Pendant
The marble floors at Eaton’s give off a dusty coolness but by ten o’clock the August heat seeps in. My hand on the oak counter leaves a sweat mark. The boys’ sweaters I’m folding feel like the furry tongues of fire dragons. On my coffee break, I rush over to check the jewellery counter. Once again, no pendants. Upstairs, in Woman’s Wear, I push through the autumn arrivals: racks of gabardine suits in murky colours, flowered rayon frocks, wool crepe in mud shades advertised as “slimming for the mature figure,” cheap cotton house dresses, and near the back, the hideous mother-of-the-bride gowns a-droop with swags and peplums. Thank heavens I work in the children’s department.
I gravitate to the small teen section against the far wall.
“Any customers downstairs, Janet?” It’s Mrs. Dalucca, head salesgirl in Woman’s and my mother’s friend. The maroon folds of her summer rayon criss-cross her bosom while below, wide pleats end in a square dance frill. It makes me shudder to look at it.
“The place is deadsville,” I say.
.JPG)
