THE BLACK DRESS

It was never just a dress. It was a memory they passed to me in fragments.

She rarely attended events of this sort. She liked to think it was because she was too busy, but truthfully, she never felt she fit in. The black dress was hanging on the hanger, looking flat. She had been staring at it for some time, hesitating. The black high heels waited impatiently on the floor below. She had avoided trying it on, ever since her mother mentioned she could have it. The thought of it not fitting terrified her. Had she missed her chance to participate in this important family ritual? The dress carried her family within it.

As she glanced at herself in the mirror, she was brought back to when she was a child, watching her mother in front of the mirror slip on the exact same dress. She recalled asking about it. Her mother looked so glamorous. "The lace is from Paris," she replied. "Your grandfather brought it back after the war."

Her imagination began to wander—walking the streets of Paris in the fall, feeling the chill sweeping between the buildings and down the alleys, people holding their thin jackets close around their necks, trying to keep the wind out. The smell of damp dirt and leaves lingered. Daylight was disappearing behind the buildings; the street lamps began to flicker on. Walking the streets alone, the city had become familiar, yet he was acutely aware that he was a foreigner. He loved the smells from the bakery at 4 a.m., which made his mouth water. Watching the laughing couples arm in arm could wash away his worries, if only for a fleeting moment.

He had arrived over a year ago, assigned an apartment, the address scribbled on a piece of paper handed to him by his commanding officer. The ride made him wish he had skipped breakfast—the turns were more than he could bear, and the roads were so damaged from the bombs he was surprised the jeep made it at all. There were three other officers with him, all being reassigned. He tried to start a conversation a few times, but each was deep in thought. He gazed out the back of the truck, surprised that the hillsides were still green, people working their land. He had expected much more destruction. For a moment, he forgot there was a war raging just over the hills and felt grateful not to be headed to the front again.

For the first time since landing in Normandy, his mind was quiet. The driver dropped them off at the train station in Paris. He was pleased to be among people again, not lost in his own thoughts. There was a sense of excitement in the air. Parisians were still celebrating their liberation. The city felt like it was waking from a long slumber.

He flagged down a cab and handed the driver the paper with the address. The cab driver was talkative. He had been warned that GIs were easy targets in Paris. While most citizens were grateful and treated them with respect, not everyone was kind.

The streets narrowed as they left the station. The roads became bumpier, and the buildings looked tired. The driver stopped in front of what, under other circumstances, would have been a charming building. Vines grew up the front, tying the whole block together. It was impossible to distinguish where one building ended and the next began. It was just after daybreak. The trimmed vines framed the faded, worn curtains in the apartments.

He was handsome and knew it—charming, easygoing, someone who could blend into a crowd. He picked up languages easily and could mimic accents after a day or two. If not for the uniform, he wouldn’t have been identified as a GI. He was glad to be assigned an apartment. He couldn’t wait to lie down in a real bed.

He paid the driver, grabbed his bag, and pushed open the heavy front door. The smell of musty walls made him stop to double-check the address. The stairway was well-kept, the floors clean, and the walls freshly painted. He climbed the winding stairs to the third floor and passed two other doors before reaching his. As he reached for the key, the door flung open.

A young woman stood in the doorway with a suitcase in one hand, a coat in the other. She was beautiful. Her hair pinned up in the latest style, her hat tilted just so, her dress fitting like it was made for her. He was in love.

"Good morning," she said. "You must be taking my apartment."

"I'm sorry," he managed. "I didn’t know it was yours."

"Well, it was," she replied, clearly irritated.

"Let me buy you a cup of coffee. It’s the least I can do. Let me just set my bag down."

"Fine," she said.

They left their bags outside. Neither of them felt the apartment was theirs. She led him to a small café around the corner. He chose a table near the window and ordered coffee for them both. Before he knew it, the sun was high in the sky. He could have stayed there for hours. He offered for her to stay in the apartment until she found another place. Surely, they could find a respectful arrangement.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. She was still there. The curtain came down; the cot moved under the bed. He had fallen in love with this cosmopolitan woman. They spent their days apart and their nights dancing, drinking, and laughing.

One early Sunday, there was a knock at the door. He got up quietly, trying not to wake her, and grabbed his .45. Opening the door slightly, he saw no one. Just as he was about to close it, a second knock came—closer to the ground. A small boy stood there, no older than his daughter back home.

"Good morning, sir. Is my mommy here?" the boy asked.

His eyes widened. He slipped the gun back into his coat and looked around for an adult. No one. It hadn’t occurred to him that she, too, had another life. He let the boy in.

The woman sat up in bed, offering a smile to the boy, warm but nervous. He returned it, unsure how he felt. He slipped into the bathroom.

It was small—you could sit on the toilet, brush your teeth, and spit in the sink without standing. He sat on the lid, listening to the whispers and giggles outside the door.

They never spoke of their pasts. No talks of families or spouses. Only the present. And now that present had changed.

When he emerged, she was dressed, stunning as ever. Hat and coat in hand.

"We’re going out," she said, barely meeting his eyes.

She held the boy’s hand. The child looked up at her in admiration. He was one lucky boy. The man was alone in the apartment for the first time in over a year. It was modest, clean, and had become home with a woman he barely knew. He sat and thought of his wife and daughter—what they were doing, how they were spending their days.

He wrote a letter to his daughter and later went to the café. He was lost in thought when he felt a kiss on his cheek.

"This is my son," she said. "He'll be staying with us for a while."

The flat grew smaller. They made a cot for the boy and got extra rations. A few months passed. Then his orders arrived. He was to return home.

She took it well. Suggested they buy a gift for his wife. That surprised him—he hadn’t remembered mentioning he had one.

They went to the Fashion District. She led the way, her eye sharp for detail, her taste impeccable. They visited many shops. Late in the day, she brought him to one last place. She pointed to black lace on the third shelf.

Even he could see its beauty. It was delicate and precise. The shopkeeper cut it carefully, each swoosh audible if you listened. The lace was wrapped in tissue and tied with brown string. No one would guess what was inside.

He paid and they returned home. The next day, they said goodbye. She gave him a framed photo. He packed it away. But the lace, he kept close.

He had been gone 4.5 years.

He spotted his wife in the crowd, holding a girl he barely recognized. She looked tired, worn. Simple.

"You haven’t changed," he said.

Not knowing if it was a compliment. She smiled and embraced him. Their daughter stared, uncertain.

The package pressed between their chests. He pulled away, worried the lace might be crushed. He handed it to her awkwardly.

"Here. This is for you."

"Thank you. What is it?"

"Lace. From Paris. I thought we could make you a dress."

"Oh," she replied.

They walked to the car. She wondered why a housewife needed such a thing.

Years later, the dress was made. It fit perfectly. When she wore it, she became someone else. Someone she hoped to be.

She didn’t wear it often. But when she did, heads turned. She felt radiant. He tolerated the attention.

Everyone knew who had picked the lace. He confessed eventually. The dress shaped their marriage. Her children grew. She aged. But the dress remained.

It followed her through ten houses, five states, and two continents. Wrapped in tissue, it hung quietly.

One day, her daughter asked to borrow it. Not knowing the weight it carried, she agreed.

The daughter passed it to her own daughter.

Now, the granddaughter stood at the edge of her bed, staring down at the dress. She slipped into the delicate lace, heart lifted and heavy all at once, never quite sure if keeping the dress was a sign of defiance—or defeat.