Shirtwaist Ghosts Chapter 6

6

Margarita wiped her brow with her sleeve as she bent over her sewing machine. The ninth floor hummed with the clatter of eighty needles biting fabric. She worked at the shirtwaist factory from sunup to sunset, six days a week. Her money went to her family, but her mother snuck a few pennies into her pocket, so she could spend Sunday afternoons downtown with her friend, Angelica.

Her mother, an older version of Margarita, taught her how a proper young lady should behave. But all those lessons flew away on the wings of the pigeons circling San Jacinto Plaza when she first spotted John. She caught sight of his family leaving St. Patrick’s Cathedral after Sunday service and marked how he took his mother’s arm and guided her around the square.

Every Sunday they circled closer and closer. The first time he held her gaze, she was walking around the plaza with her friend Angelica. His gaze was so intense, Margarita’s heart took off running like when she was young and racing the other children from the barrio. Her step faltered as he tipped his hat and flashed a neatly folded piece of paper before deliberately tucking it in the planter in front of him. Her eyes widened at his boldness.

She clung to her Angelica’s arm as they neared the planter, pondering how she was going to extract the letter without anyone noticing. Angelica made fun of her brother and started laughing at her own joke. Facing her friend, Margarita fished behind her for the letter and slipped it into her sleeve.

Her English was poor, but his Spanish was worse. His name was John.

***

When Margarita saw John step out of the glass doors of the elevator at the shirtwaist factory one afternoon, she stopped breathing for five long seconds. Her co-worker, waiting for her to grab the materials and move on, elbowed her and said, “Aye, aye,” when she followed Margarita's gaze.

Margarita’s bronzed skin turned red all the way down to the high collar of her shirt. She fought not to run back to her machine, but turned slowly and walked with measured steps. Her fingers fumbled as her mind raced – Why and how had he managed to be here, at the factory?

She peered over her shoulder as he talked to the owners, Mr. Harris and Mr. Blanc. He bore a vague resemblance to Mr. Harris. With a start she realized who he must be and her heart spiraled downward.

For a week she clung to sickness to avoid him. But eventually she had to return to work. She struggled to control her eyes from searching for him, instead keeping her head cast down at her feet as if the concentration was the only thing moving her forward.

Days passed before their eyes met and when they did, his were full of honest questions. She glanced down as his hand slipped a note under the materials piled at the side of her machine. This note, longer than the others, asked after her health, had he done something wrong, how could he help, when would she return to the Plaza?

The meetings on the bench started soon after. She tucked her foot with the broken sandal strap underneath her and wore her very best dress, even though it was the same one, every week. Seeing him in his Sunday suit, she didn’t want her appearance to embarrass him. She realized his eyes never left hers or wandered past her face, and she relaxed.

One day, he arose and left behind a tiny package wrapped in brown paper. She peeled the paper back, like opening the folds of a blanket to peek at a newborn, and beheld the most beautiful thing in the world.