Chapter 20
Iris's Dress

When she turned thirty-six Iris began making the dress she wanted to be buried in.

"You're not old yet," William said when she told him. It was a beauty. It had two layers. One was pink satin. A layer of wine-red lace went over it. The pink layer shone through. The lace was all snowdrops and stars. It reminded him of the Irish rose and thistle pattern on the glass in their porch door.

Iris bought the cloth with money her mother left her. It was not a lot of money. Iris put half the money aside for Alice Maud when she grew up. Then she made the dress.

"Nobody ever leaves money to girls," Iris said. "Alice Maud can do what she wants with it. Even if it is not much."

William did not question what his wife did with that money. She was a strong woman. She made sure her family was well clothed and fed. She scrubbed the house and the threshold. She kept the yard tidy and grew lilies. Every fall she dug a barrel each of potatoes, carrots and turnips. She packed them in sawdust for the winter.

That was why the new dress astounded him. It was not warm or practical. It was not part of her life. She said firmly that she was making it to be buried in.

But this Christmas she had worn it.

She said her old best dress was worn out. He watched her sit on the daybed cutting it up to make a quilt. It was green with a satin collar. She mended frayed pieces for the quilt. She kept every scrap.

So she had served the Christmas goose, and turr, and pudding, with pink shimmering through the wine lace. All William could think as he ate was how she would look in her coffin.

The dress made him see lines under her eyes and flesh that had gone from her throat. He never told her. If only he had found her a new dress. Something with scrap of satin on it. But he had not.