Prairie Lotus: Chapters 12–18

Hanna could almost hear her patience fraying.

As she turned away, a wagon careered around the corner, so fast and wildly that both girls had to leap out of the way.

The man who jumped down from the seat had a red face and a grizzled beard beneath a worn straw hat.

“Get in,” he said, his words terse with fury.

Then Dolly’s brainless question about her eyes, and now this vicious contempt.

Downstairs in the kitchen, she donned her apron.

This time, though, she drew a dress on a slim, willowy body.

She was drawing Dolly a dress that she would covet hungrily—and never be able to own.

Hanna sensed that Mama was bringing up the subject because she knew she wouldn’t be around much longer, and the thought had made Hanna too sad to heed Mama as she should have.

A man had mocked and insulted Mama, which made Papa so angry that he had throttled the man half to death.

Papa had said that they tasted of half potato, half turnip, and she agreed. More substantial than a turnip, not as starchy as a potato.

Edith was friendly and vivacious and never seemed nervous when singled out to respond, while Bess often looked like Hanna felt—as if she were forcing herself to speak.

She folded her hands together and leaned forward to look at the girls earnestly.

Their men’s tailor shop had been patronized by all kinds of people, including both Chinese and white customers.

“But remember in Los Angeles—how Mama always had a bolt or two of silk on hand, in case a gentleman wanted a silk shirt? She once told me that it was important to have nice things in a shop. Even if they’re not going to sell. Because they bring in customers, just to look, and then you end up making a sale.”

What Mama had actually said was, “Sometimes beautiful things aren’t for buying. They’re for dreaming.’’ Hanna did not repeat that to Papa; he would have dismissed it as codswallop.

As a young girl, she had loved blowing a puff of breath at the glass. The condensation obscured her reflection. Then she would watch as the moisture dried, and giggle to see her face revealed little by little.

The double doors with their center panels and brass knobs gave the facade an elegant look.

On the last day of the term, she and Bess took their examinations in grammar, arithmetic, history, geography, and orthography.

Hanna gasped in delight at the sight of a five-petaled lotus outlined in gilt paint.

She had tacked swags of fabric to the ceiling of the window well, a robin’s-egg blue lawn alternating with diaphanous puffs of darker blue chiffon.

She had tacked swags of fabric to the ceiling of the window well, a robin’s-egg blue lawn alternating with diaphanous puffs of darker blue chiffon.

She had chosen three bolts of fabric: the wine-colored watered silk, a cheerful calico in blue and pink and cream plaid, and a fawn-colored challis strewn with a feathery pattern.

She unrolled a few yards from each bolt and draped the loose fabric over the dowels, leaving the bolts themselves out of sight behind the rack.

Then she tied ribbon around the swaths of fabric, each of which looked like a gathered skirt flowing down from the “waist” created by the ribbon.

She could tell that he was surprised, and she detected grudging admiration in his eyes.

She walked around breathing in their perfect scent—light, fresh, sweet but not cloying.

Hanna picked out half a dozen of the smaller plants, mostly in bud rather than bloom. She had brought with her a shovel, a trowel, and the big tin washtub, as well as a bucket of water. Carefully she dug up each of the bushes and moved them to the washtub.

Wichapiwin knelt and fingered one of the prairie plants at her feet. A little taller than ankle height, it had hairy stems that held pale purple flowers in small, inconspicuous clusters.

Hope sparked inside her as she sensed his anger dissipating.

“You’re not to tell me what to do,” he retorted, but the abrasive edge in his voice was gone.

She tried to speak nonchalantly. “What did you say to them?”

As she grew older, she realized that Mama was not only a talented seamstress, but also had an intuitive grasp of how the right clothes could bring people great satisfaction—and how the wrong ones made them unhappy.

She wore a dress of gray poplin, its plainness relieved only by a simple gold bar brooch pinned at the throat.

She knew she wanted a cotton lawn, with a fine weave that was light and airy and smooth to the touch. Lawn was ideal for the hottest days of summer, and LaForge would soon be baking under the ruthless prairie sun. After some deliberation, she settled on a pale green lawn sprigged with leaves and round berries a shade darker than the background.

Then she chose a few possibilities. Round white pearl buttons. Domed glass buttons, also white, but with an iridescent sheen.

Pearl buttons were customary on a lawn dress, pretty without being the least bit garish.

The glass buttons glinted with elusive colors that changed depending on how the light touched them.

But besides that, this was a dress for the sweltering heat of summer. It should give both the wearer and those around her a sense of coolness and calm; the smooth glass buttons would add to that feeling.

“Ma wasn’t sure about me working here, at first. But Pa and I talked her around.”
Her blue eyes were wide and solemn as she went on.