Chapter 5 - White Fabric, Small Pay
I kept my foot light on the pedal and counted in my head the way I did when I didn't want to think about anything else.
Twelve seams done. Four to go on this side, then the hem. The white fabric pulled a little under my hands, warm from the lamp and from the machine. I could see where my stitches went crooked near the edge where my right fingers wouldn't bend right. I tried to flatten it with my thumb. The bandage caught on the cloth and made a soft scratching sound.
Behind me, the man in the black suit hadn't moved much. I could hear his shoes on the wood floor when he shifted his weight.
I did the math again. If each straight run took me about twenty minutes when my fingers worked, and longer when they throbbed, I was already behind. I had started that morning thinking I could finish by dark. Now the light through the kitchen window had moved across the refrigerator and I wasn't even halfway through the hem.
My stomach tightened. Medicine wasn't a someday thing. It was a today thing.
The envelope was still in the front pocket of my jeans where I'd put it. I could feel the corner of it press against my leg every time I pressed the pedal. I hadn't opened it. Mom hadn't told me to open it. So I left it there.
"How many of those do you have to do?" the man asked.
His voice wasn't loud. It sounded plain, like he was trying to make it normal.
I didn't look up. I kept my eyes on the needle going up and down through the white fabric. The vintage machine hummed under my hands, and the gold detailing flashed a little each time it vibrated. The little rose plate by the needle was cool when my finger brushed it.
"Just this," I said.
I kept the pedal rhythm steady. I didn't want him to hear the shake in it.
He took one small step closer. Not too close. I saw his shadow fall over the edge of the table, dark against the white cloth. His wristwatch caught the daylight for a second.
"Who's it for?" he asked.
I guided the fabric a little to the left so the seam wouldn't wander. My bandaged fingers ached when I pressed down. I breathed through my nose and kept going.
"Somebody who pays," I said.
That was true enough, and it kept the rest inside. I didn't tell him how much, because it was small. I didn't tell him when it was due, because saying it out loud made it feel heavier. I just listened to the needle and counted. Thirteen. Fourteen. Keep it straight.
From the bedroom, Mom coughed.
It wasn't a big cough. It was low and dry and it stopped and started again, like she couldn't get enough air to finish it. My foot slipped off the pedal without me meaning to. The machine slowed and stopped, and the needle stuck halfway down in the fabric.
I looked toward the white doorway. I couldn't see her from the sewing corner, just the edge of the doorframe and a little of the dimmer light in there.
My hands stayed on the fabric. I wanted to get up. I wanted to keep sewing. I did neither for a second.
The man heard it too. I saw his head turn toward the bedroom. His shoulders went still.
I pressed the pedal again, soft, to get the rhythm back. The machine hummed. The needle lifted and went back to work.
"I'm almost done," I said, more to Mom than to him. My voice came out thin.
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It wasn't true. I still had the long hem and the last seams, and my fingers were already swelling under the bandage. But I needed the sound of the machine to fill the kitchen again so that cough wouldn't just hang there.
I counted again to keep myself steady. Fifteen. Sixteen. I watched the white fabric move forward inch by inch, unfinished and bright under my hands. I told myself if I didn't stop, I could still finish today. I had to finish today.
