An Axe to Grind: The Dressmaker's Tale

A new-hire employee has a dark/mysterious background and gives his or her employer/coworker(s) quite a fright.

The Dressmaker's Tale (2033 words)

by Kelli Norris

“Jenny McCreary, go and tell that vile creature I wish to speak with her at once.”

“Oh, no! Please…ma’am, please don’t make me. She scares me something awful!” the Irish girl whined.

“Good! I hope she scares you to death, you silly cow,” the dressmaker hissed. “Now go and fetch her before I give you the strap!”

Mrs. Olson was a master of the strap. She had grown up in the textile factories of England before the Act of 1833 that limited the hours a six-year-old could work. She had received the strap daily for falling asleep at her post.

The carrot-haired waif cringed visibly at the threat backing up against the wall, eyes never straying from the matron’s wrinkled face. Without another word, she scurried away to do as she was told.

Several minutes later the creature entered her office with a soft knock on the door. Mrs. Olson eyed the pudgy blonde woman with thinly veiled disgust and outright contempt.

The young spinster smiled sweetly at the head seamstress, oblivious to the older woman’s obvious disdain. “You wanted to see me, ma’am?”

“Did you get lost, dear?” the tailoress asked feigning concern.

The girl looked at the woman in doe-eyed confusion; the sarcasm completely wasted on her. “Of course not, Mrs. Olson. I am going on my third week here. I know where your office is, everyone knows where your office is.”

The woman opened her mouth to reprimand the girl but thought better of it. Smiling to hide her exasperation, she said, “That is fine my dear. Do you know why I wanted to see you?”

The young woman shook her head, looking around the room contemplating the question.

Dominating one corner was a large oaken desk with various bolts of fabric, spools of thread and sketches strewn across its surface. Multiple mannequins stood around the room wearing dresses in different stages of completeness.

In the center of the room sat a cutting table covered with the latest design the dressmaker was working on. Draped across one end of the massive table was a dress the young woman recognized.

Her eyes lit up with excitement and she squealed, “You like my dress!”

The head seamstress stared at the girl flabbergasted, “Like? Your dress?” was all she could manage.

“I knew you would like it! Momma, said I have a knack for cutting and pinning and piecing together…only I think the word she used was ‘butchering’… but I knew what she meant… She always loved the dresses I made for her. Oh, do you really like it?” the girl rambled incessantly not noticing the matron’s shock.

Mrs. Olson, face red with rage, grabbed the dress with both hands around the collar and shook it in front of her employee like she was trying to strangle it.

“Who do you think you are? Madame Paquin?! You were told to raise the hem and let out the waist,” she moved her hands across her midsection in an expanding motion. “I assigned it to you because you are the same size as the customer who needs it altered… altered! Not re-fashioned! You are not a designer! You are not even a seamstress! In fact, you can barely sew!” she finished.

“B-b-ut… but I thought you liked it. I think it looks better. Don‘t you think it looks better?” the younger woman pouted. “Momma, always said I would make an excellent dressmaker…,” without warning her eyes and voice grew dark and hard, “Momma, use to say she would die to know where I got my sense of style. I… I…”

The old tailoress regretted her outburst at once. A chill ran down her spine when she looked at the blank emotionless face of the normally smiling woman. She watched in morbid fascination as the girl pulled a pair of fabric shears from her apron and started to open and close them in aimless repetition. Oh God, no.

“Liz-… Beth? Dear, are you… um… Here why don’t you sit down?” Mrs. Olson threw the offensive dress back on to the cutting table like it was a snake about to strike, and motioned to an empty chair.

She put one hand under Lizbeth’s elbow, the other on her shoulder and gently helped her into the chair. The young woman swung her arms back and forth mindlessly, causing the fabric shears to scrape against the chair leg.

“You know Lizbeth,” the terrified woman said, “that dress is not really that bad.” She winced at the sound of the shears digging deep into the wooden chair. “It is good! I mean good. It is very good. It is so good in fact, that… I want you to make another one for… for…,” she stammered, as the girl turned to look at her with deadpan eyes.

“…for me!” she gulped. “Please, please dear, make one of your beautiful dresses for me. I will cherish it always.” Don’t kill me.

“M-m-om… Mrs. Olson?” she shook her head like she was waking from a dream. “You want…,” Lizbeth rubbed her forehead and saw the shears in her hand.

“A dress!” the older woman finished for her. “I want you to make another of your lovely dresses for me.”

Liz looked confused, but her face brightened just a bit when she saw her dress laying on the table. “You liked my dress?” she asked.

“Yes! Yes,” the designer gushed relieved. “I want one for myself. Will you make it for me dear?”

“I don’t feel so well,” Lizbeth said still rubbing her head. “Maybe I should lie down. I have spells sometimes.”

“Yes, of course you do dear,” Mrs. Olson rushed to her side. “Why don’t I get George to take you home?” she said as she took the shears and placed them on the desk. “You can get some rest and start on my dress tomorrow.”

“That would be nice,” the blond woman replied, looking more like her old self. “Are you sure it’s all right?”

“Don’t be silly child. I am the boss, remember?” She walked her to the door and yelled outside. “George!”

A tall black man with graying hair dressed as a servant answered her summons at once. “Yes, Madam?”

“Miss Lizbeth is ill. I want you to bring the carriage round and see her home immediately.”

George balked at the instructions but responded, “Yes, Madam.”

Lizzy followed the man through the garment factory past row upon row of tables occupied by women diligently sewing facsimiles of all the latest Parisian fashions. Every eye in the place was on her as she walked with George off the factory floor and through the doors to the storefront.

“You wait here, Miss Lizbeth,” George said, gesturing to an empty divan. She took a seat with a grateful nod. “I need to hitch up the buggy.”

The front of the store was decorated with the finest Victorian furnishings. An exquisite cherry wood counter lined the back wall next to the factory double door. This is where the salesgirl stood.

Love seats and chairs covered in luxurious velvets and satins seated ladies of all size and age. Women admired their reflections in beautifully adorned full length mirrors, or hid them behind ornately carved wooden changing screens.

Lizbeth’s presence again garnered the attention of every person in the place, this time causing a quiet hum throughout the entire store. Ladies cast curious glances at her from behind gloved hands and feathered fans, whispering like school girls with a secret crush.

Any other day and the young woman would ignore the whispers but today they served to aggravate her pounding headache to the point where she wanted to scream.

Even though the ladies spoke in hushed tones Liz still overheard bits and pieces of their conversations. It was all the usual guff, nothing new. Oh my God… I can’t believe… her free… guilty… that poor fam… clearly insane… should be behind bars…

Smashing her fists on to both sides of her head, Lizzy ground her knuckles deep into her temples twisting them in a tight circular pattern of pressure. An explosion of stars burst the blackness behind her closed eyes. She fought down the dizziness to a manageable degree and opened them.

The room pulsed, expanding and contracting as though it were housed in a giant breathing lung. In and out, in and out… Lizbeth was entranced by the rhythm. The frightened voices of the customers annoyed Lizzy, through a haze; like a buzzing fly annoys a sleeping man. She tried to shoo the noise away, waving her hands around her head and face.

“I need air,” she informed the annoying buzz.

Staggering to her feet, Lizbeth stumbled back through the factory doors sliding along the brick wall to a side entrance used for workers only. After fumbling with the lock, she opened the door and stepped outside to a break area the factory ladies use to take their lunch time meal.

The sun was blinding and the temperature hot. A wave of nausea washed over her as that pulsating breath vision returned. On the verge of passing out, she searched groggily for shade or any semblance of something cool. Then she saw it. A metallic flash of something she recognized.

She lurched over to the tree stump like a man crossing a desert. The closer she got to the axe the better she felt. It looked so inviting and cool. A peaceful smile spread across her face as she sat down beside the stump and caressed the axe head with her fingers. Still sitting down, she wrapped both hands around the handle and exerted all her weight to lever it free of the stump.

Lizzy rubbed her forehead against the smooth metal of the axe. It felt good. She ran her hands lovingly down the handle. Her headache forgotten; there was only the axe and how wonderful it made her feel. Getting to her feet, she made a decision; it was time to talk to Mrs. Olson.

Hugging her new friend tight, Lizbeth went back into the factory. Women screamed and cowered beneath their tables at the sight of Lizzy Borden walking the floor, dragging her axe behind her.

She went straight to the dressmaker’s office and knocked heavily upon the door with her friend, then entered without awaiting a response. She scanned the room, eyes sparkling, smiling her usual sweet smile. The designer was crouched under her desk hiding.

“There you are Mrs. Olson!” Lizzy giggled. “I have to tell you something…”

“Oh Lizzy please, I’ll do anything,” the seamstress interrupted. “Anything please don’t…”

Lizzy ran the axe head down the side of her face, eyes closed in total bliss not hearing a word the woman said.

“I’ve decided I don’t want to be a dressmaker anymore,” Lizzy said looking at Mrs. Olson.

Tears poured down the old woman’s face, terrified she pleaded with the axe wielding lunatic. “Lizz…Lizbeth dear, why do you say that? You are a wonderful dressmaker. A master! A master dressmaker, with talent like yours, you could be the next Madam Lanvin. Please…”

“But Mrs. Olson, I don’t want to be a designer anymore,” Lizzy said raising her axe above her head. Mrs. Olson screamed…

“WH-Y-Y-Y?!”

Lizzy brought the axe down hard in the middle of the oaken desk. Wood splinters flew in all directions and bolts of thread rolled on to the floor. Unable to take anymore, the old woman fainted.

“I want to be a woodcutter,” Lizzy said smiling.

Pulling the axe from the desk, she stood over the unconscious woman and ran her thumb down the blade to test the sharpness.

“Or maybe...," she said with a maniacal gleam in her eye,

"...a butcher."