The Seamstress Of Hollywood Boulevard - Plot & Excerpts
She had his curly hair, his little bandy legs, his temperament that flashed from rare glee to rage. She had a mind of her own, though. The daily, fretful crying, as maddening as a low wind, was her invention. Likewise the ferocious greed she aimed at anything she could grasp—my hair, most often, or her grandmama's glass-topped hat pin. She screamed when we pulled things out of her hand, and sometimes the screaming went straight through the night. Nothing I gave her was ever what she wanted, or enough. Never had I disappointed anyone so wholly. Of course, she disappointed me, too. At three months, when most babies looked awestruck or sleepy, her face was stern, letting us know how thoroughly the world was not to her liking. The first time I saw that expression, I was shocked, and then I made the hard little laugh I had learned since she was born. I carried the baby in to Jack's mother. She glanced at Lucille's tiny frown and said, "There's Jack, all right. Maybe the next one will be yours." "He says she looks just like me," I said, leaving pitiless Lucille in her grandmama's arms.
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