Sitting in the only empty chair in the break room, I stared at the other chairs that were overflowing with piles of finished quilts sealed in clear plastic zipper bags. Before lunch I had been looking for the tie-dyed log cabin baby quilt that I had made last summer, much to Mom's objection.
My moment of peace abruptly ended when Mom poked her head around the corner and exclaimed, "Get ready!" She grabbed the large black cordless phone off the jack on the break room wall and in one continuous, fluid motion, slid it across the table to me without saying a word about my orange, sticky fingers. I stopped the sliding phone in my right elbow.
Suddenly alert, I asked, "Is he here?"
"Just parked."
I washed my hands, picked up the phone and followed Mom into the main room of the store. I took my position behind the cash register counter as we had practiced and looked through the front window display of women and children mannequins sporting the newest country aprons.
I saw the old, beat up red Ford truck parked out front with mud splattered on its fenders and its personalized license plate, "KATCH EM." Mom had hurried ahead of me to take the central control position at the cutting table. Once behind the table, she pulled her orange-handled scissors out of the ladybug cup that held an array of colored-handled scissors. The phrase, "A different color handle, for each type of scissor and a different type of scissor for each type of project" was taped to the scissor cup as Mom's reminder to us all. None of us ever made the mistake of using paper scissors on fabric or fabric scissors on paper. That is a sin in Mom's quilt shop.
Looking at the door, Mom lifted the top bolt from the stack left from the last customer. Seeing this, I thought, "Ma Walker must be starting a new project." With a flip of her right wrist, Mom pulled the fabric off the bolt and it fell onto green cutting mat and into a puddle.
That's when I spotted him in the parking lot. Without taking her eyes off the door she said, "Watch for my sign."
"Yes Ma'am."
"Nobody move," she ordered to three other women in the shop that made up the rest of the staff.
I glanced at Betsy, who was outside the partially open office door located right in front of the break room. Customers often confused it with the bathroom. She stared directly at Mom with concern. At the end of the demo table, Luanne, was readying for a demonstration of a Bernina 1230, our best seller. She held a new spool of red thread in her right hand to go with a contrasting piece of light blue fabric stored in one of the baskets at her end of the demo table.
"Where is Ruthie?" Mom asked Luanne.
"Sorting the new fat quarters," Luanne answered, glancing and gesturing with a side nod of her head to the far left corner of the room. Mom waved her left hand at Luanne and took a deep breath.
"Fine. Leave her."
I could not help but look back at Ruthie. She was sitting in the corner sorting the fat quarters, which are made from 18" x 22" cuts of fabric that are rolled in up like a napkin and tied with a ribbon. She had been there all morning, and she loved her job. Well, I guess she loved it. It was the only job she did not complain about doing all day long. She struggled with fabrics that had multiple colors and wanted the fat quarter sections to flow like a rainbow. She was so picky that she would hold up multicolored fabrics to the light and squint to see which color was more dominate. Her small stool was invisible beneath her broad, patchwork-covered, behind. As I looked at her, I noticed for the first time that she blended in perfectly with all the quilts that were at the end of the fabric displays. I chuckled as I thought, "The only thing she needs is a 3" x 5" card attached to inform the customer the name of the quilt pattern and fabric collection used." I also thought that because she blended so well with the fabrics and moved slower than a turtle, he probably would not notice her.
The small brass cowbell on the front door dinged, and he stepped onto the cheerful, multi-colored, hand-woven welcome mat, our featured project from last month. The first thing I checked was his boots. Did he wear the red or blue ones today? He wore the red ones. I noticed the jingle of the keys dangling from a skull belt-loop clip and the details of his black shirt. Red arrows and flowers were embroidered above the shirt's pockets and shiny pearl buttons stood out against the black background. The sound of his velvet voice filled the room as he insincerely greeted us, "Ladies."
Mom looked at me and gave a slight shake of her head, which I knew meant for me not to move a muscle.
As he approached the cutting table, I couldn't take my eyes off his bright red boots. They had large white stitching and pointed toes. The bottom half of his boots were made from ostrich and had huge prickly bumps all over them.
Mom was cutting the fabric as she spoke, "Well, Mitchell, how can we help you today?"
Already annoyed, he replied, "I am here to pick up my sewing machine, Honey." He had an under bite that seemed to make his bottom teeth do all of the work as he talked. He walked straight toward Mom. Reaching the cutting table, he pulled out the tall, wooden stool with a quilted sunflower ruffled cover and sat down. He leaned in and rested an elbow on the Asian print Mom was measuring. He bit his bottom lip and glanced over his shoulder at me, "How are you today, Cutie?"
Mom yanked the fabric from under his elbow, "We have not repaired your machine yet. As I stated last time Mr. Goose . . ."
"Just give me back my damn machine if you can't fix it!" He demanded with a punctuated pound of his fist to the table so hard it made the ladybug cup holder fall over and spill its mass of scissors.
Mom responded calmly as she scooped the spilt scissors back into the ladybug cup. "I will be happy to give you the machine when you sign the release form stating that you are taking the machine without the repairs completed." She pulled out a clipboard from under the fabric and slid it across the table. Then she reached into the lace covered coffee cup near her holding pencils and pens, pulled out a red felt tip pen and handed it to him.
"I'm not signing your crazy paperwork. If you haven't fixed my machine, give it back."
"As we have told you on numerous occasions, we require a $25 deposit to begin any diagnostic on any machine. We have been waiting for your deposit so we can begin our assessment."
He knocked over the ladybug cup of scissors again with a thump of his finger and said sternly, "Go get my machine."
Calmly, and almost too sweetly, she picked up the scissors again and held them all in her hands with their sharp ends facing him and replied, "As I said, I would be happy to give you your machine when you sign that you have picked it up from us without repairs." She tapped the clipboard with the scissors as she spoke.
Mr. Goose stood up abruptly; the sunflower cover popped off the top of the stool and fell to the floor. He stomped on the lower wrung of the stool and I heard a crack as the bottom brace of the stool gave out under the weight of his red boot. He leaned in toward Mom and grabbed the fist full of scissors in her hands. Mom would not let go, and they both stood griping their own end of the scissors. Mom looked at me as she pulled at the scissors and I turned on the phone on with my right thumb. Everyone in the store could hear the click of the on button. Mr. Goose looked me in the eye.
A sudden, loud noise came from the back. Betsy had kicked open the break room door and it had slammed back against the machine she was carrying in her arms. She'd had eye surgery the previous month and wasn't supposed to lift anything for six weeks. In fact, most of the women working in the store couldn't lift anything or climb ladders. That was my job. Betsy marched up to the edge of the table right in front of Mr. Goose. She stood on her tiptoes and slammed down his dirty, thirty-year-old sewing machine.
"Here's your machine. Now get!"
Mom stood, stiff and pissed. I had hit the number four and could hear the auto dial begin to beep. It was ringing when the cowbell chimed again.
"Hola, ladies. How are we today?" Poncho's calm voice rose above the room. He had seen the red truck parked out front and had not waited for the call before coming in.
With a sigh of relief, we all said, "Hola, Poncho."
Mr. Goose snatched the piece of paper off the clipboard and quickly signed it. He threw the clipboard to the table and it went sliding toward Mom. She moved quickly to one side, and it landed on the floor behind her. Mr. Goose huffed and raised the handle of the machine. It broke. Then in one swift movement, he swooped his right arm through the machine's neck, picked it up and marched toward the door. Poncho stepped away from the door, letting it close right before Mr. Goose got to it, a gutsy move considering Mr. Goose 's temper.
Struggling, he huffed and balanced the machine on his right knee while opening the door with his left hand. With the door propped open by his boot, he paused and looked back at Mom, "This ain't done, Sweetie."
The door slammed, the cowbell echoed through the shop and Mom threw all the scissors on the table. She yelled emphatically, "My office, now!" Betsy and Poncho followed.
When they left the room, I looked at Luanne and muttered, "This is not what I signed up for when I agreed to worked here for the summer."
"Me either." Luanne shook her head, put the spool of red thread on top of the machine and thumbed through her drawer for an empty bobbin. "I'm glad I'm not in the office with Candy." Luanne, like everyone but me, called Mom by her first name. Over her shoulder she hollered, "Ruthie, how are those fat quarters coming?"