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People dash past Celia with enough purpose for one to assume they’re on the way to significant destinations. Or it may simply be to escape the cold, raw wind. She, too, rushes, but it has nothing to do with weather. She’s late for work.

When the alarm rang this morning, no one budged, including her. Then they were all scrambling at once to get ready.

As usual Quincy was first in the bathroom, while Miles waited slumped in a chair, his eyes open but still asleep. If she’d asked what time he went to bed, he would have been upset. He’s seventeen, easily upset. Sam was the only one not waiting for the bathroom. Her husband had named the first two boys, but she had fought against the youngest becoming some musician’s afterthought.

Someday she’ll toss out the alarm clock and lie in bed in a gorgeous haze of unscheduled pleasure. On that day money will drop from heaven. What’s money really worth, Celia? That’s Paul’s singsong cadence in her head, instructing her to take it easy, cool the sweat, lighten up, go slow. But her babies, who are no longer babies, need everything. By now Paul is in Ontario. One more gig in Canada, another in Albany, then home for a while. His kind of music is on the wane, though he’s still on the road more than she’d like. He’s also getting high more often than she’d like. No worse than a truck driver taking NoDoz, he assures her. Her husband lives on the edge by choice, a man who’s been backslapped by mobsters, fooled by tricksters, slipped the occasional hundred-dollar tip by the slumming mink crowd. He offers his experiences to her lovingly, in detail. And she’s a sap, has been, will be, and so what?

The three-story Bronx factory building is on Third Avenue in the shadow of the El train. Celia hurries up the three flights between narrow dark walls that reek of old fruit. As she pushes open the heavy metal door, it all looks the same as yesterday: rectangular room with two large windows, a cutting table, four rows of six sewing machines, ceiling lights, tiny lamp in each work space. She sews silk and nylon material into slips, sometimes negligees. She is one of twenty-four seamstresses paid by the finished garment. Some days she can earn twenty dollars, less if there’s lace to apply.

At her workspace is a pile of cream-colored satiny pieces cut to become thigh-length slips, the kind that movie stars wear under their dresses. She considers taking one for Josie, then turning back the tally. Everyone does it.

Blowing dust off the surface, she threads the needle and switches on the machine. To keep the material from bunching up, she needs to hold each piece straight and tight with elbow and wrist as her fingers pass the seams under the fast-moving needle. Her foot pedals the treadle automatically.

“Celia, I need a favor.” Artie’s large hand appears near hers. “Stop a minute. A shipment of silk came in this morning. It’s a one-time order. Kimonos. I need people to stay several hours longer. I want a few dozen by tonight. Say yes.”

“What about my sons?”

“Call them. Use the office phone.”

“My sister’s coming for dinner.”

“You’ll be out of here by seven, not a minute later.”

With his bushy dark brows, curly black hair, big round shoulders, he could pass for a caveman. Except he’s too young, maybe forty, though some of the women believe he’s older.

“Seven p.m., that’s a long day. I get double time after four.”

“What union is this?”

“Celia deluxe.”

“Okay. I can spring for three hours.”

“Everyone who stays will expect double!” she shouts at him as he disappears into the glass cage of his office.

When the noise of the machines subsides, she weaves her way to the back room to find her sandwich in the fridge, then sits across from Denise and Adele at the long table.

“Vi’s coming in tomorrow. Artie told me.”

“For bookkeeping?”

“For cooking the books.”

“She’s not an accountant.”

“But Vi’s his wife.”

“Not much of one, I hear.”

“Rumor, rumor.”

“Maybe, but Artie’s looking old for his age.”

“It’s good his wife controls the money,” Celia says, wondering how much Paul will bring home.

“It’s not all she controls.”

“A woman with her hands in the till is better off than one with her hands on a prick. Remember that.”

“Adele, you’re too focused on sex.”

“I am?”

“The whole week you’re bringing up men’s private parts,” Denise says.

“Is that true?” Adele asks Celia.

Celia nods. Talking about nothing that matters is their route through doors usually kept locked.

“Jesus, what do you think it means?”

“Oh, you don’t want us to speculate.”

“Denise, leave her be. She’s worried. I understand.”

“But you know where Paul is when he’s not at home. Adele hasn’t a clue.”

“How long has it been this time?” Celia asks, not wanting Paul to be part of the conversation.

“Four days. I spoke to his friends on the construction site. Either their lips are glued, or they really don’t know where he is.”

“It’s classic. They get a whiff of forty and go nutsy. If you were rich, you could buy him a Jaguar, let him race around Montauk, get in touch with his aura of eternal youth.” Denise waves her arms as if invoking some spirit.

“Why aren’t you thinking hospitals or police or accident?” Celia asks.

“Adele, do you want sex morning, noon, and night? Do you have a life outside of bed? A few days holed up with young flesh, he gets it out of his system, returns, and can’t do enough to please you. On the other hand, if you don’t hear from him after a week, change the locks and good fucking riddance.” Denise takes a bite of her sandwich.

“You’re probably right.”

“What do your daughters know?” Celia is curious about fathers in other people’s homes.

“I don’t want to sully the bastard in their eyes. I say he’s working construction in Baltimore and I’m not sure when he’ll return. My oldest looks at me with pity like she knows something I don’t.”

“Are you staying to work on the kimonos?” Celia asks.

“Would you list our choices?”

“Hi, I’m home, finally.” Celia shrugs off her coat, kicks off her shoes, and joins her sister and sons on the floor where a half-eaten pizza pie is cooling on the coffee table.

“Richie got the date for his physical,” Josie says.

“He can’t follow orders,” Quince says.

“He won’t make it through basic,” Celia adds, eyeing the dark cabinet where red wine waits.

“Something else too. I found a job as a hospital file clerk. I’m moving into Manhattan. Don’t even think of arguing. No more will I be stuck in this borough. I want life,” Josie announces.

“Life?” Celia repeats.

“This isn’t it.” Josie gestures toward the room. “I intend to have a thousand million experiences and not remain hidden in the closet of a family.”

“You’re in your last year of high school.” A waste of words. Josie’s as stubborn as their mother and twice as determined.

“School’s a joke. I learn nothing. I’m bored. I can take courses anytime.”

“You and Miles are college material.”

“Where’s it written that everyone has to go at eighteen? You could attend college now, Celia. Rules about how and when to do things, it’s a setup to make us imitate our parents’ lives. Not me.”

“Will you make enough to pay the rent?” Miles says.

“I’m sharing an apartment with two women.”

“Will I see you as often?” Miles asks.

“Your school is within walking distance of my new apartment.”

“Miles needs to come home after school to take care of his brothers.”

“Stop trying to hold it all in place, Celia. Everything is changing. It’s in the air, a wind blowing many voices. I’m paying attention. You should too.”

“Mom, it’s about being young,” Quince informs her.

Her sons seem mesmerized by Josie’s pronouncements. She, however, finds her sister’s notions irritating and adolescent.

“Listen up. I have a letter from your father.” She dips into her purse for the envelope and reads.

To my Son-shines,

Last night, when I began to play, I heard your voices, bass and treble, thick and thin, the sounds around you. Rain on car tops, gravel underfoot, wind shaking leaves, somewhere a cat mewing, the sharp beep of a horn on a quiet Sunday. Suddenly Sully heard what I was hearing and began echoing my notes. And good old Roper recorded the whole deal and named it “Urban Stew.”

The three of you with me.

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