The Snow Angel Read Free Page A

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    “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Wever,” I added.
    “Max.”
    “What?”
    “Call me Max!” he shouted. And then he disappeared into the side door of his attached garage.
    I worked for Max and Elena for just over five years. Atfirst, I swept the floor, wound spools of thread, and answered the telephone when they had straight pins sticking from between their lips. When Max discovered that I was a hard worker and a quick study, he taught me to starch and press the trousers so that the thick pleat would stand like a narrow ridge. It was fine work, but I didn’t truly fall in love with it until Elena made her first wedding dress, a hand-spun creation for a young woman in her church who couldn’t afford a store-bought gown.
    The tailor shop was forever transformed for me when Elena purchased an extravagant bolt of Italian Silk Mikado. It was insanely expensive, but the dress was going to be a gift, and Elena took gift-giving very seriously. The day that the fabric arrived from Milan, I stayed late after Max retired from the workroom. Elena and I carefully pushed aside the heavy wools, herringbones, and tweeds that would soon clothe the men of Everton and lifted the surprisingly heavy box onto the table. Then Elena brought out the silk, and we unrolled it across the surface of the wide worktable, stunned by the way that it gleamed and danced in the light.
    “I may never sew a pair of pants again.” Elena laughed.
    But of course she did.
    However, at least once or twice a year, Elena would leave the tailoring to her husband and indulge in her favorite hobby: dressmaking. As for me, I looked forward to those forays into the world of satin and lace with analmost frantic excitement. And yet, I couldn’t complain about sewing men’s suits. There was something uniquely warm and comforting about helping Max get the symmetry and alignment of the pinstripes on a custom suit jacket just perfect. It was fun and foreign. Decidedly masculine.
    My dad rarely wore a suit. And the one he hauled out for special occassions was a relic. His closet was filled with Wrangler jeans and whatever shirt he could buy for ten dollars or less at Bomgaars. I never really thought of my dad’s clothes until I started making suits with Max. All at once my dad’s workingman’s wardrobe seemed cheap and tasteless, the uniform of a man who always had dirt under his fingernails and a sunburn peeling the skin of his nose. I didn’t mean to be shallow, but I found myself wishing that my dad would take himself a bit more seriously.
    “‘Clothes make the man,’” Max would quote, eyeing me sidelong before he finished: “‘Naked people have little or no influence on society.’”
    “Mark Twain.” I’d laugh. “But it’s a silly quote.”
    “No, it’s a true quote.” He’d crinkle up his eyes, thinking. “How about: ‘If honor be your clothing, the suit will last a lifetime; but if clothing be your honor, it will soon be worn threadbare.’”
    “I’ve never heard that one before.”
    “William Arnot. He was a preacher. Knew what he was talking about.”
    I pursed my lips. “It’s a nice saying, Max. But I think it undermines what we’re doing here. Aren’t we making clothing?”
    “It’s a balance, honey. That’s what I want you to understand. As much as people would like to believe otherwise, how we present ourselves on the outside reveals something about who we are on the inside. I don’t have to wear a three-piece suit to be a good person, but I would like everything about me—even my clothes—to reflect a certain uncompromising integrity.”
    “Is that why you make suits?”
    Max laughed. “I make suits because my father made suits. And his father before him. What do you think Wever means in Dutch? It’s all I know how to do. However, since I make suits, they’re going to be excellent in every way. The best possible quality.”
    “Because you are a man of uncompromising integrity.”
    “I hope so,” Max