Don't Sing at the Table by Adriana Trigiani Read Free Book Online Page A

of everything she owned as though it was irreplaceable.
    I went down the stairs to ask her about the dress situation.
    Lucy was sewing at her machine. There was a bright work lamp over it, on a snakelike coil. She’d push and pull that lamp around, up, and down to see her stitches in the best light, then move it out of the way (after all, the bulb was bright and hot) when she released the wheel to wind the bobbin. When she finished a job and stood up, she’d swing out of her rolling stool, with its low back and handmade pillow seat, like a concert pianist who’d just finished a concerto on the stage of Carnegie Hall. She was one with her instrument: the sewing machine.
    When I came into the room (and I was so chic at the time—an eleven-year-old with style, wearing a long rope of wooden beads with a navy blue scooter skirt), she looked up at me and smiled. Beamed. Whenever I came into the room, she’d light up, so happy to see me. No one ever in the course of my entire life was ever as happy to see me as she was. Looking back, now, I realize that you only ever need one person who lights up that way when you enter a room. One person is all it takes to give a kid confidence.
    â€œGrandma, I have a question. Why don’t you have a lot of clothes?”
    She smiled. “I have plenty of clothes.”
    â€œNo, you don’t. You have three dresses and one coat. And the dresses are all the same. You only have two pair of shoes. Three, if you count those.” I pointed at the plain black leather lace-ups.
    â€œHow many dresses should I have?” she asked.
    â€œMore than three.”
    She laughed. “How many can I wear at one time?”
    â€œOne.” I was no fool. That was an easy question.
    â€œSo how many do I need?” she asked.
    I thought for a moment. “Well, I guess the answer is one.”
    â€œSo you see, I have too many.”
    I had to process this logic. After all, my fashion gene had kicked in, and here, my Lucy was a creator of clothing, she could make anything she imagined. Anything . I wanted to see her wearing the goods. And I wanted to see a lot . Her simple, straight black skirt and white blouse wasn’t enough.
    I had seen pictures of the dresses, skirts, blouses, suits, and coats she had made for my mother and her twin sister. I knew Lucy could make evening gowns of chiffon, sundresses of cotton pique with eyelet lace, and eventually an exquisite peau de soie silk wedding gown for my mother, which I was allowed to look at but never touch. The skirt on my mother’s wedding gown was a full 360-degree circle skirt with layers of white tulle underneath. Lucy was capable of high fashion. I knew Lucy had chic and cool in her, I had seen it, so why wasn’t she wearing her own couture? I didn’t even know how to express this to her; in my mind, it seemed insulting to point out that she didn’t have much. So instead I asked, “Why the polka dots?”
    â€œWhite polka dots on navy blue are classic. You can wear that fabric to a wedding or a funeral or a party, and it’s always just right.”
    Years later, when I moved to New York City and was making my living by day as an office temp to finance my theatrical dreams at night, I lived in a boardinghouse. I needed a dress to wear to weddings and funerals and the occasional fancy party (with the dual purpose of making connections and eating enough hors d’oeuvres at Manhattan parties so that I wouldn’t have to buy dinner later). “Beauty on a budget” didn’t begin to describe my circumstances. Like every girl without connections that ever moved to New York City to find a job and make a life, I was broke. Everything I made went to rent and playwriting. But I needed to look good, to give an impression that I was serious and had taste, and maybe, if there was a miracle to occur, that I was actually going places.
    I went to B. Altman’s to look for a dress. I