Chapter 12 #2
Sewing was taught in preparation for life (presumably) as a homemaker. Necessity pushed Granny beyond familiar expectations.
“Her aunt needed medicine. Her mother’s earnings couldn’t cover medical needs, so Granny got a job sewing in the rear room of a dress boutique.”
I proudly shared how Granny’s sewing skills far exceeded rudimentary even back then.
She was a gifted seamstress; her designs were exquisite.
Within weeks of being hired she went from simply sewing to seeing her design concepts showcased in the front window of Miss Maeve’s Dress Emporium.
“But she never received credit for them.”
Maeve Mickelson’s proprietary labels were sewn into Granny’s creations, placing her in the shadows while openly claiming ownership.
As well as the profits. “Other than a nominal seamstress wage, she wasn’t compensated.
” Despite her designs being in high demand and the emporium’s sales going from modest to extraordinary.
“That’s not fair. Why would that lady do that to Granny?” Justus leaned forward, angered yet fascinated.
“Because she could.” Granny was young, Black, female, and defenseless. “And it’s Texas. A land unto itself. There was, is, racism and white supremacy.”
“That’s everywhere, Mom.”
I couldn’t argue that. “Racism infringes on rights and creates power imbalances.”
“Granny should’ve confronted her!”
“She did, baby, but again the power dynamics were vastly different.” When Granny approached the woman about her dishonesty, she was slapped, told to stay in her place, accused of being uppity, and docked a week’s pay.
I inhaled to diminish the rage that rose behind my grandmother’s mistreatment.
“Maeve Mickelson was a third-generation Texan with wealthy roots and influence. Honestly? Rich or poor didn’t matter.
Race permitted her theft of intellectual property without punishment.
” She was white. My grandmother wasn’t. “Granny wasn’t fired only because her designs kept that woman’s pockets fat. ”
“Granny was exploited. Kinda like Juneteenth and how the slaves in Galveston weren’t told they were free for two whole years after Emancipation. Must be a Lone Star State thing.”
I nodded, not minimizing the horrors of slavery by equating it to Granny’s experience, but appreciating the way my son processed the information and made correlations. I started to comment but was distracted by an incoming text.
It was from Paul, a wonderful human. I loved that we’d reconnected and looked forward to possibilities, but right then—with my family’s crisis—we felt rootless. Less than a situationship. I needed to lean into what held significance and left his text unread.
“Is the dress shop far from here?”
I scanned the dark terrain to get my bearings. “It’s a few exits ahead. But it’s no longer in business.”
“Can we still go and see it? At least where it used to be.”
I glanced at the clock, surprised to realize more than three hours had passed since we’d been out in these streets. Moonlight bathed the night sky, reminding me it was late. “Tomorrow’s a school day. Maybe we can go another time.”
Regularity was pivotal to my child’s balance and wellbeing. His normal pattern had been disrupted in a most unthinkable way and if getting Justus home and safely in bed was all I had to lessen the impact of this travesty so be it. “We can do a drive-by next time we’re in the area.”
“Mom, you always say knowing my roots’ll ground me and grow me. And that our history is a roadmap for living. Plus, if I see a place she saw it’ll help me feel close to Granny. Maybe it’ll even help me know she’s okay.”
I couldn’t say or do anything after that except signal a lane change and take the next exit.
I hadn’t been in Granny’s old stomping ground in ages.
So much had changed that I made several wrong turns and drove endlessly before finding familiar landmarks.
The dry cleaner adjacent to the drive-through donut shop had become a Cuban cigar-slash-vape shop.
The pest control company was now one of those desensitizing salt-water pod floating places.
Pure proof of gentrification.
If memory served me correctly, the dress shop was on the opposite side of the street directly across from the vape store.
I drove towards it, recalling Granny saying Maeve Mickelson’s daughter-in-law inherited the business.
She’d managed to keep it in the family until it closed a few years back.
The closer I got the hotter I felt and wished it was still in operation so I could sashay in there and snatch somebody baldheaded.
The Mickelsons owe my grandmother for her contributions!
There, in the dark spring night, it was a shadowy concrete and brick skeleton decorated in yellow caution tape, one end of which fluttered in the evening breeze like a ribbon.
The sticky sweet scent of fresh donuts invaded my nostrils as I realized there’d been a fire at some point in time.
Perhaps that’s what had caused its closure.
Now, the store was a hulk of despair burned beyond recognition.
Its jarring, desecrated state failed to grab my full attention.
I was too busy stomping the brakes, sending Justus’ backpack flying to the floor as he jumped from our SUV screaming.
“Granny!”
My son was running. I was paralyzed, hearing yet not hearing his repeated, elated screams.
My mind felt full of trickery and deceit as I stared, unable to not see two women seated at the bus stop in front of what used to be my grandmother’s place of employment.
I shifted into Park and fumbled to unfasten my seatbelt before stumbling from my SUV.
I stood there shocked, in disbelief as one of the women dissolved like smoke on the wind.
I took off running at full speed—at least for me—like I wasn’t forty-six with horrible headaches, recurring indigestion, and questionable knees.
I had to reach the remaining woman before she disappeared.
“Granny?” I stopped several feet away, breathless and afraid she—like the dissolved figure—was a figment of my imagination, that if I touched her, she’d disappear. But Justus was there, seated on the bus stop bench beside her, hugging her very real person.
My body quivered with relief as I closed my eyes and opened them again only to find Terracina Braxton very present. I rushed the final distance.
Squatting in front of her, I caressed her face, smoothed her hair, held and kissed her hands. “Sweet Tee… what’re you doing out here?” My voice was clogged with tears.
“Waiting on you to come get me. Grandma Zinnie sat with me. She said you’d be here.”
I shivered and pushed aside notions of dead women’s messages. And manifestations.
I had countless questions, even wanted to fuss a bit about her leaving Aunt Bert’s care. But my heart was too full of gratitude to breathe a negative. I could only hug her and weep my thanks towards heaven.
It took a moment for me to pull myself together. Once I had, I did a quick inspection. She seemed fine and cited no aches or injuries. Still, I erred on the side of caution. “Son, help me get Granny to the car.”