Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos

Buoyed by the thought of telling off Benson, I led Michael along the path toward the Moore House, the white-frame farmhouse where, in 1781, the British and Americans had signed the surrender documents to end the siege of Yorktown and, for all practical purposes, the Revolutionary War. Mrs. Waterston wanted to hold her party inside, but the Park Service hadn't approved. They'd let her use the grounds, though. As we drew near, I could see that the house was softly lit from within, as if by candlelight – although knowing how picky they were about fire hazards in historical buildings, I doubted they used real candles.

Strings of lanterns hung from the trees, illuminating the lawn with pools of light and pockets of shadow. Electric lanterns, of course, which probably irritated Mrs. Waterston, but they had the kind of flickering bulb that could almost fool you into thinking of real candles. A string quartet played soft classical music, and I could hear the faint hum of conversation.

Mrs. Waterston swept through one lighted area. Either I'd forgotten how extreme her costume was, or she'd gone home to put on an even taller wig. I glanced down at my sensible linsey-woolsey gown, feeling underdressed.

"Don't worry," Michael said, catching my glance. "Mrs. Tranh has a ball gown for you."

I sighed. Mrs. Tranh was Mrs. Waterston's partner in the dress shop. Like everyone else in town, I'd originally assumed Mrs. Tranh worked for Mrs. Waterston. Over Memorial Day weekend, after watching the strike scenes in a TV rerun of Norma Jean and imbibing a few too many glasses of Merlot, I'd become quite agitated about Mrs. Waterston's apparent exploitation of Mrs. Tranh and her other Asian employees. I had threatened to go down to Yorktown and organize the downtrodden sewing ladies. I had visions of us singing "We Shall Overcome" in Vietnamese, while waving beautifully embroidered protest banners.

Michael had spoiled all my fun by revealing how things really worked. His mother and Mrs. Tranh each owned half of the business. Mrs. Tranh hired and managed the seamstresses, kept the books, paid bills and taxes, ordered fabric and other supplies, and generally ran the place.

"So what does your mother do, anyway?" I'd asked.

"Well, she got together the initial capital, and she handles sales and marketing," Michael said. "And she deals with the customers. Mrs. Tranh would hate doing that."

True, but still, if you asked me, Mrs. Tranh was doing the lion's share of the work, yet having to split the profits fifty-fifty. Perhaps that accounted for Mrs. Tranh's dogged insistence on not speaking English with Mrs. Waterston.

I knew perfectly well that Mrs. Tranh could speak reasonably fluent, if somewhat eccentric, English and that she understood the language almost perfectly. The only time she ever pulled the "je ne comprends pas" line on me was when I tried to disobey her orders.

With Mrs. Waterston, however, she insisted on speaking only French. Mrs. Waterston's French was considerably worse than mine.

"Anyway, she's done a wonderful costume for you," Michael said, interrupting my wandering thoughts.

"Oh, dear," I said. "As hot and sweaty as I am, I'd rather crawl into a bath, not a brand-new costume."

"You'll hurt her feelings," he said, "and mine. I helped her figure out what to make."

"It doesn't have panniers, does it?" I asked. "I am not wearing panniers."

"I have no intention of disfiguring you with panniers," Michael said. "That has got to be one of the most ludicrous, unflattering fashions ever invented."

"Amen," I said. "But let's not tell your mother."

"Of course not," Michael said. "But having seen Mom's idea of colonial fashion, I'm thinking next year we should forget about the Revolution and reenact the War of 1812. I'm rather partial to Empire fashions – all those low cut, clinging, diaphanous gowns – "

"Oh, is that what you have in mind for my ball gown?" I said. "Much better than the panniers."

"I wish," he said. "Ah, there's Mrs. Tranh."

Mrs. Tranh's stern features broke into a smile when she saw us. She was standing by the costume racks with two of "the ladies," as she called her seamstresses. We had managed to convince Mrs. Waterston that requiring costumes of mere spectators would decimate attendance, but for certain key events that were open mostly to staff – such as her welcoming party for the crafters – Mrs. Waterston had made costumes mandatory. Just in case anyone showed up without a costume, Mrs. Tranh had brought a large rack of the rental costumes – colonial dresses in demure Williamsburg colors and a range of sizes for the women, and for the men, a collection of shirts, knee breeches, and coats. Mrs. Tranh and the ladies were there to collect the modest rental fee and help stuff the guests into costumes.

At the moment, Mrs. Tranh seemed to have her hands full.

Two men had arrived wearing Hawaiian shirts so garish that even Dad would have turned up his nose at them, over cutoffs so ragged they contained more hole than cloth. I recognized both of the men wearing these glaring anachronisms as fellow crafters – a soapmaker and a leatherworker – and would have waved if I thought I could get their attention. They were both intent on escaping to the bar. They didn't stand a chance. Mrs. Tranh's ladies routinely dealt with brides having prewedding hysterics and bridesmaids whose mood veered toward homicidal when they saw their dresses and realized the acute embarrassment and physical torture their supposed good friends were inflicting on them. Dealing with a few reluctant men would be child's play.

The clothing rack was already two-thirds full of confiscated modern garments. Normally, only a minority of my fellow crafters favored gaudy Hawaiian shirts, shorts in fluorescent colors or horse-blanket plaids, and other luridly colored garments – we were a diverse crowd, but jeans and natural fibers tended to dominate most gatherings. I suspected a plot to sabotage the period purity of the party, but Mrs. Tranh and the ladies would take care of that.

"Hello, dear," came my mother's voice from behind me.

"Hello, Mother," I said, turning. "How are – "

I stopped short, my jaw hanging open, when I saw Mother's costume. She had outdone herself, as usual. More to the point, she had outdone Mrs. Waterston, and I had no doubt it was deliberate. I glanced over at Mrs. Waterston who, luckily, was playing gracious hostess to a group of newly arrived guests. She hadn't seen Mother's costume yet, and if I ran for cover now, I might make it far enough from ground zero before she did.

Still, I couldn't help lingering long enough to compare the two. Mother's outfit went just a little bit further than Mrs.

Waterston's did, in every way I could think of. Her white powdered wig was a few inches taller, and sported a noticeably more varied collection of bows, flowers, baubles, and artificial birds. At least I hoped they were all artificial. Her waist was laced smaller, and her panniers were a few inches broader. Her overskirt seemed to have at least one more set of ruffles than Mrs. Waterston's, and her petticoat definitely had a slightly wider lace edging. About the only thing not bigger and better was the beauty mark. Although, come to think of it, I didn't remember Mrs. Waterston sporting a second beauty mark. Mother had one, perched precariously at the edge of her decolletage, which was, of course, alarmingly more extreme than Mrs. Waterston's.

Mother swept away, fanning herself with a fan ever so slightly more ornate than Mrs. Waterston's.

"Your mother looks nice," Michael said, in a suspiciously noncommittal tone.

"Yes, I can't wait to see your mother's reaction," I said.

He rolled his eyes.

"It's very odd, don't you think?" I went on. "It's almost as if she knew exactly what your mother was wearing and deliberately set out to show her up."

"But how could she possibly know that?" Michael said.

I pointed to Mrs. Tranh, who, while ostensibly supervising her seamstresses, had turned her attention to the party and was glancing intently from Mother to Mrs. Waterston and back again.

"Oh, God," he said. "They must be feuding again. I hate it when they do that."

Maybe the party wouldn't be so boring after all, I thought, as Michael and I approached Mrs. Tranh.

"We got your costume," she said. "You go in dressing room and change now."

"I wish you hadn't gone to so much trouble," I said.

"I rather make ten dress for you than one of those," she said, indicating the blandly pretty colonial dresses on the rack.

"Yes, but this whole weekend is already such a lot of work for you."

She shrugged.

"No problem," she said. "Lot of work; lot of money for the ladies. Lot of work for her, too," she added, jerking her head at Mrs. Waterston, who was over by the bar, apparently giving the bartender the third degree about something.

"Yes, isn't it lovely how it's kept her out of your hair for so long," I said.

Mrs. Tranh rolled her eyes.

"Don't worry," I said. "I'm sure she'll find another project before too long."

"She better," Mrs. Tranh muttered. "You and Michael gonna get married, maybe? Let her plan the wedding?"

Michael chuckled. Had he put her up to this, the rat? Or had she come up with the idea on her own? Either way, I wished she'd drop the subject.

"I should change," I said.

"Make it a big wedding, biggest one we ever had in town," Mrs. Tranh said. "Keep her busy for a whole year, planning a wedding like that."

"I'll keep it in mind," I said, retreating toward the dressing room.

"And grandchildren!" Mrs. Tranh called after me. "Plenty of grandchildren! Keep her real busy!"

I ducked into the dressing room. Outside, I could hear Michael laughing and talking with Mrs. Tranh in a mishmash of French and Vietnamese. I pressed a hand to my cheek, which felt hot. Was it the weather, or my embarrassment? Dammit, I thought, I wish everyone would stop trying to push us toward the altar. Maybe my problem wasn't fear of commitment; maybe it was just plain, old-fashioned stubbornness. Maybe if everyone started trying to pry Michael and me apart….

Later, I told myself, and I shed my workday gown and turned to see what Mrs. Tranh and her ladies had made.

They'd designed it to go with Michael's white-and-gold uniform that was clear. Off-white dupioni silk shot with gold threads, and trimmed with lots of lace, most white but some gold.

The improvised dressing room contained a full-length mirror. I held the dress up in front of me and sighed. I couldn't just let Mrs. Tranh do this for me for nothing. Even though Michael had probably already paid her, I had to do something to thank her.

First, of course, I had to get into the dress. And for that I was going to need help; it hooked up the back. And was it my imagination…no, I spread the material at the waist to see how it fit. Definitely too small. I wasn't fat, but I wasn't anorexic either; I could see no chance of squeezing into that dress.

I heard the curtain rustle. Mrs. Tranh, I assumed, or one of her ladies, come to help me into the dress. I'd have to break the news that they'd miscalculated, I thought as I turned.

And found myself looking up at Michael.