A bobbin. Yes, a bobbin. She was quite sure as her fingers stretched out under the dresser. The very tips of her index and middle finger pushed against the plastic, sending it further away from her reach.
She exhaled sharply, her warm breath slapping against the wood and escaping around her face. Finally, giving up, she pulled away and sat on her legs, all flushed and tousled hair.
What she was actually looking for was the pen that had just fallen out of her bag. The pen that Nonna had given her. It had spilled out of her bag, along with everything else when it fell, and she watched as the pen rolled under the dresser like it owed her money.
The dresser had also been a gift, of sorts. It had been her great aunt?s. Or great, great aunt. Or great, great, great aunt. Whoever Aunt Lavinia had been to her. It had passed from eldest daughter to eldest daughter to eldest daughter. Aunt Lavinia had died as a girl, so it passed instead to Lavinia?s youngest sister, then to her.
It was about four feet tall and three feet wide and made from solid wood. Oak or mahogany, one of the heavy, proper woods. Whatever it was, she definitely wasn?t moving it on her own. She could ask little Romero boys who lived across the hall. Offer them a few bucks in exchange. Perhaps a broom...
She threw herself onto the floor, shining the flashlight from her phone wildly. Dust bunny after dust bunny thrown into sharp relief. It was no use. There was no sight of Nonna?s pen.
Later that night, not long after she finished dinner, she tried again. The broom had been of zero use. The Romero boys were staying with their father for the week. She had tried in vain to push the dresser herself, succeeding only in drenching herself in sweat. She gave it up, giving the top of it a good slap with the palm of her hand.
As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she stared at the faded white, pink, and gold flowers painted on the drawers themselves. Aunt Lavinia had painted those. She knew because she accidentally chipped one off when she was a girl and had received all mighty whack from her Nonna as punishment.
She closed her eyes and thought of the aunt she had never met, but still knew.
Aunt Lavinia had died when she was a girl, at fifteen, in the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire.She had only recently come from Italy, a year before, and decided not to go to school but to sew instead, so her little sister could attend classes instead.
She worked with her brother, Paolo, in the factory. He ran notes, scraps, and whatever was at hand between floors. Down the stairs, up the elevators, day in, day out. She used her natural eye for art to create delicate lace and, if occasion called for it, to sew buttons. So many, many buttons.
That night, she dreamt of Nonna and the day she gave her the pen. It was also somehow the same day she had chipped the little flower in the corner. She was scratching at the faded flower when she was chased down the hall by Nonna and her broom. Instead of running, she leaped in large bounds that ended up with her balancing on top of the door frame and with another bounce she was on the roof.
She bounded down the street, dodging street cars and Tin Lizzies, before landing with a soft bump in the village. She was there. Standing in front of the burning building. Horrified onlookers shouted, but not her. She rushed in, pushing past the panicked throngs filing out.
There, in the elevator, was her Great Uncle Paolo. She recognized him from his photo in Nonna?s bedroom. He was waving her forwards. Hurry! Hurry! Fretta! Fretta!
She rushed into the elevator without a moment?s hesitation. The doors jolted closed, leaving her only a moment to look into Paolo?s face. There was none, only smoke where a face should be. He waved her upwards, hiding his face from her with his hand. The elevator rattled and she moved upwards, upwards, upwards towards heat and flames.
The doors opened to a stifling, but vibrant and alive factory floor. Dozens of men, women, and children, not much older than Lavinia was. She walked forward, as a ghost. Invisible and unnoticed. There in a corner, tucked away at one of the last tables, was a familiar thick, chestnut hair and round face. Her hands moved quickly as she sewed buttons onto a delicate, white shirt that was sheer almost, as if it had been threaded with smoke. The young seamstress looked up and smiled. There was a gap between her two front teeth, much like Nonna and herself. Her cheeks had turned pink and before she looked away, down at her work, there was a look. A curious look that she was sure said, ?It?s ok about the flower, but take care to not damage it any further. It is my art and I love it, as I love you and your art.?
She tapped out over a dozen words before stopping. Her colleague, the one shared the office with, had walked in. ?Good morning.?
?Morning.?
There was a long, comfortable silence as she continued to type and the familiar drone of his computer booting filled the space.
?What are you working on??
?A fluff piece on doggie couture,? she answered after a long pause. Long enough for him to get halfway through his bagel. ?You??
?There?s a new exhibit type thing at the culinary museum in the Village.? He paused. ?What are you really working on??
She looked away. ?I was thinking of my great aunt, Lavinia.?
?Great Aunt Lavinia! What is she like??
?I don?t know,? she admitted. ?I never met her. Neither did my mother or grandmother even. Lavinia died when she was a girl. In a fire. I found a bobbin under her old dresser and thought of her.?
?I?m sorry to hear that.? He meant it. He had finished his bagel now and leaned back in his chair, sipping on his coffee. ?It could be a piece on the ghosts of our ancestors and the impact they have on us. Those seem to be trending well. Or you know, something else. Personal. Just for you.?
She smiled at him before returning to her work. In the corner of her screen, a dog in a knit sweater. Just under that, a high res scan of a sepia tinted photo of a young girl, with rounded cheeks, thick hair, styled into a Gibson Girl bun, and shirtwaist with puffy sleeves that would make Anne Shirley squeal with delight. Aunt Lavinia.
Topic: First Draft "Aunt Lavinia" (Read 2455 times)