Sewing Can Be Dangerous and Other Small Threads

by S. R. Mallery

  “All I can say,” she continued, “is that a long time ago, your grandfather had some issues with a Jewish family who claimed that he was responsible for their father almost jumping out of a ten story building during the crash of ‘29. It was so unfair, really. All your grandfather had done was to make a couple of stock suggestions. You know, dear, these Jews get so excited about everything. After all, they’re just not our kind of people.”

  Explosive thoughts frightened Mark with their intensity. Still, he remained silent. What was the point? There would never be any stopping of the relentless diet of put downs, dirty glances, and comments, in his mother’s effort to wear him down.

  Two weeks later, when Lizzy’s artist rep called early one morning, she was foaming at the mouth. “I have an extremely well-to-do couple who like your work so much they want to commission you to create a one-of-a-kind wall hanging for their living room. You won’t believe how much they are willing to pay for it, too!”

  “That’s great! What are their names and where do they live?”

  “Their name is Van der Hooten. Lucille Hartford Van der Hooten. Come to 254 Fifth Avenue, the Penthouse apartment on Thursday, two o’clock. She’ll meet you there.”

  Nine million alarm bells blared. Don’t do it, Lizzy. Tell your rep. Explain the situation. Yet the temptation to meet the enemy trumped everything. “Fine, great. I can always use the money. What time again?” She giggled impulsively. Maybe it would be up to her to finally set the record straight and convince her mom that people do change, that they shouldn’t always be held accountable forever.

  On Central Park East, between 77th and 78th, the doorman in the Van de Hooten apartment building sniffed at Lizzy disdainfully as she entered the lobby. His dark, maroon uniform, topped with brass buttons and gold lame tassels, exemplified crisp—the dry cleaning bill must be horrendous, Lizzy thought, flashing on a phrase she had heard from her mother her entire life, ‘The better the building, the snootier the doorman.’

  The elevator was decorated in the same plush decor as the lobby, with only one difference. Midway up the walls, three golden brass handrails were fastened to the mahogany paneled wood. On its floor, high-lofted beige carpeting flowed everywhere, a fact that amazed Lizzy, considering a good part of the inclement weather in New York was tracked in on muddy boots every winter. Oh, well, that’s obviously the janitor’s cleaning problem. How pathetically feudal. Nevertheless, she was intrigued.

  “My, don’t you look—well—just like a true artist. Please come in.” The words and tone definitely lowered the room temperature.

  Mrs. Van de Hooten proceeded to strut around their apartment in her Belgium Beige Gucci shoes, showing off their various artworks, architectural chairs, a glass and chrome dining room set, and Etruscan pottery. Then Mr. Van der Hooten entered. A handsome, gracefully aging man with salt-and-pepper hair and horn-rimmed aviator glasses, he reminded her of someone she had seen, but couldn’t quite remember where or when. He was fairly cordial, ‘for Goyim,’ as her mother would say. Besides, at that point, she was grateful for even a sliver of kindness.

  The spacious, high-ceilinged apartment must have included at least twelve rooms, decorated primarily in a contemporary style. White walls served as a backdrop to muted grays, beiges, rusts, and olives, tastefully blended into a well-coordinated living room. Obviously, a high-priced interior decorator had had a field day, sparing no expense.

  Mrs. Van de Hooten led the three of them over to a narrow, gray Bauhaus-styled sofa to discuss the new art quilt that would hang over the Solano Camino Adobe fireplace she had had shipped in from the El Dorado Stone factory in Carnation, Washington. As the upscale couple sat facing the Brooklyn artist explaining their color likes and dislikes, Lizzy realized, to her amazement, they were basically giving her free reign over design and execution. By the time she had left their apartment building, all her mother’s warnings were completely forgotten. She was far too busy allowing the creative juices to take over.

  For two weeks, she barricaded herself in the back of her mom’s house, talking only to Mark at night, bubbling over about her new commission, with its design and all the colors she intended on using. No names were ever mentioned.

  “Oh, my. Actually, this is wonderful.” Mrs. Van de Hooten’s reaction stunned Lizzy after delivering the piece. Standing in the living room, she could feel her face redden in the awkward silence that followed.

  When her new employer did speak again, it was accompanied by the light clink of a martini glass hitting the edge of a nearby tray. “Now dear, my husband and I would like to invite you to our fiftieth wedding anniversary party tomorrow night at the Alpine Club on Park Avenue and 58th. Would you care to come?”

  Again, Lizzy was taken aback. Who was this woman, really? Could she actually be a good person after all these years? Suddenly she pictured her mother in the same room with them, kvelling at her daughter’s success, and laughed.

  “Please feel free to bring a date. You do have someone you could bring?” Mrs. V peered over at Lizzy.

  She smiled. Mark would be a perfect fit with these people. “Yes, I do have someone in mind.”

  As soon as she got home, she immediately phoned him, but his message machine was obviously on the fritz, so, on an impulse, she called Riley, one of her old artist friends. A true wild-man, he chortled at the thought of having to wear a tie to get into the club.

  “OK-Doke. I’ll meet you there,” he snickered.

  When Lizzy saw the free form, hand-painted tie that Natalie had painted for Riley as a Christmas gift last year, coupled with his teal blue sports jacket, she knew she had made a mistake. And just watching her fellow artist gleefully helping himself to free gourmet hors d’oeuvres and wine, Lizzy broke out in a sweat. Mrs. Van der Hooten was definitely annoyed and embarrassed by Riley’s appearance; even her good breeding couldn’t camouflage her disapproval. After a few minutes, Lizzy took the cue and was about to tactfully distance herself from her date when she caught sight of Mark from across the room.

  “What are you doing here?” Mark asked, his grin the size of Texas.

  “What am I doing here? What are you doing here?”

  “I belong to this family.”

  “What? But—but—your name’s different!” Her heart was fluttering so fast it almost outweighed the nausea.

  “When I went into the stock market, I decided to change it, so I wouldn’t capitalize on their, shall we say, obvious wealth?” Mark looked a little sheepish. “But what about you? Why are you here?”

  “They’re the people I have been working for these last two weeks, the reason I was too busy to see you.” Mark shook his head in disbelief as Mrs. Van der Hooten approached.

  “Mark, you know this young woman?” she coached, her Estée Lauder face expressionless.

  “Yes, mother. This is the woman I told you about, Elizabeth Madsen Steinberg. Lizzy, for short.”

  “My, my, isn’t this a coincidence!” She was thoroughly enjoying herself. Then she turned and walked away, leaving both Mark and Lizzy with drooping shoulders; they could already see the handwriting on the wall.

  Things deteriorated from there. When Lizzy returned home that night, she found her mother, sitting bolt upright in the living room, angrily flipping through a magazine with Mach 1 speed. She picked up a copy of The New York Times and shook it at her daughter.

  “Do I have something to show you!” she convulsed, her biting tone the worst Lizzy had ever heard.

  “What is it?” Lizzy jerked her trembling hand up to her mouth.

  “Come here and see for yourself. I want you to read this name and you tell me...” She signaled for Lizzy to come closer to get a good look.

  Lizzy’s heart sank. The name Van de Hooten was circled boldly with an extra thick red marker. “…the Van de Hootens have recently made generous contributions to the Markley Gallery, making it one of the largest collections of unknown modernists. The former Lucille Hartford was raised with a sizable knowledge of
art, and after having met and married her husband Harold Van de Hooten, she simply continued on in her family’s tradition. From all indications, their son, Mark Salisbury, a successful investment counselor in his own right, will also take part in this worthy cause…”

  “I know, Mom, I know. I found out tonight,” Lizzy said dully.

  “Well, what do you have to say about this? You’re not going to continue seeing this Mark, are you? This woman made my life a living hell for four years! And then she goes and marries a man who comes from a family that almost destroyed ours! You are not to see this man again, do you hear me?” Her voice morphed into a scream.

  “Mom, Mom, calm down, calm down.” Lizzy wrapped her arms around her hysterical mother, pulling her into a silent, davening rhythm—back and forth on the couch for almost a quarter of an hour until finally, Ruth relaxed enough to let go and bid her daughter an exhausted good-night.

  It was much more peaceful the next morning, but Round Two had already been mapped out. “You understand how I feel about this, right, honey? I suppose Mark is perfectly all right but the thought of us being linked to the Van de Hootens is just impossible for me.”

  “Mom, listen. I can appreciate how hurt you have been by those people in the past, and I do emphasize in the past. And I do recognize that Mrs. Van de Hooten is certainly not in favor of our union. She’s made that quite…”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Was she nasty to you? Tell me, if she was, I swear I will speak to her, I will…”

  “Now CALM down, Mom. No, she wasn’t nasty, just a little cold. Obviously, my relationship with Mark isn’t her first choice, either. But it’s nothing that we can’t handle. We love each other very much, you know. In most circles that counts for something!”

  Her mother made sure Natalie wasn’t within earshot. “You mean like when that son-of-a-bitch bum who knocked you up was around all the time, ummm?”

  Lizzy sucked in her breath. “That was several years ago, Mother! I was very foolish and very needy. Things have changed.” She tried to stand her ground, but the bombardments continued in short, stinging rounds, both in Brooklyn, and on Fifth Avenue.

  Finally, one day Lizzy turned to Mark. “I love you so much, I really do, but maybe we should cool it for a little while, if only to let them think we’re not seeing each other too much.”

  Mark sat back, flabbergasted. “Is—is this really what you want?”

  Shaking her head slowly, she reached out for his hand. But her eyes said it all; she was tired of the fight. Furthermore, she explained, preoccupied as she was with an upcoming show, just the thought of more pressure made her want to escape to a desert island, away from everyone.

  So they took time off from one another and Mark learned several things. He learned how pleasant his mother could be when she got her own way, and he also discovered how intertwined his life had become with Lizzy’s.

  Her absence hit him on all five fronts. Gone was the smell of her lavender soap whenever he had kissed her neck, face, and ears first thing in the morning, and the feel of her soft, colorful kimonos she always wore as he pulled them off to land on his tossed shirts resting on a nearby chair. No longer could he taste her lips, nor touch her luscious body draped over him at night as they languidly made love, and in the mornings, he could no longer see Natalie and her cuddling together, chanting their mother-daughter song that filled him with such unimaginable peace.

  Ruth was rejuvenated. With Mark no longer in the picture, she bent over backwards to placate her daughter; hours of extra babysitting with Natalie, cooking Lizzy’s favorite foods, and plenty of motherly love. But neither of them had factored in Natalie. Each time the little girl asked where Mark was, Ruth would look nervous and Lizzy ached.

  “You’re going to the conference with that Blackstone Group keynote speaker on Friday, right, Mark?” All heads turned towards the investment counselor, who had been coming into work later and later, his eyes saucered by dark circles, his chin, an uneven stubble.

  Mark nodded and staggered into his office. If only he could sleep at night, he could get a handle on things. His date the night before hadn’t helped, either. A promise to his friends, it would be a way of proving he could get his act together. But they had set him up with a young, blonde stockbroker, a woman as sharp and thin as all the others, and as he had ushered her through a doorway, his hand caught her bony shoulder. Suddenly, Lizzy’s flesh seemed years away. That night in bed, after hours of flipping around and adjusting pillows, he made up his mind; he was going to win her back.

  The next day he was reminded of Ruth’s power. When he called, she informed him coldly that Lizzy was out of town for a few days, teaching a quilt workshop in Virginia, and there was no way she could get in touch with her daughter. He’d just have to wait until she got back. When he asked to speak with Natalie, her tone chilled to ice. “Sorry, that’s not possible.” Click.

  The once-a-year Blackstone Group sponsored conference at the Hilton was a mega deal. In the past, it had strengthened Mark’s connections and introduced new ideas and people, because everyone agreed—networking was vital. Stockbrokers and investment counselors, fueled by Sandwich Chef, Inc.’s high-power caffeinated coffee, paced up and down the aisles of the showroom, jockeying for positions next to successful men as they sweated through their Van Heusen’s shirts, red suspenders, or Donna Karan shoulder pads.

  For his part, Mark had never had to worry. This was an area in which he shined, where everything came naturally to him. He never sought; he was simply approached. His palms never moistened, they remained dry, but now, in a room where a keynote speaker was pontificating about mergers and acquisitions and the rise of Reaganomics, he could feel his mind drifting.

  “Our President has made his new policies crystal clear. Now is the time for the Trickle Down method of government in America, and with the lowering of taxes for corporations, Ladies and Gentlemen, this might very well be our golden hour…”

  Two minutes later, Marked stared down at his Blackstone Group brochure. He had coated it with doodles, trees, bushes, Van Gogh-like spiraling flowers, all gradating into geometric designs—bold, angular patterns that reminded him of Lizzy’s quilts.

  He stood up, and ignoring all the surprised, upturned faces, made his way out of the hall. Stopping at a lobby pay phone, this time he wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer and insisted on talking to Lizzy, but just hearing her voice, his tears caught him off-guard.

  They planned a rendezvous picnic in Central Park, near the New York Zoo, with Natalie along as a buffer. Once there, the little girl ran towards him, flinging her arms around his waist, like she would a long lost friend, yet Lizzy stayed restrained, buttoning and unbuttoning her coat.

  The park was particularly crowded—jungle gyms crawling with children, lines for the swings, and mothers and nannies chatting non-stop. When Natalie trotted off to play, Lizzy and Mark were left on a bench trying to talk while keeping track of Natalie amidst a swarm of children. It was hard to reconnect—a mother, squeezed in next to them, competed with any confessions of love, but at one point they managed to hold hands and begin a kiss.

  “Watch me, Mommy! Mark, look how high I am!” Natalie yelled from the top of the jungle gym.

  Time stalled, transforming into a snail’s pace. Natalie was falling and Lizzy and Mark were running to her, but it was slow, like a movie shown at half speed. As they both ran, they could see her hit the sand with a thud, her head bouncing off to one side over and over again; an instant replay of a football player’s bad fall. Then, in an instant, everything sped up, leaving Natalie motionless in the soft sand.

  Scooping her up in his arms, Mark raced with Lizzy out of the park to a nearby hospital and into the emergency room waiting area. He kept asking the quilter questions about their doctor, but she could only manage a few, short gasps. Still holding Natalie, he stepped up to the admissions desk and took charge.

  “She’s had a bad fall. She needs immediate attention!” His comm
anding manner made people break out running and as Natalie’s small frame was hoisted onto a gurney and taken into Triage he stayed next to her the entire time, grilling the medical staff.

  Later, in the waiting room, Lizzy hung limply onto Mark as the long evening dissolved into an even longer night. At dawn, after the doctors had informed them Natalie had a slight concussion, but would definitely recover, Lizzy went into a room to kiss her sleeping daughter, then folded her arms around Mark, whispering, “I love you.”

  Of course Ruth had to thank him, but she did it grudgingly, with little expression. Meanwhile, uptown, Mrs. Van der Hooten was horrified and saw this whole incident as yet another hurdle he would have to face in his life with this woman, this single mother.

  The pressure continued, with Mark away on business and Lizzy transporting her art quilts over to the Madison Avenue Art Gallery for her new textile show. At the show, her artist friends’ conversations, once exciting, creative, now seemed pretentious and unimportant. Who cared how many silk screening techniques Andy Warhol used, or which painter used Sienna brown as opposed to Copper.

  In Germany, Mark attended an American symposium on Mergers and Acquisitions, a concept, which, although popular in the U.S., seemed to be falling on deaf ears in Europe. He had been sent to win hearts and minds, but ended up going out to dinner with his hosts and discussing art. Over an expensive brew, knockwurst, and sauerkraut, he bubbled on happily about Brueghel and Bosch.

  “Hello, is this Ruth? Ruth Steinberg Rosenblatt?” The voice on the other end was painfully familiar.

  “Yes…”

  “I don’t know if you remember me. I certainly remember you. We roomed together our first year at college. I’m Lucille Hartford Van de Hooten.”

  “I know who you are. What do you want?” The tone stayed monotonal.

  “Even though we have had our differences, I believe we both do not want our children to continue this relationship. Am I correct?”

  “Yes…” This was interesting, Ruth thought.