Page 6

"Roman—"

She has my tie in her fist. She pulls. Not gently. I stumble off the rim, silk tight against my throat. Her other hand comes up flat against my chest.

We're inches apart. The tie hangs between her knuckles, dripping, steaming. An inch from being boiled. Her palm burns through my shirt. She smells like honey. There's indigo on her jaw. Her lips are parted. Her eyes drop to my mouth, then back up. Green in the steam.

"I told you," she says. Breathless. "I told you to lose the tie."

"You did."

"That's two hundred dollars of silk."

"Two-fifty."

"Then it's a good thing I like a challenge." She hears herself say it. Color floods her neck. Her grip loosens, tightens, releases. She smooths the silk against my chest with two fingers. "You're welcome."

"Rosemary."

"Don't."

"I haven't said anything."

"You were about to."

The timer rings. She steps back fast and the paddle clatters. "That's my lot." She turns to the vat, back straight. I just stand there. Known her three hours. There's a drop of indigo on my tie, just below the knot. Green turning blue.

We do the rest in near silence. Her ahead, me following. Carding room, finishing room, the cold warehouse with rolled blankets. I ask questions. She answers. Never more than necessary. Morning, Ruth. The way she says it to the woman at the finishing table. How's your mother's hip? in the same breath. She keeps her left wrist tucked in. Never checks if I'm keeping up.

The weaving floor is loud. Iron, wood, shuttles. I have to shout questions in her ear. She touches my arm to turn me. The touch goes straight through my sleeve. She brings me to a woman in a gray cardigan with reading glasses on a chain. Dolores Pike, at the oldest loom.

"Mr. Caldwell," says Dolores.

"Ms. Pike. I owe you an apology."

"I'll take it in writing." She reaches into her pocket and produces a small brass cylinder. Drops it in my palm. Heavy. Still warm. "Hold it."

"What is it?"

"A bushing. Old one wore through Tuesday. Six hours on the lathe to make this. To the thousandth. There's not another one on earth." Her eyes are sharp. "You can't fix what you haven't held, Mr. Caldwell. Everyone in this building has had somebody in a nice coat tell them what it's worth. Nobody ever asks to hold it."

I close my fingers around the brass. Think of my father's hands. Haven't thought of those in years. I give it back with more care than I've given anything lately.

"Thank you," I say. Mean it.

Dolores nods like I've finally gotten something right.

The lunch whistle goes after one. The floor empties and the noise drops. My stomach makes a sound I haven't heard since college. I ignore it. I'm at the end of a Draper loom with Rosemary beside me, watching her thread a shuttle. I ask where the dye house gets its water. Then who orders the indigo. Then what happens to orders before Christmas. When I look up, the light through the windows is weak tea.

"It's twenty to three," she says. "Do you know that?"

"Is it?"

"You haven't taken a break."

"I wasn't aware there was a rule."

"There's a rule." Her voice has gone dry and worried. She tucks her wrist against her stomach. "My daughter's bus gets to the corner at five past. She'll be through that door by quarter past. She'll want a snack and she'll want me to say something about her diorama. So if you've got something to say about thirty-eight jobs, now's the time."

"I've got nothing to say about thirty-eight jobs."