The Red Dress He Kept Altering

The Red Dress He Kept Altering

Su Wan came into the shop for the first time at 4:07 in the afternoon. Chen Mo remembered the time because the sewing machine had just jammed, and he was using tweezers to pick lint out of the bobbin case. The door opened. The wind made the half-finished shirts by the entrance sway.

She put a red dress on the counter. It was not folded neatly. The collar showed at one edge. She pushed it toward him.

“Take it in two inches,” she said.

Chen Mo looked at it. Good fabric. Old, but not worn out. The waist had already been taken in narrow. Another two inches, and whoever wore it would have to lend her ribs to the tailor.

“Can’t,” he said.

“You didn’t even measure.”

“No need. This dress wasn’t made for the living.”

She smiled, not because she was happy. She pushed the dress forward. Her fingertip pressed the edge of the lining. There was a hand-sewn seam there, fine stitches, old backstitch. Chen Mo’s mother had sewn like that. After the last stitch, his mother would bite the thread off instead of cutting it.

“Pick it up tomorrow,” he said.

Su Wan looked up at him. He was already removing the side seam and did not look back. She stood there a while, then left. The door closed. The wind stopped.

She did not come the next day. Or the day after. On the fourth day, the dress hung beside the fitting room. Chen Mo passed it every day. He measured the waist with a soft tape, then put the tape away. He did not call her. The number she left was on the back of a convenience store receipt. The last digit was smudged, as if it had been wet.

On the fifth day, she came. She wore a gray hoodie, sleeves pulled over her hands. She saw the dress still there and did not ask why. Chen Mo pushed the pin box toward her.

“Go try it.”

The fitting room was small. The tube light flickered. She came out changed, her back to him. The red dress caught below her shoulder blades. The zipper would not close. Chen Mo walked over, pinched the zipper pull, lifted it one inch, and stopped. Her back was tight.

“Breathe in,” he said.

“I am.”

He said nothing. He pinned the side seam one pin at a time, points facing out. Her breathing was shallow. Her shoulders trembled slightly. He smelled laundry detergent. Under it, a little of a hospital corridor. When his mother was in the hospital, she had smelled like that too.

“What size do you usually wear?” he asked.

“Whatever fits.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Then I won’t answer.”

He laughed once. Short. She did not turn around, but her shoulders loosened a little. When the pins were done, she changed back into the hoodie. Chen Mo took the dress down.

“Come back the day after tomorrow,” he said.

She walked to the door, then stopped. She took a box of stomach medicine from her pocket and put it on the counter.

“You were holding your stomach last time,” she said.

He did not take it. She did not wait for him to. After the door closed, he put the medicine in the drawer, with the tape measure, the chalk, and the spare bobbins. He closed the drawer with some force.

The third time, it was evening. Chen Mo had hung the “Closed” sign early. He had never closed the shop before, not in rain, not when there were no customers. His mother used to say that if a tailor closed too early, customers would forget you. When he hung the sign, the owner of the noodle shop next door looked at him. He did not explain.

Su Wan went in to try it. This time the zipper closed. She stood in front of the mirror and did not turn around. She just looked at herself. Chen Mo sat behind the sewing machine, a scrap of cloth in his hand, pedaling back and forth. The empty needle punched a row of small holes.

“Too tight,” she said.

“You asked for two inches.”

“I thought I could bear it.”

“And now?”

“Now I don’t know.”

She reached for the zipper behind her and could not get it. Chen Mo stood and walked over. He pinched the pull and drew it down one inch. Her neck showed. There was a small mole there. He stopped. She stopped too. In the mirror, the two of them were close. Close enough that he could see a bit of dust on her lashes. Her lips moved. No sound came out. He lowered his head.

The phone rang.

It was the default ringtone. Loud in the empty shop. Su Wan dug the phone out of her bag, looked at the screen, and walked to the corner to answer. She kept her voice low. He only heard “Mm,” “I know,” “Right away.” After she hung up, she changed out of the red dress, folded it, and put it on the counter.

“Don’t alter it for now,” she said.

“When will you pick it up?”

“Later.”

She left. The door did not close tightly. The wind came in again and blew the skirt to the floor. Chen Mo stood for a moment, then bent and picked it up. The hem had dust on it. He patted it twice. It did not come clean.

For the next three days, she did not appear. On the fourth day, Chen Mo took the waist in another inch. He told himself she had said it was too tight, but if she lost weight it would fit. He changed the zipper for a smoother one. He opened the lining and added a thin layer. He did not tell her. He thought that when she came and put it on, she would understand.

She came in the evening. She was thinner, her eyes dark underneath. She took the red dress into the fitting room and came out. The zipper would not close. She faced the mirror, hands behind her back, pulling upward hard. The zipper stuck at the narrowest part of the waist.

“You altered it,” she said.

“Took in one inch.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“You didn’t say when you’d pick it up.”

She looked at him in the mirror. He stood two steps behind her, chalk still in his hand. She let go. The zipper slid down. The red dress pooled at her feet.

“Where were you?” he asked.

“None of your business.”

“Su Wan.”

“Don’t call me that.”

He stepped forward and caught her wrist. It was thin. One hand could circle it. She did not pull away. She only looked at him as if he had cut the pattern wrong.

“Did your ex-girlfriend do this too?” she said. “You altered her dresses until she couldn’t wear them, so they’d have to stay with you.”

He let go.

“I don’t have an ex-girlfriend.”

“That’s worse.”

She picked the red dress up from the floor. She did not fold it. She clutched it to her chest. At the door, she stopped.

“Do you know why I asked you to alter it?” she said. “It was my mother’s. She wore it on her wedding day. Her waist was thin. Then she got fat. She always said that when I got married, she would alter it for me. She didn’t live to see it.”

Chen Mo stood there. The chalk snapped in his hand.

“You made it smaller,” she said. “You didn’t even ask.”

The door closed.

After that, the shop was quiet for a long time. Chen Mo opened every day. He hung the “Open” sign. He wiped the counter. He watered the pothos. The pothos still lost two leaves. He cut the dead leaves off, cutting them evenly. The stomach medicine was still in the drawer, the box unopened. The red dress hung beside the fitting room. Three pins were still at the waist.

He took other jobs. Hems, zippers, cashmere coats. Customers came and went. When he pedaled the sewing machine, he would suddenly stop and listen for the door. Nothing. When the wind came, the shirts swayed. The red dress stayed still.

On the seventh day, he took the red dress down and removed the inch he had added. He picked the threads out one by one until midnight. He sewed the lining back in, using his mother’s backstitch. After the last stitch, he could not find his teeth to bite the thread, so he cut it with scissors. The thread end was left a little uneven.

He closed the shop for two days. On the third day, the neighbor from the noodle shop saw him carry a long table inside and clear the spot by the window. On the table he put an old iron, an ironing board, and several wooden spools. At the door he hung a handwritten sign: Old clothes alterations. Bring your own pattern. Below it, in smaller letters: If it doesn’t fit, we can alter it again.

He did not call Su Wan. The number was still on the back of the convenience store receipt, pressed under the glass. Every day he hung the red dress by the window and let the sun reach it. Then he brought it in during the afternoon, afraid it would fade.

On the tenth day, Su Wan came. She stood at the door and read the sign for a long time. Chen Mo was ironing a piece of interfacing. Steam rose and hid his face.

“You changed the shop,” she said.

“Mm.”

“Why?”

He put the iron down. The steam slowly cleared. He saw that she was not carrying the red dress.

“What should I do?” he asked.

She did not answer. She walked to the long table, picked up a piece of chalk, and drew a line on the tabletop. Straight, from one end to the other. Then she put the chalk down and patted the dust from her hands.

“See you tomorrow,” she said.

“See you tomorrow.”

She left. The door did not close tightly. The wind came in. The red dress swayed by the window, then stopped. Chen Mo picked up the iron again. The steam hissed. He went on ironing the interfacing.