Free The Charm Bracelet by Viola Shipman Page B

I have no tools or space. And the gentleman in this shop said he was not hiring.”
    â€œWait here,” the woman said. “I’ve been a client of his for a long time. We’ll see about that.”
    The woman again entered the shop and began pointing back at Mary, whose heart had risen to her throat.
    Finally, the owner gestured at Mary to enter.
    â€œYou will do fine in America,” the carriage driver said to Mary, smiling.
    Mary entered the man’s shop.
    â€œThis is your only chance,” he said, his moustache twitching. “I am Mr. Edwards.”
    The woman nodded at the man, and then handed Mary her material and a dress pattern.
    â€œYou have until dusk,” he said, pointing toward a back room. “You will pay this lady back if you ruin her material, understand?”
    Tears formed in Mary’s eyes. “Thank you, madam. Thank you. And thank you, Mr. Edwards.”
    Mary nodded at the woman as she smiled and exited, and then pulled a curtain, revealing a back room where an army of women sat at treadle sewing machines—row after row—making men’s suits, women’s gowns, and little girls’ dresses.
    It resembled a ballet to Mary, as women moved in sewing syncopation and rapt rhythm with one another, feet flying, hands dancing, bobbins bobbing, and colorful thread spinning, which looked like fire exploding from their feverish work.
    Mary scanned the room, and a woman with a tight grey bun nodded toward an ancient Singer sewing machine on a big treadle stand in the very back of the workspace. She pointed a thick hand with muscled fingers at the machine, a bracelet around her wrist jangling as if a hundred wind chimes had been rattled.
    â€œIz old, like me,” she said in a thick Polish accent without a hint of irony, as the room of women tittered. “No one wants it, either.”
    She stuck out her old hand. “I am Rima Jablonski.”
    She helped Mary set up at the old machine, and Mary positioned the white fabric just so. Mary took a deep breath and studied the dress pattern. It was from a French magazine, La Mode Illustrée , and was one of the most detailed yet exquisite patterns she had ever seen: A floor-length dress with flowing arms fitted at the wrist, a high collar—with an intricately stitched, repeating pattern of a family crest—with an attached bow, a cinched waist with a fabric belt featuring a dogwood bloom on one side, suspended from which was a small cinched bag with tassels. The bottom of the dress was softly ruffled, with eyelets. The face was the only skin that showed in the pattern’s picture.
    Mary shut her eyes for just a moment and bowed her head in prayer.
    I know it is nearly impossible to complete such an intricate dress in a matter of hours, but I am asking for your hands, and my mother’s hands, to help me.
    When Mary opened her eyes, the entire room of women had stopped and were praying with her.
    Mary gulped, took a deep breath, and said softly, “To opportunity.”
    As if one chorus, the women sang, “To opportunity,” and—though they worked at separate machines—they worked in unison for the rest of the day. Finally, hours later, Mary stood, walked to the front of the room, and held up her dress.
    The room exploded into applause.
    â€œYou must show him now,” a woman said to Mary, nodding past the curtain toward Mr. Edwards. “He must inspect it.”
    Mary’s heart was in her throat as she took the dress to Mr. Edwards.
    â€œTook you long enough!” he barked.
    He unfolded the dress and began to examine the zipper and the stitching.
    Mary felt as if she might faint. He was silent, save for the exhale of air that ruffled his moustache.
    â€œI worked very hard on the ruching,” Mary said, her voice filled with tremors.
    â€œSsshhhhh,” Mr. Edwards said.
    How will I ever pay the woman back? How could I have believed I could do this? How could I