which stopped about an inch from the top. Course black thread was wound tightly around the spindle just below the dome. She tugged at a dangling piece of thread. It tore easily in her hand.
“Oh no, the thread is rotten,” she took out one of the spools, found the end of the thread and pulled. It broke as easily as the other.
Disgusted, she threw the spool and spindle on top of her worktable covered with the white fabric from Miss Miller’s wedding gown.
“Now what am I going to do? It’s not going to work at all,” she said in despair. “Maybe I can get a job?” She knew better. Jobs seemed to have disappeared overnight.
She turned towards the worktable and studied Miss Miller’s dress. Pins marking the hemline dotted the bottom of the gown. A similar row of pins held a piece of lace in place at the neck- line. Hannah touched the neckline of her dress. “Maybe if I take apart my dress, I can reuse the thread ... no, that’s impossible.” She looked at the spool of thread lying on the material and froze.
“What in the world?” She stared in disbelief at the sight before her. The spindle and spool of black thread she had thrown on top of the fabric was a magnificent shade of white.
“How ... it can’t be ...” she inched towards the table blinking her eyes rapidly. “I must be dream- ing.” She reached out and touched the spindle. It was indeed white. She picked up the spool of thread. As soon as it quit touching the material, the thread returned to its original color of black. Hannah let the spool go as if it were on fire. It landed on top of the fabric and became white once again. Hannah inhaled sharply. She didn’t know if she was happy or terrified.
The brass bell at the top of her door jingled sharply. Mr. Drake from the bank entered. “Miss Jones, there’s a phone call for you upstairs.”
“Thank you, Mr. Drake. I’ll be right up,” Hannah patted the spindle. “I’ll be right back.”
It took several minutes to calm the bride’s mother down.
“Yes, Mrs. Miller, I promise the dress will be ready tomorrow. Yes, I understand the wedding is a week away. Yes, the dress will be ready. Yes, at 4 o’clock. I promise. Goodbye.”
Hannah raced back down to her shop. The thread was where she left it. It was still the perfect shade of white. There was no time to question how or why, she had to sew. She re- turned to the sewing basket. She found a needle and a thimble then picked up the spindle of thread. It turned black in her hand. Undaunted, she pulled a long piece off. She was pleased it didn’t break this time. With the scissors from the basket, she cut the thread then pushed it through the eye of the needle. Its color remained black. She stuck the prepared needle in a pincushion nearby.
She cleared her worktable, then took the wedding dress down from its peg. With great care, she laid the dress down. She picked up the pincushion as she pulled a tall stool towards the table. Then she withdrew the needle.
“This better work,” she murmured.
Her fingers trembled when she pierced the fabric with the tip of the needle. The moment
the black thread eased through the white material, it changed color. Sheer joy and awe over- whelmed her.
It was many hours before the dress was finally finished. Hannah hung it back up on the peg and covered it carefully. Her stomach growled in hunger. She didn’t care. The dress was done. Tomorrow, when she got paid, she would eat. She walked to the front door and bolted it. Day- light was long gone. From a distant street lamp, a slight sliver of light shown on the cement steps. It had truly been one of the strangest days in her life.
30 • november 2014 • the NOISE arts & news • thenoise.us
She glanced at the wicker basket resting on the edge of her worktable.