I tried the vintage stores on Westheimer, a row of brightly colored old bungalows with piles of dusty clothes crammed in every room. In the first shop a limping orange cat chased me into the dressing room. It sprawled on the floor and batted at the dressing room curtain, blue polyester that clung to its fur. I needed to look subdued, respectable. I had no idea how. I tried on a few dresses, but they weren’t right. The place gave me allergies.

I navigated lunchtime traffic to the Village, full of high-fashion boutiques and trendy local designers. My favorite, Imperial Palace, was housed in an old Chinese buffet restaurant. Mannequins in the windows sat at lacquered tables, chopsticks tied with ribbons to their hands, or they stood holding trays of fake egg rolls. One wore a garland of fortune cookies strung together with a length of yarn. The store still smelled greasy.

A guy wearing a women’s military-style blouse with lace epaulets asked if he could help.

“I need a dress for a funeral,” I said.

“Ooh,” he said. “Sorry.”

I held a blue jersey dress with appliquéd butterflies at the hem. “What do you think of this one?”

“Maybe. Let’s see what else we have.”

“It’s in an hour.”

“Goddamn, girl!” he said. “A challenge. Tell you what. We have that one in black with black butterflies, let me go get it.”

He raced to the stockroom, the old kitchen. I collected every black and blue and gray item in the shop. The clerk returned with piles of layered viscose, chiffon, and vintage lace. He showed me a red gown with a Chinese collar, sheer with a floral print underlay covering the torso.

“I like that one,” I said. “Is it an old Hawaiian shirt?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Thank you. It’s mine.”

“You designed this?”

He nodded, beaming. “I’m Luis.”

“Charlotte,” I said and we shook hands.

“The Chinese wear red for mourning,” he said.

“I don’t think that will work. This is a white girl.”

I picked out one dress, black with a pink printed belt that tied around the waist. I stepped out of the dressing room.

“Oh, shit,” he said. “Not everybody can pull that off. It’s fantastic on you.”

“Do you think people can tell it’s guns on the sash?”

“No,” he said. “No one will notice, it looks like an abstract pattern. And the pink isn’t too much, either. People think you have to be conservative at a funeral, but that’s not the case anymore.”

“Really?” I said.

“You should take off your bra, though. It’s showing here.”

I did, and he tugged on the bustline of the dress.

“See, it’s supposed to fit this way. There. Oh my god, I love it. Let’s cut the tags off.”

At the counter he bagged my other clothes and I paid. I was late. I sped over to the church and had to park in the unpaved part of the lot they reserved for Easter and Christmas services. My heels sank into the ground. I hurried to the entrance, dodging between media vans and luxury SUVs.