their mother to refashion into wardrobes for them. Every day after school the girls open the front door expecting to hear the sewing machine. Instead they see the unopened boxes, still there in the hall. Eventually Norma selects what she wants (she is the only one who can wear the clothes unaltered) and their father stores the rest under the stairs.
Sandy cries to see the boxes go. Down in the basement she takes the party dresses and blouses and jumpers out and strokes the expensive material.
Then one day, one Saturday morning, she goes down with scissors and the portable sewing machine. By dinner she has a skirt—a tight blue wool with yellow buttons up one side, made from a jumper. By Sunday afternoon she has a matching vest. She wears the outfit to school on Monday, and everyone thinks it came from a store.
For the rest of the week and all the next week, after school, before school, she sews. At lunch time she draws patterns and runs over in her mind what piece of clothing she’ll rip apart and work with next. The whole time she has a feeling of learning a skill already mastered. She makes a puff-sleeved, scallop-collared blouse out of a dress. She unravels and reknits a sweater.
Only Norma appreciates that for Sandy to be making the kinds of clothes she is without being shown how, and at her age, is amazing. Although she doesn’t praise Sandy (she has a feeling these days that nothing her sisters do is any of her business), she does keep her in material by returning most of the clothes she took out of the boxes. It occurs to her that she should write up a will and bequeath Sandy her wardrobe—all except for the outfit that she’ll be buried in.
Norma devotes a lot of thought to what this outfit will be. Lately she finds herself worrying about her funeral, as if it’s a school project she hardly has any time to complete. Somethingshe keeps meaning to find out is whether the mortician puts your glasses on you. She worries about enough people showing up. She wonders if even their mother will. Lou will have to—their father will force Lou to go—but will Lou cry? It bothers Norma that she can’t picture Lou crying. Lou almost never cries, but why Norma can’t picture it, and would like to, is that all of a sudden Lou seems to hate her. Porko, Lou calls her, or Lard Ass—nothing else. For no reason at all she’ll say,“This is what’s wrong with you. Mud-brown hair, pudgy red cheeks, Coke-bottle glasses, basketball tits, big fat ass.”
Norma doesn’t defend herself. How can she, when it’s all true? And she doesn’t strike back with a list of what’s wrong with the way Lou looks, because she can only think of one thing and because she’s afraid that if she starts being cruel, she won’t be able to stop—she’ll go all the way to murderer—and because, with their brother being dead, it’s up to her to be the strong one.
And because she can take it. Nothing Lou could ever say could be as bad as school, and if Norma can take school, she can take anything. She’s in her first year of high school. All of her old friends are in another class. She eats lunch with an adenoidal girl who calls her Norba and who is always saying “Who cares?”
But it beats eating alone. When Norma walks down the corridors alone, boys moo at her and call her Enorma. A rumour is going around that she has three breasts. In the gym change-room she catches girls trying to get a look. Finally she starts changing in one of the toilet cubicles, going through the whole act of tearing off a piece of toilet paper and flushing.
She lives for three-fifteen, when she can go home and down to their father’s workroom. There, except for the companionable hum of the sewing machine in the next room, there is quietness. If she doesn’t have laundry to do, she has a full two hours to herself.
The sight of the tools hanging above the workbench in their logical rows always stirs her. She wishes she could build a whole room again, she and
Sandy cries to see the boxes go. Down in the basement she takes the party dresses and blouses and jumpers out and strokes the expensive material.
Then one day, one Saturday morning, she goes down with scissors and the portable sewing machine. By dinner she has a skirt—a tight blue wool with yellow buttons up one side, made from a jumper. By Sunday afternoon she has a matching vest. She wears the outfit to school on Monday, and everyone thinks it came from a store.
For the rest of the week and all the next week, after school, before school, she sews. At lunch time she draws patterns and runs over in her mind what piece of clothing she’ll rip apart and work with next. The whole time she has a feeling of learning a skill already mastered. She makes a puff-sleeved, scallop-collared blouse out of a dress. She unravels and reknits a sweater.
Only Norma appreciates that for Sandy to be making the kinds of clothes she is without being shown how, and at her age, is amazing. Although she doesn’t praise Sandy (she has a feeling these days that nothing her sisters do is any of her business), she does keep her in material by returning most of the clothes she took out of the boxes. It occurs to her that she should write up a will and bequeath Sandy her wardrobe—all except for the outfit that she’ll be buried in.
Norma devotes a lot of thought to what this outfit will be. Lately she finds herself worrying about her funeral, as if it’s a school project she hardly has any time to complete. Somethingshe keeps meaning to find out is whether the mortician puts your glasses on you. She worries about enough people showing up. She wonders if even their mother will. Lou will have to—their father will force Lou to go—but will Lou cry? It bothers Norma that she can’t picture Lou crying. Lou almost never cries, but why Norma can’t picture it, and would like to, is that all of a sudden Lou seems to hate her. Porko, Lou calls her, or Lard Ass—nothing else. For no reason at all she’ll say,“This is what’s wrong with you. Mud-brown hair, pudgy red cheeks, Coke-bottle glasses, basketball tits, big fat ass.”
Norma doesn’t defend herself. How can she, when it’s all true? And she doesn’t strike back with a list of what’s wrong with the way Lou looks, because she can only think of one thing and because she’s afraid that if she starts being cruel, she won’t be able to stop—she’ll go all the way to murderer—and because, with their brother being dead, it’s up to her to be the strong one.
And because she can take it. Nothing Lou could ever say could be as bad as school, and if Norma can take school, she can take anything. She’s in her first year of high school. All of her old friends are in another class. She eats lunch with an adenoidal girl who calls her Norba and who is always saying “Who cares?”
But it beats eating alone. When Norma walks down the corridors alone, boys moo at her and call her Enorma. A rumour is going around that she has three breasts. In the gym change-room she catches girls trying to get a look. Finally she starts changing in one of the toilet cubicles, going through the whole act of tearing off a piece of toilet paper and flushing.
She lives for three-fifteen, when she can go home and down to their father’s workroom. There, except for the companionable hum of the sewing machine in the next room, there is quietness. If she doesn’t have laundry to do, she has a full two hours to herself.
The sight of the tools hanging above the workbench in their logical rows always stirs her. She wishes she could build a whole room again, she and
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