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by Ginger Dehlinger
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They were black—gloriously, sinfully, midnight black. These were big-city-night-on-the-town stockings, not the housewife variety Peggy mended six days a week. Sheer stockings of any thread or color had been impossible to find ever since the War Department claimed all of DuPont’s nylon for the production of war materials. Somehow soldiers and sailors got their hands on boring beige nylons; gifted them to joyful wives and girlfriends instead of chocolates or flowers. Peggy figured the woman who owned the black silk pair must be married to a general.
Head bent over her work all day, she pictured herself sitting on a bar stool, legs crossed, flaunting the black silk pair she’d seen in the Ready drawer. How glamorous she would feel in them. How long and sleek they would make her stubby legs look to a certain soldier stationed at Fort Lewis.
“Who do these black ones belong to?” Peggy asked one morning. She and her boss stood next to a four-drawer metal cabinet filled with bagged and tagged nylon stockings. The bottom three drawers held stockings to be mended. The top drawer, the one with Ready stenciled on the front, was open. “There’s no name tag on this black pair.”
“Not so loud,” Lorraine snapped as she shut the drawer. “Somebody didn’t write down the customer’s name.” She glared at her young employee. “A somebody who doesn’t work here anymore. I can’t leave this place for fifteen minutes without one of you girls lousing things up.”
“How long have they been ready?” Peggy whispered.
“I don’t know…months.” Lorraine crinkled her pale eyebrows. “Are you through here?”
Peggy hustled over to her workstation, stretched a beige nylon stocking over the mouth of a jar, and picked up her mending tool. The small metal tool gripped between her thumb and forefinger had a hair-like lever mounted on one side. The lever caught loose threads and knitted them together as she moved the tool up and down through a run. By producing hundreds of these looped stitches, a competent hosiery mender could make a run disappear.
Mending hosiery required patience and keen eyesight, however the repetitious process could also be mind-numbing. Halfway through the day, Peggy’s thoughts often wandered to the black pair in the Ready drawer. What a stir those stockings would cause at the small neighborhood bar she and her roommate visited most Saturday nights. June, engaged to a soldier stationed in Hawaii, still liked to go dancing, so she went with Peggy who didn’t want to go to the bar alone. The nightspot they frequented was a hangout for soldiers from the 15th and 41st Infantry Divisions stationed at Fort Lewis and the 17th Bombardment Group from nearby McChord Field.
In Peggy’s daydreams, she and June are having a beer one Saturday night when Glen, a dark-haired Army sergeant she had been flirting with, asks her to dance. She’s wearing the black silk stockings under a shockingly short dress when he escorts her onto the dance floor, holds her close to his khaki shirt while they sway to the tender lyrics of “Stardust.” Other soldiers ask to cut in, but Glen turns them down.
She got lost in this fantasy nearly every day in spite of something she overheard Glen say one night. She and June were sitting within earshot of the handsome sergeant and two other soldiers. When the men’s conversation turned to what they liked about women, she shushed her chatty roommate and aimed both ears at the soldiers’ table. In less than a minute, 5’1” Peggy wished she hadn’t snooped when the star of her daydreams said, “Me? I’m a leg man. Love those long stems leading to the Garden of Eden.”
Although troubled by what he said, she put thoughts of Glen aside at five P.M. when she carried her basket of repaired stockings to the front of the shop. After Lorraine tallied her day’s work, she met June on the corner of Pacific Avenue and Ninth Street. Her roommate worked at Rhodes Brothers, an upscale clothing store on Second Avenue. Their apartment lacked a refrigerator or ice box, and since both young women worked roughly the same hours, they shopped for supper on the way home.
It was March, the rainiest month of the year in Tacoma. Hunched under their umbrellas, the roommates had walked less than a block of the drizzly mile-and-a-half trek to their apartment when Peggy asked June if she could borrow her green sweater. “That color goes really well with my reddish hair.”
“Sure. When do you need it?”
“Saturday. Leo’s taking me to see Kay Kyser and his band. Can you believe it? Kay Kyser—right here in Tacoma.”
The roommates separated to avoid a large puddle. “Glen’s going, too,” Peggy added when they joined up again. “Stag.” She grinned. “Maybe that dreamboat will finally ask me to dance.”
“What happened to Leo? I thought you two were a number.”
“He’s okay. I like to dance with him, but that’s about it. Leo’s a great dancer. He can even boogie-woogie.”
“You two were pretty hot and heavy the other night.”
Peggy rolled her eyes. “A few kisses don’t mean anything, especially when there’s a war going on.”
She and June stopped for a red light. Traffic sounds filled the air as cars passed through the intersection, engines rumbling, tires splashing through standing water. Not as many people drove now that gas was being rationed, but with more jobs opening up, traffic remained about the same.
“A kiss would mean the world to me,” June said. She pushed a strand of damp brown hair out of her eyes. “Andrew puts lots of Xs and Os on his letters, but I wish they were the real thing.”
The light turned green. After the roommates crossed the street, June nudged Peggy and said, “You keep flitting from soldier to soldier. Fort Lewis will be empty soon. You’d better catch one of them soldiers before they’re all shipped overseas.” She flashed her small diamond engagement ring. “Maybe get one of these?”
“That would be nice, but Leo’s not my type. Too short. Too many freckles.”
“He’s not short. You’re the one that’s short.”
“So…can’t a short person go for someone tall—like Glen?”
At the small grocery store near their apartment, they bought two pork chops and fried them for dinner. Later, they played Hearts and listened to The Judy Canova Show followed by Charles Collingwood with the news. Afterwards, they donned their pajamas and climbed into the double bed they shared.
June fell asleep right away. Peggy lay awake, arguing with her conscience over the black silk stockings in the Ready drawer. She only wanted to borrow them. Was that a sin? No, but Lorraine would know who to blame if the stockings went missing. And who to fire.
She wondered if Glen found her attractive. She didn’t have legs like Betty Grable, but Leo once told her she looked like Barbara Stanwyck. When Barbara Stanwyck appeared on the cover of Photoplay, Peggy stopped at a newsstand on her way to work one morning and studied the photo. Eyes—blue; hair—reddish brown and slightly wavy; nose—a bit prominent. Seeing a resemblance, she decided she would look even more like the star if she wore her hair the same way. Then she remembered… it was Leo who said she looked like Barbara Stanwyck, not Glen. It would take a pair of black silk stockings to turn a leg man’s head.
When the alarm went off the next morning, Peggy felt as if she might explode if she didn’t ask to borrow the black silk stockings. Worried June would try to talk her out of such a bold decision, she didn’t tell her. Lorraine was counting the till when she arrived at the shop. Still in her raincoat, umbrella dripping on the linoleum, Peggy stood on spongy legs, waited for a few coins to drop before she said, “I have a favor to ask you. A big favor.”
“No time off,” Lorraine said without looking up. “We’re swamped. You should know better than to ask.”
“I know, I know. That’s not it.” Peggy squared her shoulders. “I promise to be here every day. You can give me the worst runs. I’ll even take work home with me if you let me borrow those stockings without a name on them. Just for this Saturday. I promise to be careful with them.”
The shop manager looked at the ceiling and sighed. “I can’t let you do that. With my luck, whoever they belong to will come looking for them.”
“But we’re not open on Sunday. And if I happen to get a run—and I won’t—I’ll mend it on my own time. Please…”
“Don’t beg. I wouldn’t sleep a wink until those stockings were back in the shop. I’m sorry, Peggy, I just can’t allow it.” She dropped a roll of quarters in the till and closed the drawer.
Later that day, when her best worker returned from a half-hour lunch break, Lorraine took her aside. “I’ve changed my mind,” she said brusquely. “You’re right about us being closed Sunday, so if you don’t tell anyone, and if you are very careful with those black silk stockings, I’ll let you borrow them.”
Peggy uttered a small cry. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. This means the world to me.”
“Just this once,” Lorraine said evenly. “I expect those stockings to be washed and back in the shop first thing Monday morning.”
***
Four long days later, Peggy stood in front of the bathroom mirror. Fingers that rarely missed a stitch at work behaved like paws as she parted and re-parted her hair until it fell across her forehead like Barbara Stanwyk’s. She smiled at her reflection; saw a wink of bright red lipstick on one of her teeth and wiped it off with a square of toilet paper.
She walked into the living room, wearing her roommate’s emerald green sweater over a slim black skirt that didn’t quite cover her knees. Displayed in all their glory between the skirt’s hem and the black pumps she polished the night before were the sexy stockings. She couldn’t see her legs in the bathroom mirror, but she was sure they looked spectacular.
June put down her book. “Look at you! Rhodes charges an arm and a leg for those things. When we can get ‘em. Where’d you get ‘em?”
Peggy twirled. “I borrowed them.”
“From who? From the shop?”
“Yes, but I got permission.”
“You’re really going all out for that sergeant, aren’t you?”
Peggy looked down at her legs and grinned. “What makes you think that? Glen may be driving, but Leo’s my date.”
***
Peggy could barely contain her excitement as she slid across the front seat of Glen’s Plymouth coupe. Her skirt hiked up to mid-thigh during the slide, but she pretended not to notice. Leo climbed in after her, had to scoot her closer to Glen to fit three rear ends on the coupe’s front seat. Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder between the two men, she basked in the scent of competing aftershaves during the cozy ten-minute drive to the dance.
A blast of warm air greeted the trio when they entered Century Ballroom. Over a thousand people, many in uniform, had come to the dome-shaped hall to dance and listen to the music of Kay Kyser’s orchestra. Leo and Glen were among the majority of men attired in khaki shirts, ties, and trousers.
Leo grabbed his date and led her onto the dance floor. Glen joined a cluster of stags near the entrance. While Leo and Peggy danced to tune after tune, she kept tabs on Glen, discretely watching his group get smaller as everyone except her dreamboat found partners. Glen stood at the edge of the crowd with his arms folded and a glum expression on his face. She had seen him looking at her legs during the short ride to the ballroom and figured he must be waiting for the right moment, the right song to ask her to dance.
She and Leo swayed to songs like “It’s Love I’m After” and “Ole Buttermilk Sky.” A bit winded after a lively “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition,” Peggy asked if they could take a break. They walked to the line of folding chairs encircling the ballroom and sat for a moment before she pointed at Glen and said, “Look at your buddy, standing over there like an orphan puppy. Do you mind if I ask him to dance?”
Leo blushed from his smooth-shaven chin to his light brown, neatly barbered hairline. “I suppose that would be okay.” His eyes searched her face for a clue of intent. “Glen’s not big on dancing, but he did buy a ticket.”
“Are you going to sit this one out?”
Leo glanced at the line of women sitting in folding chairs. “Never can tell. Those gals would probably give their eye teeth to be dancing.” He nodded in Glen’s direction. “Go ahead and ask him. It’ll do the fat-head good.”
Peggy gave Leo her second-best smile, wiped her palms on the sides of her skirt and waded through the crowd. Rather than let Glen say no, she grabbed his hand and pulled him onto the dance floor.
“I’m not very good at this,” he said with a skeptical chuckle. “You sure Leo won’t mind?”
Peggy shook her head. “He said it would be good for you.”
Leo had flushed so deeply his freckles disappeared when she asked to dance with Glen. Was he angry about it? With the crowd blocking her view, she couldn’t tell if he had asked someone to dance.
As Kay Kyser’s lead singer Ginny Simms began a soulful rendition of “Who Wouldn’t Love You,” Glen held out his arms. Peggy’s breath caught in her throat at the thought of dancing to that song with this man.
She eased into his mannequin-like dance position and closed her eyes, hoping to enjoy every second of this dream come true. She felt light as air until halfway through the first stanza when Glen stepped on her foot and she became aware of his awkward shuffle. Holding her at arm’s length, he lumbered through the crowd, calling out to soldiers he recognized, intentionally bumping shoulders with some of them.
When the song ended, he quickly dropped his arms. Peggy smiled at him, hoping to see a spark in his intense blue eyes, some sign of interest that would reignite the breathlessness she felt when the dance began. Instead, he bowed politely and said, “Leo tells me you work in a store that mends nylons. Any chance you could get me a pair or two?” He pointed at her legs. “Maybe some like those?”
Peggy’s eyes widened.
“I’ll pay you for them, of course.”
“We don’t sell nylons,” she gulped. “All our stockings are used.”
“Where did you get the ones you have on?”
“I borrowed them.”
Glen shrugged. “Well, okay. I’ll walk you back to Leo. He’s probably itching to dance with you.”
Neither one spoke while they wound their way through the throng of couples filling the ballroom, and before the painfully quiet walk ended, the warm flutter of Peggy’s heart had cooled and congealed.
They found Leo sitting on a folding chair between two women. “That wasn’t so bad,” Glen said to his buddy.
Peggy did a quick assessment of the women next to Leo. One was thin as a sapling; the other plump, with a cupid’s bow mouth and rosy cheeks. Glen asked the sapling to dance, and when the attractive brunette stood up, she was almost as tall as he was.
He doesn’t dance as good as he looks, Peggy wanted to tell her.
“My turn,” Leo said when the orchestra began playing again.
Back on the crowded dance floor, Peggy rested her cheek on Leo’s shoulder as he sang along with Ginny Simms, his baritone purr harmonizing with the singer’s warm soprano. She felt a rush of affection as she lost herself in the circle of his arms. How natural it felt to be swaying in sync with him. How comforting the smell of his Old Spice after-shave.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said when the song ended. He put an arm around her waist and walked her to the folding chairs. “I got my orders today. The Army is sending me to Officer Candidate School at Fort Rucker, Alabama. If I can cut the mustard, I’ll get my second lieutenant bars in ninety days.”
Peggy sat slowly, didn’t move, didn’t blink. She had known from the day she met Leo that he and thousands of other soldiers would be shipped overseas eventually. She hadn’t cared. Thousands more would take his place.
“I wish you’d go with me.”
Peggy’s mouth flew open. “What do you mean?” She felt her face heat up. “Do you mean what I think you mean?”
Leo draped an arm across her green-sweatered shoulders. “I don’t have a ring. Thought I’d better ask first.”
“I don’t know what to say, Leo.” She hid a flickering smile. “We’ve only known each other a couple of months.” She stared at the hardwood floor for a silent minute until, sensing Leo’s discomfort, she took his hand.
“When do you leave?”
“Tuesday.”
“This Tuesday?”
He nodded.
“Why so soon?”
He turned, looked her straight in the face. “Everything happens fast during a war. People get married fast. Men become officers fast. If a soldier moves too slow on the battlefield, he can get his head blown off.”
Peggy sucked in her breath. “Don’t scare me.”
She pictured herself in a train station, watching his somber face pass by as the train chugged off for parts unknown. She would be waving a handkerchief the frantic way women waved goodbye in newsreels and movies. She and Leo would write to each other like June and Andrew. Waiting for the mail would be like waiting for Christmas. And when he returned home? Oh, what a welcome that would be!
After another moment of silence, Leo said, “I like how you’re wearing your hair.”
“Do you like my stockings?” Peggy extended her short legs and clicked her pumps together like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz.
“They look great. You look great. You always do.” He kissed her cheek.
Kay Kyser’s orchestra began playing a song they both liked. They shared a knowing smile, but remained seated, listening to the music while engaged in the moment.
“What’s it like in Alabama?” she asked.
Leo raised his eyebrows. “Never been there. If you didn’t like it, you could always come back to Tacoma. At least I’d know I had someone waiting for me.”
It was past midnight when the couple and Glen, minus the willow, left the dance. During the ride back to Peggy’s apartment, she leaned against Leo and kept her skirt in check.
“Let’s have lunch tomorrow,” he said outside the door to her apartment.
Peggy smiled enthusiastically. “I’d like that. We have a lot to talk about.”
Leo wrapped her in his arms and covered her mouth with his, a long kiss cut short by two toots of the Plymouth’s horn. He suggested a place to meet for lunch, and then Peggy watched him descend the stairs until he made the turn at the landing.
Inside the apartment, she took off her shoes, unfastened her garters, and peeled off the black silk stockings. She wanted to share her good news with June, but her roommate was already asleep. Humming a Kay Kaiser tune, she washed the stockings in the bathroom sink, rolled them in a towel, and hung them on the shower rod to dry.
First thing Monday morning, she returned the stockings to Lorraine, clean and unharmed. They were still in the Ready drawer her last day at work.
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Ginger Dehlinger writes in multiple genres, much of it historically based and extensively researched. She has published two novels (Brute Heart, Never Done) and one children’s book (The Goose Girl’s New Ribbon). Her poetry and essays have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, and her short story “Francine” was awarded first runner-up in the 2022 Best American Fiction contest sponsored by The Saturday Evening Post.
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