That ought to have been the end of it, but then I began to notice things.
The closet along the hallway remained closed.Let me handle the dress.
When he spotted me, Dad put the brown paper bundles he had brought home under his arm.
The sewing machine’s soft hum could be heard in the living room long after I had gone to bed.
I padded out in my socks and stood in the hallway when I first heard it.
Bending over an ivory cloth spill beneath the lamp was my father. His jaw was clenched in concentration, and he wore reading glasses low on his nose.
I had only ever seen him handle ancient photos with such care, but one thick hand kept the cloth steady as the other led it through the machine.
I rested my head against the wall. “Since when do you sew?”
He almost stabbed himself with the needle because of how forcefully he leaped.
Dad brought brown paper bundles home.”Goodness, Syd,” he remarked.I’m sorry, Dad. I heard noises.
He removed the glasses. “Go to bed.””What are you producing?”There is nothing to be concerned about.
I took another look at the fabric. “That doesn’t look like nothing.”
He removed the glasses.
He raised a finger. “Nope. Out.”Dad, you’re acting strangely.”He gave me a tiny smile and whispered, “Go, baby.”
That became our rhythm for about a month.
I discovered thread on the couch when I got home from school. Trying to mend a hem and stir stew at the same time caused him to burn dinner twice.
