“I can’t begin to know what you’re talking about, Peg.”
“Play, Benjamin. Just keep playing. That’s how we’ll find it. After this, I want you to write a song for Celia called ‘I’ll Be a Good Girl Later.’ Do you think you could write a song like that?”
“I can write anything, if you feed me and pay me.”
—
As for me, I was designing costumes for the cast—but mostly for Edna.
Edna was concerned about being “swallowed” by the waistless 1920s dresses that she saw me sketching.
“That style didn’t look good on me back then when I was young and pretty,” she said, “and I can’t see it looking good on me now that I’m old and stale. You have to give me a waistline of some sort. I know it wasn’t the fashion back then, but you’ll have to fake it. Also, my waist is more stoutish right now than I would like it to be. Work around it, please.”
“I don’t think you’re stoutish at all,” I said, and I meant it.
“Oh, but I am. Don’t worry, though—in the week before the show, I’ll live on a diet of rice water, toast, mineral oil, and laxatives, like always. I’ll slim down. But for now, use gussets, so you can tighten my waistline later. If there’s to be a lot of dancing, I’ll need you to create purposeful seams—you understand, don’t you, darling? Nothing can fly loose when I’m in the spotlight. My legs are still good, thank heavens, so don’t be afraid to show them. What else? Oh, yes—my shoulders are narrower than they seem. And my neck is awfully short, so proceed with caution, especially if you’re going to put me in some sort of a large hat. If you make me look like a stubby little French bulldog, Vivian, I’ll never forgive you.”
I had such respect for how well this woman knew the vagaries of her own figure. Most women have no idea what works for them and what doesn’t. But Edna was precision incarnate. Sewing for her, I could see, was going to be its own apprenticeship in costuming.
“You are designing for the stage, Vivian,” she instructed. “Rely upon shape more than detail. Remember that the nearest viewer to me will be ten strides away. You have to think on a large scale. Big colors, clean lines. A costume is a landscape, not a portrait. And I want brilliant dresses, my dear, but I don’t want the dress to be the star of the show. Don’t outshine me, darling. You understand?”
I did. And oh, how I loved the shape of this conversation. I loved being with Edna. I was becoming quite infatuated with her, if I’m being honest. She had nearly replaced Celia as the central object of my devoted awe. Celia was still exciting, of course, and we still went out on the town, but I didn’t need her so much anymore. Edna had depths of glamour and sophistication that excited me far more than anything Celia could offer.
I would say that Edna was somebody who “spoke my own language” but that’s not quite it, because I was not yet as fluent in fashion as she was. It would be closer to the truth to say that Edna Parker Watson was the first native speaker I’d ever encountered of the language that I wanted to master—the language of outstanding apparel.
—
A few days later, I took Edna to Lowtsky’s Used Emporium and Notions to look for fabrics and ideas. I was a bit nervous about bringing someone of such refined taste to this overwhelming bazaar of noise, material, and color (to be honest, the smell alone would turn off most high-end shoppers), but Edna was instantly thrilled by Lowtsky’s—as only somebody who genuinely understood clothing and materials could be. She was also delighted by young Marjorie Lowtsky, who greeted us at the door with her standard demand: “Whaddaya need?”
Marjorie was the daughter of the owners, and I had come to know her well over my past few months of shopping excursions. She was a bright, energetic, pie-faced fourteen-year-old, who always dressed in the most outlandish costumes. On this day, for instance, she was wearing the craziest getup I’d ever seen—big buckled shoes (like a Pilgrim in a child’s Thanksgiving drawing), a gold brocade cape with a ten-foot train, and a French chef’s hat with a giant fake ruby brooch pinned to it. Underneath all that, her school uniform. She looked patently ridiculous, as always, but Marjorie Lowtsky was not one to be taken lightly. Mr. and Mrs. Lowtsky didn’t speak the best English, so Marjorie had been doing the talking for them since toddlerhood. At her young age, she already knew the rag trade as well as anyone, and could take orders and deliver threats in four languages—Russian, French, Yiddish, and English. She was an odd kid, but I had come to find Marjorie’s help essential.
“We need dresses from the 1920s, Marjorie,” I said. “Really good ones. Rich lady dresses.”
“You wanna start by looking upstairs? In the Collection?”
The archly named “Collection” was a small area on the third floor where the Lowtskys sold their rarest and most precious finds.
“We don’t have the budget just now to even be glancing at the Collection.”
“So you want rich lady dresses but at poor lady prices?”
Edna laughed: “You’ve identified our needs perfectly, my dear.”
“That’s right, Marjorie,” I said. “We’re here to dig, not to spend.”
“Start over there,” Marjorie said, pointing to the back of the building. “The stuff by the loading dock just came in over the last few days. Mama hasn’t even had a chance to look through it yet. You could get lucky.”
—
The bins at Lowtsky’s were not for the faint of heart. These were large industrial laundry bins, crammed with textiles that the Lowtskys bought and sold by the pound—everything from workers’ battered old overalls to tragically stained undergarments, to upholstery remnants, to parachute material, to faded blouses of pongee silk, to French lace serviettes, to heavy old drapes, to your great-grandfather’s precious satin christening gown. Digging through the bins was hard and sweaty work, an act of faith. You had to believe that there was treasure to be found in all this garbage, and you had to hunt for it with conviction.
Edna, much to my admiration, dove right in. I got the sense she’d done this sort of thing before. Side by side, bin by bin, the two of us dug in silence, searching for what we did not know.
About an hour in, I suddenly heard Edna shout “a-ha!” and looked over to see her waving something triumphantly above her head. And triumphant she should have been, for her find turned out to be a 1920s crimson silk-chiffon and velvet-trimmed robe de style evening dress, embellished with glass beading and gold thread.
“Oh, my!” I exclaimed. “It’s perfect for Mrs. Alabaster!”
“Indeed,” said Edna. “And feast your eyes upon this.” She turned over the back collar of the garment to reveal the original labeclass="underline" Lanvin, Paris. “Somebody très riche bought this dress in France twenty years ago, I’ll wager, and barely wore it, by the looks of it. Delicious. How it will glint on stage!”
In a flash, Marjorie Lowtsky was at our side.
“Say, what’d you kids find in there?” asked the only actual kid in the room.
“Don’t you start with me, Marjorie,” I warned. I was only half teasing—suddenly afraid she was going to snatch the dress away from us to sell in the Collection upstairs. “Play by the rules. Edna found this dress in the bins, fair and square.”
Marjorie shrugged. “All’s fair in love and war,” she said. “But it’s a good one. Just make sure you bury it under a heap of trash when mama rings it up. She’d murder me if she knew I let that one get away from us. Lemme get you a sack and some rags, to hide it.”