Free My Mrs. Brown by William Norwich

this talk about money.”
    Alice walked Mrs. Brown to the door. “You know, Mrs. Brown, about going to New York, I’ll come with you if you want. I know the city okay enough. I did an internship there three summers ago. Remember? That’s when I visited Granny here in Ashville before I went back home in August.”
    While she carefully washed and dried her grandmother’s sherry glasses, Alice reflected on Mrs. Brown’s resolution to save for a suit like Mrs. Groton’s and then go all the way to New York to buy it.
    It was weird, and it didn’t make any sense to her.
    Looking at the time, a bit before 11:00 P.M. , she figured that, given the time difference, her grandmother would be cleaning up after dinner in Vancouver and sitting down to read whatever book it was she was reading this week.
    Alice telephoned, and Mrs. Fox answered on the first ring.
    â€œWhat’s wrong, Alice? It’s late for you with teaching early tomorrow morning.”
    When it came to understanding Mrs. Brown, and keeping her word to her grandmother to support her, Alice was out of her element on this “go-to-New-York-and-buy-a-dress thing,” as she called it—and would call it again many times over.
    â€œI mean what, Granny, like, what the fuck, right? It’s only a black jacket and dress. It’s an effing suit. What’s that? So boring!”
    â€œDon’t swear, Alice, it isn’t ladylike and much more is expected of a college-educated person,” Mrs. Fox said. “Use words that reflect your intelligence, not your slang.”
    This was exasperating, but Alice pressed on. “Yes, Granny, sorry. Big words. Coming right up. As polysyllabic as possible.”
    Mrs. Fox laughed. She was slow if ever to admit it, but she enjoyed her youngest granddaughter’s punkish attitudes—sometimes.
    â€œWhat don’t you understand about a woman of a certain age wanting to step out of her shell and travel somewhere, in this case New York, where she has never been, and to buy a dress?” Mrs. Fox asked. “Just because it might be found online? And I would have thought you’d like this suit that Emilia is wanting. It’s black, after all, your favorite color.”
    â€œWell, yes, there’s that. It’s black, that’s a plus, but don’t they sell boring black dresses at Penny’s?” Alice took a breath, and continued. “It’s a suit, Granny, it is utilitarian. It isn’t fantastic, it won’t be pretty and it will be dull. No matter how well made it is. If she’s going for something so expensive, there are lots of other dresses, beautiful dresses, red carpet dresses. She’s missing the opportunity to have something that makes her feel young and sexy, or is that the idea? Maybe she can get something that’s great and gets her more attention, you know, from men—she isn’t too old for men, is she; people your age still do it, don’t they, Granny? But with this suit, I don’t get it, she’ll look like a lawyer. And she isn’t a lawyer. She’s just a cleaning lady in a beauty shop.”
    Mrs. Fox waited to respond. It’s always best to let the young empty the tank when they are ranting. “I want to tell you something about women like Mrs. Brown, and like myself, really, living on small fixed incomes, we’d give anything to be accepted in a boardroom, if the fashion world only understood that. We don’t all want to be sexpots, or cougars, or just covered up in droopy blouses and trousers. There’s also something alluring, very, very alluring about a dress that is perfectly correct. But in an effort to make my generation disappear, no one sells clothing that empowers us. There’s only ridicule, condescension, or dismissal.”
    Alice had never thought about it this way. Could a really well-made suit dress be as much a fantasy for a woman as an evening gown or, in