Yardsticks: Chapter 1
| June 5, 2019The kallah and her mother exchanged quick looks. It was so fleeting I nearly missed it — the mother’s panicky shake of the head, the girl’s pleading eyes
A
gain that English net joke.
“Here, compare these.” Yocheved’s voice trailed through the door of the sewing room, where I was trying to eavesdrop over the rumbling cadence of sewing machines.
I leaned against the wall, tugging at Feuerstein’s muslin sleeve, and pictured the scene. Mother and daughter clustered around my sister, wide-eyed, as Yocheved held up two swatches of tulle, shaking her wrists to demonstrate the difference of how the fabrics fell.
The customers were doubtlessly nodding along, careful to appear enlightened but secretly wondering if there really was a difference between the two identical-looking pieces of white mesh. Not white, of course. Eggshell or vanilla or ivory, or whatever term Yocheved picked to glorify the colorlessness.
I smirked. Tulle was tulle, no matter how delicately you caressed it. Sure, softer and stiffer were personal preferences, but who cared what it was called?
“This sleeve’s good,” I told Olga. She looked up from her machine. I tossed her the muslin and draped my tape measure around my neck.
Turning the page in my notepad to Gluck, I walked over to Yelena. “You have a few minutes now?”
She nodded, releasing the foot of the serger. Her face stretched in a yawn, and I noticed dark rings under her eyes.
“You work too hard.” I told her.
“Da, khorosho. Yeah.”
I smiled at her compassionately. “New gown. Ready?”
With her notebook open next to mine, I started talking. She peered at my sketches as I spoke, replicating it in her own pad and adding Russian scrawls all around.
“Ugly,” she muttered.
I winked at her. These seamstresses, they slaved away creating kallahs’ dreams, with no right to an opinion. How pathetic was that?
Over the rumble of galloping needles, I heard my name being called. I looked up from Gluck. Yocheved was standing at the door, motioning me to come over.
“I guess we’ll continue later,” I told Yelena.
The scene in the reception room was exactly how I’d pictured it. Middle-aged mom with an oversized bag, spiffy kallah with long, beautiful hair.
“Mina.” Yocheved gestured to the pair, introducing me. “The Levinsons. First daughter.”
“I have four daughters-in-law,” Mrs. Levinson supplied, almost defensively.
I smiled.
And here it came — the brag book.
Ugh, was what I thought as the mini leather album was pushed into my hand. Not the pictures — I didn’t doubt that the kallah had looked stunning at her vort, that her chassan was tall and handsome and probably also smart. It was the word. Brag book. Point-blank bragging, no effort to pretend otherwise. This, if nothing else, was what irked me most about millennials.
Dutifully, I oohed over the accordion pages of the little book. The truth was, I liked seeing those albums. They gave me an idea of how a girl wore her dress. Unlike Yocheved, who got stuck at defining her tulles, I cared about posture and fit, and honestly, I had a knack for it. I knew how to match a figure to a style. I knew how to make every kallah look good.
And Yocheved knew I knew this. That’s why she had me on her staff.
“So what are we doing?” I asked, getting the conversation going.
Yocheved coughed. Mrs. Levinson squirmed. Kallah straightened her back and grinned.
“Lace,” Yocheved declared. “Definitely lace.”
That’s what she answered every single time.
The kallah and her mother exchanged quick looks. It was so fleeting I nearly missed it — the mother’s panicky shake of the head, the girl’s pleading eyes.
“Lace is an option,” I said, casually. “But you don’t need lace.” I threw a nonchalant glance at Yocheved. She wasn’t happy, but the Levinsons would be. And that would make her happy again. I continued smoothly. “Because you have such a beautiful figure, you can get away with other options.”
I could literally feel the release of Mrs. Levinson’s breath. Kallah fidgeted, looking from me to Yocheved uncertainly, as though waiting for Mrs. Cool to weigh in.
“True,” Yocheved said tightly. No further comment.
I stepped forward. “So let’s start looking around, shall we?”
The Levinsons joined me in the showroom while Yocheved headed off to greet the next appointment. I glanced up. It was Tzirel! A wave crashed over me, a jumble of Shevy’s best friend, coming for a gown! — and, Shevy’s 23rd birthday, lurking… and, and… what was Tzirel Dratler doing in Yocheved Lewin’s boutique, had they won the lottery or what?
I shook my head, turning my attention back to the Levinsons. We started the rounds, trying to get a feel for this kallah’s preferences.
Mrs. Levinson turned to me suddenly. “You used to do consignments, no?”
I nodded. Who even remembered those days? Crammed in Yocheved’s basement, assorted gowns squished together on coat racks, fifteen little girls showing up and having a blast playing Cinderella. I’d thought it was such a cute idea when Yocheved had shared it with me.
She’d bought three secondhand gowns for her brother-in-law’s wedding, and already the third family was renting them from her. “This could be a business,” she’d said. “Buying second-hand stuff and renting them to other people. It’s win-win. People spend money on gowns, use them for one night and want nothing to do with them after the wedding. They’ll be glad to get them out of the house and even make a few bucks.”
“Yes, we used to,” I replied. “Way back when.”
She nodded. “Uh… what’s your name again?”
“Mina. Mina Genuth.”
“Right, Mina.”
She hesitated. I smiled at her encouragingly.
“Tell me,” she started, “do most kallahs, you know, do lace? Is that the standard?”
My heart went out for her. Poor woman. She didn’t belong here. I’d known it from the second I’d seen her bag. A Lewin gown was not on this woman’s radar. There’d been a scene before she’d made an appointment here. Something about all the kallah’s friends coming here, maybe those four daughters-in-law, this was her wedding night, you can’t compare a Lewin gown with some cheap rental. It had been kallah vs. father with the mother unsure whose side to take.
She was looking at me, almost pleading. My chest constricted. Push them to take the nicest, Yocheved’s voice hissed in my ears. That’s your job.
It was. As Yocheved’s saleslady, on payroll, it was my duty to aim to make the business prosper.
And at the same time, it was my duty to make the customers happy. Wasn’t that why she needed me?
I rubbed the tape measure between my fingers. “Not everyone does.”
Mrs. Levinson nodded. The girl’s face fell.
I walked over to a rack and pulled out a gown. “This one’s a beaut,” I said, earnestly. “It’s a new sample. The style is perfect for tall girls like you.”
The kallah forced a half-smile.
“It’s pretty, Sarah, no?” Mrs. Levinson asked. “What do you think? Want to try it on?”
The girl sighed. “I guess.”
I knew my gowns and I knew my customers. I puffed the skirts, stuck some pins down the back to get a snug fit. I tacked a veil on the girl’s hair and gently nudged her toward the mirror.
I smiled. Mrs. Levinson smiled. And slowly, daring herself to face us, the beautiful kallah smiled.
Take that, Yocheved.
The mother was already holding her phone and taking pictures. I inched away when I noticed her eyes water. This happened every time a girl recognized The Gown. Her gown. Like it made it all real, the girl was actually getting married.
They wouldn’t finalize today. They’d be back with some mavens, maybe one of those daughters-in-law. She’d try on fifteen other gowns and debate. I was okay with that. It was part of the process and I had no intention of pushing anyone. But I knew with a hundred percent certainty that on her wedding night, Sarah Levinson would be wearing the very first gown I’d gotten her to her try on.
I was showing Mrs. Levinson some beading options when she reached for my hand.
I stiffened, watching her daughter slink slightly away. I saw her throat bob as she swallowed. And then it came. “Uh, Mina. Do you know, like, how these gowns run? Price wise?”
I tried to keep my face even as I flicked my thumb over my shoulder, in the direction of the sewing room. “You’ll need to speak to Yocheved about that.”
(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 645)
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