Knit Two

by Kate Jacobs

  “Finally, I’m invaluable,” she had told the group upon starting the job. “I know every side of the business.”

  Her new salary was transformed, with some guidance from Peri, into a fabulous collection of suits. And her hair was longer than the pixie cut she’d had in the old days, shaped into a more lawyerly layered style. She’d experimented—for a millisecond—with letting her hair go its natural gray but she decided she was too young for that much seriousness at fifty-two and opted for a light brown.

  “If I had your gorgeous silver,” she told Anita, “it would be a different story.”

  Lucie Brennan’s documentary circulating on the festival circuit had led to a gig directing a video for a musician who liked to knit at Walker and Daughter. When the song went to the Top Ten in Billboard, Lucie quickly transitioned from part-time producer for local cable to directing a steady stream of music videos, her little girl Ginger lip-synching by her side in footie pajamas.

  At forty-eight, she was busier and more successful than she ever imagined—and her apartment reflected the change. She no longer rented, but had purchased a high and sunny two-bedroom on the Upper West Side with a gorgeous camelback sofa that Lucie, still an occasional insomniac, would curl up on in the middle of the night. Only now, instead of knitting herself to sleep, she typically mapped out shots for the next day’s shoot.

  And the tortoiseshell glasses she’d once worn every day had been joined by an array of frames and contacts for her blue eyes. Her hair, if left to its natural sandy brown, was quite . . . salty. So she colored it just a few shades darker than little Ginger’s strawberry blond, aiming for a russet shade.

  Darwin Chiu finished her dissertation, published her very first book (on the convergence of craft, the Internet, and the women’s movement) based on her research at Walker and Daughter, and secured a teaching job at Hunter College while her husband, Dan Leung, found a spot at a local ER. They also found a small apartment on the East Side, close to the hospital and college, the living room walls lined with inexpensive bookshelves overflowing with papers and notes. Unlike other women, Darwin had hair free of gray though she’d hit her thirties, and she still wore it long, without bangs, making her look almost as young as her women’s studies students.

  Peri Gayle, striking with her deep brown eyes, mahogany skin, and meticulous cornrows that fell just past her shoulders, ran the store, of course.

  Anita Lowenstein settled into a happy arrangement with her friend Marty, although their decision not to marry came up now and again.

  “I’m living my life in reverse,” she told the group. “Now that my mother can’t do a damn thing about it, I’m rebelling against society’s expectations.” She’d been joking, of course. Moving in together was a simpler solution, quite frankly, in terms of estate planning and inheritance, and, as the movie stars say, neither she nor Marty needed a piece of paper to demonstrate their commitment.

  “We’ll just call him my partner,” corrected Anita when yet another of her friends tripped over how to describe her relationship. “It seems overreaching to call him my boyfriend at this age.”

  They had, however, purchased a new apartment together and moved out of the garden apartment in Marty’s Upper West Side brownstone, allowing Marty’s niece to incorporate that level into her family home. Anita was seventy-eight, though she’d lie about it if anyone ever asked, and certainly appeared younger, with her layered, silvery hair and her well-cared-for hands. Thanks to Anita, Catherine truly appreciated the value of high SPF.

  Catherine Anderson’s little business flourished north of the city in Cold Spring, though many days she continued to take the train, spending some days in the tidy, expensively furnished cottage she’d recently purchased and others in the San Remo apartment that Anita had shared with her late husband, Stan.

  It seemed that five years was about right for all that had happened to settle in, and for the urge to try something different to begin to swell.

  “Not much of a surprise if the presents are all out there,” exclaimed KC at the entrance to Walker and Daughter as she wheeled in a red wagon filled with stuffed animals perched inside: a monkey, a giraffe, and two fluffy white teddy bears. Peri stopped trying to rewrap Dakota’s gift for a moment to wave hello.

  “We should try to hide in the back office and then jump out and surprise her!” said KC, waving back even though she was mere steps away. “What do you say?”

  She and Peri were from different generations—KC was twenty-three years older than Peri—but they were, as the volume-impaired and talkative KC explained to anyone who cared and often to those who didn’t, the very epitome of BFFs.

  “We help each other get ahead,” KC explained when Dakota asked at one meeting why the two of them spent so much time together when, on the surface, they looked and acted so different from each other. “We gossip, we go to movies, she picks out my clothes, and I give her legal advice for her pocketbook business.” Their shared devotion to career—and KC’s years of experience—also kept up the connection. As proud as she was with her professional reinvention, KC had ultimately traded one workaholic lifestyle for another. Just as she’d put in long days at the office when she was an editor and followed it up with nights reading manuscripts, now she spent her evenings reading contracts on the sofa in the prewar rent-stabilized apartment on the West Side that had been her parents’ home.

  But while Peri kept up with a steady crowd of pals from the design courses she’d taken, KC’s relationship with Peri filled a bit of the gap that had been left by Georgia, who had been a young assistant when KC met her. For a woman who would never describe herself as a nurturer, KC made it a practice to look out for others and to mentor them. And she had a deep fondness for Dakota, who seemed exasperated with her latest concept.

  “For one thing, no back office anymore,” muttered Dakota, inclining her head toward KC and motioning her to take a look behind her. “So it wouldn’t work.”

  “And for two, we have a no-scaring-pregnant-women policy,” added Anita, who was two steps behind KC and coming through the doorway. As she did every day, Anita wore an elegant pantsuit, and a selection of tasteful jewelry. The oldest and wealthiest member of the club, Anita was also—everyone would agree—the kindest and most thoughtful. In her arms Anita carried a giant hydrangea plant in blue; Marty carried a second one in pink. She nodded solemnly.

  “The renovations are excellent, my dear,” she said, though Peri suspected her words were meant mainly to bolster Dakota’s uncertainty since Anita had checked on the shop’s progress repeatedly.

  “I’m here, I’m here,” came a voice from the stairwell. It was Catherine, sweeping into the room with a bit of self-created fanfare and an armful of professionally wrapped presents in brightly colored paper and a large canvas bag filled with several bottles.

  “Hello, darlings,” she said, blowing out enough air kisses that everyone in the room got three each.

  “Hello, grumpy,” Catherine said to Dakota, lightly wrapping an arm around her shoulders as they surveyed the room.

  “I was afraid I was late,” said Catherine. “Is she here yet?” The store phone rang as Lucie called to say she wasn’t able to get away from work and not to wait. Peri looked at her watch and let out a cry of concern. Quickly, KC pulled out a box of cupcakes from the bottom of the red wagon, and Catherine opened a magnum of chilled champagne without a pop.

  “When I think of the Friday Night Knitting Club, I always think of plastic glasses,” said Catherine to Dakota. “It adds a certain je ne sais quoi.” She winked at Dakota, managed to charm a shrug out of her young pal. The two had forged a big sister-little sister bond since Georgia had taken her in years ago and let Catherine bunk on Dakota’s floor during her divorce; many times in the ensuing years since Georgia died, Catherine’s cynicism and over-the-top drama had been the perfect antidote to Dakota’s teenage moodiness. Anita remained Dakota’s source for unconditional love; Catherine was good at keeping secrets and seemed will
ing to become her partner in crime, if only they could think up a scheme.

  “To Walker and Daughter,” said Catherine, taking one sip and then another. “To the reno, to my favorite kid, and to the club.” The rest of the women raised their glasses.

  Even though the vague unease about the remodel persisted, Peri could tell it was going to be a happy night. Anybody could see that. The gang was all here, together again; the volume was already deafening as everyone spoke at once, trying to cram a month’s worth of news into a few minutes. She began to relax as she saw Dakota flop into one of the new chairs, throw her jeans-clad leg over the arm, and bum a sip of champagne off Catherine, the two of them glancing to see if Anita had noticed.

  Tonight, the Friday Night Knitting Club would have made Georgia proud. They were holding a special meeting to throw a surprise baby shower for one Darwin Chiu, who was finally, after many long years of trying and hoping, expecting her first children.

  Darwin and Dan were having twins.

  two

  Having children had never been a question when Anita was young; it was simply the expected order of things. Marriage meant babies and babies meant marriage. And everyone wondered when it didn’t happen quickly. There’d been no help for a couple like Darwin and Dan, who had waited and hoped for their family. It would have been very difficult to be a single mom as Georgia had been, as Lucie had chosen to be. Though Lucie seemed awfully tired and stressed as of late, and her daughter, Ginger, was not always a sweetie like little Dakota had been. Still, it was nice that things were different. Could be different. Anita believed in having options. On the other hand, sometimes it was hard to know which end was up these days.

  Anita had barely breezed into her twenties when she’d married, not that she realized then how young that age would seem to her one day. She’d believed she was the pinnacle of grown-up-ed-ness in her tea-length white dress and lace veil. Stan had seemed so strong and wise—he had an answer for everything, which initially comforted her, then amused her in later years, then grew to be a smidge annoying on occasion. But his confidence in how things should be provided a protection for Anita from the world, and for that she was always grateful.

  At twenty-one, she had only seen her life unfolding smoothly, hour after hour, year after year. That was the 1950s—old enough to get married and start a family, naïve enough to willfully edit world wars from day-to-day memory. Buying into a toaster-oven future of domestic bliss, where everything was going to happen simply and easily. On her wedding night it was all possibility and a seemingly endless future: she could barely wait to be alone with Stan and reveal the skills she’d tried to learn from a book. It was a great surprise to discover, later on, that sex didn’t solve everything, that it could become routine and sometimes, when she didn’t feel like it, irritating. That being in love didn’t alleviate petty annoyances and frustrations. And even a good marriage, a wonderful partnership, had its moments.

  Anita had lost touch over the years with all seven of the friends who were her bridesmaids, wouldn’t know where to begin looking for the flower girl who’d worn a mint-green replica of her own gown and had followed her around the reception luncheon clutching her little basket of rose petals, the little girl reluctant to say good-bye when she left the room with Stan. Her little sister, waving her off.

  It was special, really, how the Friday Night Knitting Club had stayed together. They’d done a far better job maintaining their connections than Anita with her attendants. Would the Friday Night girls stand up for her if she married Marty? She knew they would. But it would be so far from a fantasy if she and Marty wed. Theirs was a relationship between equals. Firmly in the real world. Besides, who gets married when you don’t know how much longer you’ll be around?

  “Earth to Anita!”

  Anita looked up, startled, a skein of light green yarn in her hand. KC stood in front of her, grinning.

  “You were a bit zoned out there, hon,” said KC. “Why don’t you sit down in one of the new chairs and join the group?”

  Feeling foolish, Anita let herself be maneuvered over to the center of the room. She hated when the girls treated her as though she was old, needing special care and attention. Ha! Let them get to be close to eighty, work several days a week on their feet—by choice—and deal with three sons who had opinions about everything. Including that they disapproved of her life partner. Those boys should be too busy with their own families to mess about in her affairs, but so they did. Anita clutched at the skein of yarn, so reminiscent of the color of the young flower girl’s dress, as she sat down. She forced a tiny smile at KC, who really did think she was being helpful. That Anita was getting somewhat doddering. But Anita wasn’t confused. She was preoccupied. With weddings. With the past. With the future. With her middle-aged boys who had temper tantrums whenever there was any whiff of permanence to her romance with Marty. With all the friends of her generation who were starting to disappear with regularity. And not just to Florida anymore.

  “Are you working on something?” It was Dakota, reaching out to touch the yarn. Vests had been Anita’s garment of choice for such a long time that it still seemed a surprise when she worked on something else. The vests she’d always made for Stan, in patterns and colors she put together herself. An artist—that’s what her late husband had called her. She cut back working on them after getting together with Marty because they were so particular to Stan. Of course, she missed the familiarity of the projects, the patterns that she knew by heart, the feeling of the vest taking shape almost as if she was thinking it into being. But it hadn’t seemed quite right to still make clothes for her late husband when her new fella sat beside her on their sofa, watching yet another ball game. Oh, she’d made him a sweater jacket with a Yankee logo, which he’d loved, and a seat cushion cover to take to the stadium, but unlike the vests, there wasn’t the same room for creative expression. There was only one logo, only one Yankee blue.

  Privately, she still had one vest on the go, tucked into the bottom of a basket. Just the very presence of the unfinished piece soothed her, maintained a link to days gone by. Moving forward didn’t mean she had to let go of the past, of Stan, of Georgia. It was more about accepting that they weren’t around in the day-to-day and living her life accordingly. Grief had its own rhythm. This fact she knew well.

  That’s how she began making hats for charity and that kind of thing. Something to knit up when the Yankees were on. And how she’d spearheaded the members of the Friday Night Knitting Club to come up with a charity project together. In the beginning—it seemed like eons ago—the club had tried to have rules and activities and even work on the same sweater pattern. Which had been a shared disaster: KC quit after barely trying, Catherine never tried, Darwin tried very hard and made a very ugly sweater, and Lucie finished more than one beautiful sweater and many projects in between. After the funeral, the club met often but found themselves distracted by their emotions, then by their busy lives, and even as they continued to meet, the knitting fell by the wayside.

  And that’s when Anita had decided, walking up Broadway one bright and sunny morning several months after Georgia’s passing, that what she needed to do was rework the pattern for the afghan the club had made for Georgia when she was ill. They’d all done panels individually for that afghan and then put together an extremely large, somewhat wonky blanket that Georgia had loved. In spite of its lack of elegance.

  To make her idea succeed, Anita had redone the afghan pattern so it was more of a lap throw—and therefore it was more compact and easier to handle. She also increased the needle size so it would go faster, which was crucial if she had any hope that the barely knitting KC would give it a try, and offered a refresher course during a regular club get-together. In her Anita way, kind but firmly persistent, she encouraged the club to knit a few rows before bed or on the weekend, and she always checked up on their progress. In short order, she’d brought an enthusiasm back to the craft for all of them, as they each worked up as many �
�Georgia afghans” as they could and donated them to charity for chemo patients. Their goal, each year, was to finish up a pile of the blankets right before they did their ovarian cancer charity walk together in September. And she even made a prize for whoever made the most afghans: the Friday Night Knitting Club’s Golden Needles. It was just a pair of needles glued to a wooden base and spray-painted gold—and Anita won her own prize more often than not—but the awarding of the Golden Needles during the post-walk club meeting became an anticipated ritual.

  Their common history and shared goals were part of what kept the group together, even as their lives continued to take them in different directions. But making sure the group stayed together seemed crucial when Dakota was younger, and Anita quietly and efficiently made sure every member felt a responsibility to the group. And a sense of belonging. Doddering old woman? Far from it. Though playing the act was one useful thing about getting older: folks let their guard down around seemingly harmless old people, and sometimes that made it much easier for things to work out as she wanted them to. Anita was not beyond using things to her advantage.

  “I hope you’re not making something in that color for me,” teased Dakota, running a finger lightly over the minty green.

  “No, I just picked it up without thinking,” said Anita. “The color reminded me of someone. It was quite the popular shade at one time.”

  “It’s kind of awful, Anita,” said Dakota, raising her eyebrows.

  “Very Miami Vice,” commented Catherine, coming up to refill glasses and then move on to the next empty. “But pastels are fine for baby stuff. Did you want to make something else for Darwin?”

  Anita put the yarn into Dakota’s hands. “Put it back, dear. I don’t want to make so much fuss about nothing.”

  Dakota closed her hands over the older woman’s, who remained the perfect combination of surrogate grandmother and mentor, who never wavered in being available. Even as she found a new life with Marty. Especially after Dakota’s mother had died. Anita managed to both be a constant emotional presence and yet stay in the background to let aside the sudden flood of relatives who all wanted a piece of Georgia’s little girl to soothe themselves. Her grandparents Bess and Tom, her uncle Donny: How could they get back all the time they’d wasted being distant with their daughter and sister? And her father’s parents, Joe and Lillian, and all her newfound aunties, had their own variation: they’d missed out on so much because her father had kept Dakota’s existence a secret for the first twelve years of her life and they needed to make up for lost time. It became exhausting, the endless rotation of weekends in Pennsylvania and Baltimore throughout her high school years.