I started researching this paper because I had questions. Why did my grandmother go to Paris? Did she buy the dress herself, or if not, who gave it to her? What amazing adventure must she have been embarked on? I did not find the answers to those questions. But I still think I can draw some conclusions from the dress, and what it must have meant to my grandmother. Everyone knows that dresses can be powerful things. For example, Cinderella’s fairy godmother gave her a beautiful dress, which empowered her to go to the ball, meet her Prince Charming, etc. My grandmother’s dress is also very powerful, and with all due respect to Cinderella, it must have given my nineteen-year-old grandmother powers that would make a fairy godmother blush. Obviously, it gave her the power to show her skin, and to make men swoon. But I think it also gave her the power to think for herself. To vote. To drink. To smoke. To shop. The power to make her own choices, and her own mistakes. And last, but most certainly not least, the power to have great sex. I do not know if my grandmother did all of those things, and frankly, it is a little strange to think about your grandmother that way (at least it is strange for me). But the fact that she had this amazing, adult,
dangerous dress
I never knew about makes me hope that once upon a time, she lived an amazing, adult,
dangerous life
that nobody in Kirland ever knew about either.
In case you are wondering, that part did not have any footnotes.
I guess Professor Singer liked the paper. She gave me an A-plus on it, and another A-plus for the whole course, even though Purdue actually only recognizes grades up to A. What made me feel even better than the pluses was that she submitted it for some kind of fashion industry competition, and it won third prize. The fact that it won anything at all came as a total shock to me, because she didn’t even tell me she was entering it. I didn’t feel bad that it was only third prize, either. Because Professor Singer told me most of the entries came from places like the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York, and were written by people who are making fashion their entire careers. So third place was pretty good, if you ask me.
The five hundred dollar prize was even better.
To be honest, I felt like a little bit of a fake. Because I was not a real fashion student. And besides, all I had done was write about my grandmother’s dress. Which, as I have said, I just inherited one day without ever earning it. Feeling like a fake did not stop me from accepting the five hundred dollar prize, though. Or from spending a little too much of it on Boilermakers and related events that, like I said, are none of your business.
I have to tell you one more thing about my paper—the very best thing about it. The title.
The title was “A Dangerous Dress.” Which was perfect.
And which, it turns out, was also
very
relevant.
4
I
hope I have convinced you that small towns are complicated, interesting places. Even if you personally wouldn’t choose to live in one.
In any event, here’s where the glamorous part of the story starts. But you’ll have to bear with me just a bit longer, because it begins with me still in Kirland, sitting behind my desk at Independence Savings and Loan. Doing the job my cousin Mary wouldn’t take, and my cousin Johnny would’ve taken, only he died. Working for my Uncle John, who, as I mentioned, is not the very easiest person in the world to get along with. And that is as my
uncle.
As my
boss,
he was . . . well, how shall I put it?
Most days he made me want a Boilermaker. Some days a whole bunch of Boilermakers.
This was a multiple-Boilermaker day. Uncle John had just finished being mean to me. He wasn’t a yeller, but he sure knew how to make you feel small. Even if he came over to compliment your work, he managed to point out that it took you too long, it should have been neater, and it would’ve been a lot less bother if he had done it himself. And most of the time, when he came to talk to you, it was not to compliment your work.
He and I had just finished having one of those you-did-something-wrong chats. I felt about as smart—and about the same size—as the brick on my desk.
I didn’t put the brick on my desk. It came with the job. It’s a very small brick, as bricks go. Kind of a dull yellow-brown color, instead of your traditional red. Even among bricks, it’s below average. And that’s just how I felt.
Then the phone rang. I picked it up. “What?” I said. If I sounded cranky, well, how would you sound if you were a stubby stupid brick?
“Oh,” said the man on the other end of the line. My whole brick attitude seemed to throw him a little off balance. “I’m . . . I’m looking for Jane Stuart.”
“What?” I said again.
“Is this Jane Stuart?”
He was really going to make me say it again, wasn’t he.
“What?”
I said.
“I’m looking for the author of ‘A Dangerous Dress,’ ” he said.
All of a sudden I couldn’t even say
what.
I was too confused. He said the
author
of “A Dangerous Dress,” as if it was a book, instead of just a paper for my History of Fashion course.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “I had a hard enough time getting the alumni office at Purdue to give me this number. But if you aren’t Jane—”
Suddenly I wasn’t a brick anymore. “But I
am
Jane.”
Only now he apparently didn’t believe me. “I’m looking for the author of a monograph about a very special dress,” he said.
Although I am a graduate of Sacred Heart Catholic School, Roger Wells Kent High School, and Purdue University, I had never heard anyone call anybody’s college term paper a monograph. But he did say the dress was very special. “It’s my Grandma’s dress,” I assured him. “Or was. She left it to me. It’s in my closet,” I said. Then I took a deep breath. In through my nose, out through my mouth. A boyfriend taught me that. He was wrong. It didn’t help the sex. But it seemed useful right now. I said, “I am the author of ‘A Dangerous Dress.’ ”
Then the man on the phone began quizzing me with questions that only the author of “A Dangerous Dress” would know. Fortunately I knew the answers. I say
fortunately
because he’d obviously read my paper much more recently than I had. “All right then,” the man finally said. “You
are
the person I have been looking for.”
“Excuse me,” I said. I lowered my voice, because Uncle John had just opened his office door and was looking around the bank. He does that sometimes, for no apparent reason—just opens the door and gives the bank a long, slow look. “But who are you?” I whispered. Then Uncle John closed his door, the way he always does after one of his long, slow looks.
“My name is Elliot Schiffter,” said the man on the phone. Then he paused. I swear he did it for dramatic effect. “I’m calling from Reliable Pictures.”
I have a confession to make—and I hope you won’t be mad or disappointed, because I told you on the first page that everything I was writing is true. Essentially. And so far everything has been not just essentially true, but completely true. Only now I have to tell you that Reliable Pictures is not the real name of the movie studio that Elliot Schiffter works for. Although Elliot Schiffter is his real name. I will tell you this: You would know the studio’s name if I told you.
“I need your help,” Elliot Schiffter said to me. “Reliable Pictures needs your help. A great creative enterprise needs your help.”
He really said that. I would never have made up that “great creative enterprise” stuff.
“What kind of help?” I asked.
“Creative help,” he said. “Costume design help. For a major motion picture.” He paused again. Then he said, “A major motion picture that may never get made. Unless you help us.”
I suggested a minute ago that I thought this Elliot Schiffter person was being perhaps a little melodramatic. Now, though, I was forming a different impression.
“Please,” he said, “give me your e-mail address.”
Now I was starting to think that he sounded . . .
“So I can send you your plane ticket.”
... desperate.
5
D
esperate or not, Elliot Schiffter had my full attention. Because he was offering to send me a plane ticket. He hadn’t mentioned where I was supposed to be going, but as far as I was concerned, if you’re from Kirland, anywhere else you go is up.
“Reliable’s art house subsidiary is making a movie,” he said. “They’re about to start production. A lot of the story takes place in 1928. And the first scene they’re going to shoot is the climactic twenties party scene.”
You may not know this—I didn’t—but as Elliot explained to me, when they make movies, they do not film the scenes in order. So the last thing in a movie may be the first thing they film. Which is a little counterintuitive, but that’s how they do it.
“Only there’s . . . an obstacle,” Elliot said. Then the phone line got quiet.
“An obstacle?”
“Look at your e-mail,” Elliot said.
I looked. I had a new message with an attachment. This is what the attachment said:
THE MURPHYS’ APARTMENT - INT - NIGHT.
MOVING SHOT through the huge apartment. In the ballroom, JOSEPHINE BAKER, 21, a stunning black woman wearing very little, sings, backed by a small orchestra. Guests dance on the parquet floor. Waiters carry trays piled with shrimp, and champagne in glasses bigger than finger bowls.
Hemingway and Catherine enter. She is wearing a diaphanous beaded dress—a grown-up, sexual, dangerous dress. The Murphys greet them.
SARA
(dry as a martini)
It appears Pauline has had her baby early. And shed a few years.
HEMINGWAY
Pauline’s pooped. She thought her friend Catherine might like the party, though.
SARA
(even dryer)
Her friend is wearing a lovely dress.
GERALD
Charming.
As Catherine passes him, Gerald looks at Hemingway and raises his eyebrows approvingly.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“The
dress,
” Elliot said. “Catherine’s diaphanous beaded dress. The grown-up, sexual, dangerous dress.”
“I don’t understand,” I said again.
“The movie’s director is Gerard Duclos,” Elliot said, like that should mean something to me. It didn’t. “Gerard is very particular about details. He insists the dress actually be from 1928. And that it be
perfect.
So far, the costume people haven’t found anything that satisfies him. Until they do, Gerard won’t shoot the scene. This picture has an all-star cast. It took two years to get everybody’s schedules to dovetail. But if Gerard won’t shoot the scene, the schedule slides. If it slides two days, we lose Kathy. Which means we also can’t shoot the scene in Gertrude and Alice’s apartment. If we can’t shoot that scene on time, we lose Elijah. And if we lose Elijah, we lose the whole movie,” said Elliot. Grimly.
I promise you, I will tell you who those names are, and I will use their real names.
“We cannot lose the movie,” said Elliot. “So.”
“So?” I asked.
“So,” said Elliot. “We need a dress.
The
dress. And it seems Gerard Duclos is a big fan of Google. He went looking, and found your monograph. ‘A Dangerous Dress.’ ”
I confess, when I read that scene from the script, I missed it. But when Elliot said the name of my paper, it finally struck me. They needed . . .
a dangerous dress.
Made in 1928.
“Monsieur Duclos insists we fly you and your grandmother’s dress to Paris immediately.”
Paris???
The words
oh yes please thank you
were almost out of my mouth—only something he said stopped me cold.
They wanted Grandma’s dress. And I most certainly could not hand Grandma’s dress over to a total stranger. Not even a total stranger who was the Senior Executive Vice President for Motion Picture Production of Reliable Pictures. Not even if it meant passing up my ticket out of Bumfuck. Before I could figure out what to say, though, Elliot continued.
“Monsieur Duclos wants you to be a consultant. He said his costume designer doesn’t understand his vision and doesn’t know what he’s looking for. He said you will understand. I think he wants you to show them your grandmother’s dress and tell them what they need.”
I felt so relieved I almost slid out of my chair. I didn’t have to
give
them Grandma’s dress. I could just
show
it to them.
“Monsieur Duclos insists that only you can help him,” Elliot said. “He won’t even consider using anyone else. And he’s the director. What he wants, he gets. So, will you help us?”
“When do I start?” I asked.
“They’re scheduled to start filming the party scene in four days. That doesn’t leave us much time. I’ll e-mail you the script and your ticket.” Then he paused. And this time I am absolutely, positively sure he did it for dramatic effect.
Finally he said, “You’ll leave . . . tonight.”
6
“C
ome in,” said Uncle John.
I walked into his office. Actually I didn’t walk in very far, in case I decided I needed to get out of there in a hurry.
He was behind his desk, which you would call cluttered if you weren’t mad at him, and a godawful mess if you were. Every inch was crammed with Sacred Heart stuff and Knights of Columbus stuff and American Legion stuff. Not to mention genuine work-related stuff. Oh, and about fifty pictures of his granddaughter Paris, plus a couple of my cousin Mary, and even one of me. Uncle John was reading something, or pretending to, and he didn’t look up. I knew from experience that if I waited for him to look up, I could be standing there a very long time.
“I’m taking a vacation,” I said.
“No you’re not,” he said. He still didn’t look up.