The Tightrope

Whenever another fading star wanders into Marjorie’s picturesque tailor shop in the heart of Nassau, she greets them with a firm, warm smile and directs them to the old armchair near the window. She brings them a beverage of their choosing, anything from tea to coffee to vodka, and serves it with a slice of cake or a cigarette without commenting. Every terminally-ill person deals with mortality in their own way but none like to be patronized. Marjorie’s godmother started smoking again after twenty years of abstinence when she was diagnosed with lung cancer. She taught Marjorie a vital skill, to respect and sympathize with decisions she didn’t approve of. After Marjorie has settled in the opposite armchair, she asks her new client to recount three life stories. When the client is hesitant, Marjorie goes first.

Here are three stories about Marjorie: First, although her job is unconventional, she comes from a background of tradition. Her father’s family runs the Mortimer Funeral Home, one of the oldest Black-owned funeral homes in the Bahamas, and her mother comes from a long line of Haitian dressmakers. Second, Marjorie spent most of her youth living on the border between two colliding cultures and legacies, constantly trying to keep a perfect balance between her parents’ worlds and not fully letting herself be a part of either. Then, upon her dying godmother’s request, she made a dress for her wake and realized she could embrace both her legacies. That’s how she became a designer for burial clothes. Third, Marjorie is sick. Very sick. She isn’t exhibiting symptoms but soon enough, she will. None of her loved ones know about her diagnosis, it’s a secret she only shares with her clients. The third story always puts her clients at ease. This is Marjorie’s real service: empathy. She gifts her clients what their families cannot offer them, the solace of being understood, the relief of no longer facing death alone.

Once the ice is broken, Marjorie creates a design based on the client’s wishes. It’s a tricky task; her creations need not only be aesthetic but also true. Toeing the line between artist and chronicler is like walking on a tightrope, an abyss yawning on each side, but luckily Marjorie is practiced at keeping her equilibrium. She’s a fast seamstress, in a hurry to finish commissions so her clients can see the finished piece before their time is up. Nonetheless, she lavishes her designs with affectionate attention to detail, embroiders them lovingly like her mother taught her to. When a client passes, Marjorie retrieves their burial clothes from her inventory, drives to the Mortimer Funeral Home and helps dress the deceased. At last, while her relatives continue with their daily tasks, she stands at the window and watches the coroner’s car shrink to a tiny black dot in the distance, tender grief welling up beneath her sternum. In a day, the clothes she doted upon for weeks will be incinerated or left to decompose in the ground, never to be seen again. The thought of her hard work culminating in nothing used to bother Marjorie but she has begun to make peace with it. After all, she knows better than anyone else that there is no such thing as forever. Everything becomes nothing sooner or later, and so what does it matter that Marjorie’s dresses live only for a few months whereas ancient statues live for millennia? In the end, the two are the same, ephemeral constructs of beauty destined to fall apart.