Maybe a gathering in the ballroom before the first session. Or an announcement at lunchtime. That would be good.” The elevator doors slid open. “That will give me time to ease into things and—”
As if they’d been snipped with scissors, my words stopped. But then, I’ve found that it’s pretty hard to talk when my jaw is hanging slack.
A hand-drawn poster that said “Mourning Buttons, Death Mementos, This Way” and pointed toward the dealer room will do that do a girl.
“Oh my gosh, Josie, you must be so frazzled!” A woman I didn’t know raced up and pulled me into an embrace strong enough to squeeze all the air out of my lungs. “Imagine, finding a body like that!” She thrust me away as quickly as she grabbed me, so that she could press a flowered handkerchief to her nose. “It must have been awful.”
I think that was right about when I realized we were surrounded by conference-goers and that none of them looked any less upset than the woman who’d waylaid me. One woman clutched a copy of Thad Wyant’s latest book about Western buttons to her heaving chest. Another sniffed softly.
“He was such a great man.” Sniffing Lady sniffed even louder and shook her head sadly. “Such a loss to the button world, such a loss.”
“It is.” How’s that for a noncommittal sort of statement? I think I stood there for another dozen heartbeats, looking around at the circle of miserable expressions and wondering what to say and how everyone already knew about Thad’s death, when Kaz grabbed my hand and tugged me down the hallway.
“Got to go,” I said, and since the ladies all nodded knowingly, I suppose they thought I had something important to accomplish rather than just that I was eager to escape.
“They know.” I said this in a stunned monotone even as Kaz dragged me into the dealer room and I saw that there had been a transformation in there since I’d stopped in the day before. On Monday, the room was filled with eager dealers showing off their wares, everything from glass buttons to wooden buttons to the buttons we called realistics, those that are made to look like everything from dogs and cats to spaceships and pianos. Now, most of those buttons had been stowed away and replaced with mourning buttons.
Quick button lesson here…
Back in Victorian times, mourning was a big business. The rules of how to grieve the loss of a loved one were specific, and the clothes people wore—and what they weren’t allowed to wear—were part of those rules. Everyone’s familiar with the black gowns, the crepe, the long weeping veils. But think about it—all those black clothes. That meant a lot of people needed a whole lot of black buttons.
The button producers of the nineteenth century stepped up to the task. These days, the buttons they made are a subspecialty of many a button collector.
And apparently, of button dealers, too.
Pikestaffed, I stepped through the dealer room surrounded by jet buttons (jet is a naturally occurring substance, a lot like coal, and it was used for expensive buttons), black glass buttons (for those who wanted to look like they were wearing jet but not pay the price), and buttons made from the twined hair of a deceased person. (OK, I love buttons, but those always creep me out.)
The dealers who didn’t have enough mourning buttons to display capitalized on the news of Thad’s death with Western buttons. Even as Kaz hauled me through the room and on toward the hospitality suite, where the morning’s continental breakfast would be served, I noticed buttons shaped like horses, and cowboys, and cowboy boots, along with buttons fashioned from turquoise and silver, sweet little calico buttons, and even good old plain and reliable pearl buttons, the type that had once been on Geronimo’s shirts.
“Amazing.” Langston mouthed the word as we hurtled by. Others weren’t quite so unobtrusive. They mumbled their condolences, though why I should be on the receiving end of
As if they’d been snipped with scissors, my words stopped. But then, I’ve found that it’s pretty hard to talk when my jaw is hanging slack.
A hand-drawn poster that said “Mourning Buttons, Death Mementos, This Way” and pointed toward the dealer room will do that do a girl.
“Oh my gosh, Josie, you must be so frazzled!” A woman I didn’t know raced up and pulled me into an embrace strong enough to squeeze all the air out of my lungs. “Imagine, finding a body like that!” She thrust me away as quickly as she grabbed me, so that she could press a flowered handkerchief to her nose. “It must have been awful.”
I think that was right about when I realized we were surrounded by conference-goers and that none of them looked any less upset than the woman who’d waylaid me. One woman clutched a copy of Thad Wyant’s latest book about Western buttons to her heaving chest. Another sniffed softly.
“He was such a great man.” Sniffing Lady sniffed even louder and shook her head sadly. “Such a loss to the button world, such a loss.”
“It is.” How’s that for a noncommittal sort of statement? I think I stood there for another dozen heartbeats, looking around at the circle of miserable expressions and wondering what to say and how everyone already knew about Thad’s death, when Kaz grabbed my hand and tugged me down the hallway.
“Got to go,” I said, and since the ladies all nodded knowingly, I suppose they thought I had something important to accomplish rather than just that I was eager to escape.
“They know.” I said this in a stunned monotone even as Kaz dragged me into the dealer room and I saw that there had been a transformation in there since I’d stopped in the day before. On Monday, the room was filled with eager dealers showing off their wares, everything from glass buttons to wooden buttons to the buttons we called realistics, those that are made to look like everything from dogs and cats to spaceships and pianos. Now, most of those buttons had been stowed away and replaced with mourning buttons.
Quick button lesson here…
Back in Victorian times, mourning was a big business. The rules of how to grieve the loss of a loved one were specific, and the clothes people wore—and what they weren’t allowed to wear—were part of those rules. Everyone’s familiar with the black gowns, the crepe, the long weeping veils. But think about it—all those black clothes. That meant a lot of people needed a whole lot of black buttons.
The button producers of the nineteenth century stepped up to the task. These days, the buttons they made are a subspecialty of many a button collector.
And apparently, of button dealers, too.
Pikestaffed, I stepped through the dealer room surrounded by jet buttons (jet is a naturally occurring substance, a lot like coal, and it was used for expensive buttons), black glass buttons (for those who wanted to look like they were wearing jet but not pay the price), and buttons made from the twined hair of a deceased person. (OK, I love buttons, but those always creep me out.)
The dealers who didn’t have enough mourning buttons to display capitalized on the news of Thad’s death with Western buttons. Even as Kaz hauled me through the room and on toward the hospitality suite, where the morning’s continental breakfast would be served, I noticed buttons shaped like horses, and cowboys, and cowboy boots, along with buttons fashioned from turquoise and silver, sweet little calico buttons, and even good old plain and reliable pearl buttons, the type that had once been on Geronimo’s shirts.
“Amazing.” Langston mouthed the word as we hurtled by. Others weren’t quite so unobtrusive. They mumbled their condolences, though why I should be on the receiving end of
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