Elm Creek Quilts [09] Circle of Quilters

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  “Right,” echoed Anna, uncertain.

  Theresa rested her elbows on the table and scrutinized her. “So, which department are you in? Are you a grad student or on the faculty?”

  “Neither. I’m a chef for College Food Services.”

  “Anna graduated from Elizabethtown College,” added Gordon quickly. “You’ve probably heard of it. It’s highly regarded for an undergraduate liberal arts education. Anna hasn’t decided upon a graduate school yet.”

  Anna looked at him, speechless. She had already completed all the post-baccalaureate study she needed at the Culinary Institute of New York.

  “It’s often best to take time off before returning for a graduate degree.” Theresa sat back, a fond smile playing on her lips. “For three years after I earned my A.B. in English Language and Literature from the University of Chicago—”

  “Summa cum laude,” interjected Gordon.

  Theresa rolled her eyes. “If you must. Summa cum laude from the University of Chicago, I wandered the continent with some of my more hedonistic friends. It was a wonderful opportunity to explore my own depths, gather grist for the mill. But now it’s back to work. What degree are you going for, Ann?”

  “It’s Anna. Actually, I don’t really need a graduate degree for my work.”

  Theresa pondered that briefly. “I suppose I don’t, either, technically. You either are a poet or you aren’t; no amount of training can modify the soul. If I want to teach at the university, however, I have to have my MFA. That’s the system. That’s the price we all pay.”

  “An MBA would be useful, right, Anna?” Gordon persisted.

  “I guess so,” said Anna reluctantly. “Marketing, management—sure. An MBA would be helpful, I suppose.” She looked at Gordon to see if she had said the right thing. He smiled his thanks, visibly relieved.

  Somehow she managed to get through the rest of the encounter. Gordon and Theresa drank seemingly endless refills of coffee until they were wired from the caffeine. Anna sat quietly as they talked to each other, laughing at each other’s jokes, gossiping about departmental politics, discussing writers she had never heard of whose works she had never read. Finally it ended, and she was able to walk home, alone and very annoyed.

  It was after ten o’clock at night when Gordon finally called. “Anna, about today.”

  She broke in before he had the chance to make excuses. “Why haven’t you told Theresa about me?”

  “Why should I have told her?”

  “Because we’re involved, and she’s your roommate and a friend. My friends know about you.”

  “That’s different.”

  “How so?”

  “I prefer to keep my personal life private.”

  Her throat tightened. “You’re ashamed of me because I’m not in graduate school. Because I’m not going to be some tenured professor in an ivory tower some day.”

  “How could you say such a thing? That’s ridiculous. I also might add that it’s not fair of you to resort to cheap stereotypes about academics.”

  “Not fair? Do you really want to talk about not fair?”

  “Anna—”

  “Gordon, I’m proud of my career. I’ve worked and studied very hard to get where I am. What I do is just as creative as Theresa’s poetry.”

  “I know. I know. I was an idiot. I was wrong. After breakfast I told Theresa all about us. She liked you. She thought you were great.”

  “Am I supposed to feel honored?”

  “I said I was sorry. Can’t you forgive me?” said Gordon. “How can you not forgive me after I admitted I was wrong?”

  He persisted, and eventually she gave in. He wanted to come over and continue the apology in person, but she refused. She was too tired to make up in the way he meant, and she had to get up early the next morning.

  Conflicting work schedules kept them apart for the next two days, but on Wednesday, Anna hurried home from her lunch shift at South Dining Hall and baked Gordon a seven-layer chocolate hazelnut torte as an apology for her outburst on the phone. She packed it carefully in a bakery box and walked to campus to catch the bus to the east side. Having never visited his apartment, she had needed to look up his address in the campus directory and check the bus schedule to see which route to take. His answering machine picked up when she called to let him know she was on her way, but she decided to go even though he was not there. He usually went home for supper, so he would probably arrive before she did.

  As she rode the bus, her purse on the seat beside her and the cake box balanced on her lap, she began to have second thoughts. Uninvited and unexpected might not be the best way to make her first visit to Gordon’s apartment. Whenever her friends expressed their bewilderment at his failure to invite her over after fourteen months of presumably exclusive dating, Anna had always managed to find a plausible excuse for him, but the encounter at the diner had left her rattled. Maybe she should leave the box outside his door. Or maybe she should get off at the next stop and take the first bus back toward campus. Surely Gordon would come to see her within a few days, while the torte was still reasonably fresh. She could wait until then to present it.

  But she was his girlfriend. She pulled the wire to signal her approaching stop and got off the bus. They had been dating for more than a year. Surely a guy wouldn’t complain if his girlfriend of almost fourteen months decided to stop by his apartment, especially to make up after an argument, especially bearing a seven-layer chocolate hazelnut torte.

  She found his address and climbed the stairs to the second floor apartment. Theresa answered her knock.

  “Hi,” Anna said, forcing a smile. “Is Gordon home?”

  “Not at the moment.” Theresa glanced over her shoulder as if to make sure. “Do you need something?”

  Anna kept the smile firmly in place. “I’m Anna. Gordon’s girlfriend? We met Sunday at Chuck’s Diner?”

  “Oh, right, right.” Theresa opened the door wider and waved her in. “Did you want to wait for him to get home? I think he has office hours until six.”

  “That’s all right.” Anna looked around the cluttered room. Books and newspapers were stacked on every horizontal surface. “I’ll just leave this in the kitchen and go.”

  “Good enough.” Theresa led her into the adjacent kitchen and cleared a space on the counter. “I would have cleaned up, but Gordon didn’t mention you were coming.”

  Anna set down the box. “It’s a surprise.” She lifted the lid and let Theresa peek inside.

  Theresa’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I get it. Chocolate for love, right?

  That’s great. Too bad it’s not heart-shaped. Gordon loves the irony of bourgeois kitsch.”

  “It’s not a quiche. It’s a chocolate hazelnut torte.”

  Theresa burst into laughter. “Oh, Anna, you’re priceless. I can see why Gordon likes you.”

  Anna’s smile felt tight and strained. She had said something wrong, or funny, or both, but she wouldn’t let Theresa know it was unintentional.

  “Where did you get this?” Theresa asked, inhaling the delicious aroma. “That bakery on the west side?”

  “No, I made it.”

  “Really?” She shook her head in regret. “You’re so lucky. I wish I had time to bake. I haven’t cooked in years. I’m always too busy.”

  “I’m a chef. It’s what I do.”

  “Oh.” Theresa nodded. “That’s right. But you’re really just, like, a lunch lady, right? Not a real ‘chef’ chef, as in a restaurant, right?”

  Anna could not think of a reply that would suffice.

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” Theresa added. “Someone has to feed the students’ bodies while we feed their minds, isn’t that so?”

  “There’s a lot about what you said that isn’t so,” said Anna. “I’m not a server on the cafeteria line, if that’s what you think. I develop recipes, direct the cooks, supervise my student workers—and that’s just in the dining halls. I also prepare banquets and special ev
ents, sometimes for the provost himself.”

  “Of course you do,” said Theresa encouragingly. “You absolutely should feel good about what you do. Never forget that every contribution to the academy is important, from the president to the lowliest custodian.”

  “I do feel good about what I do,” said Anna. Something in Theresa’s tone, in direct contradiction to her words, suggested that she should not.

  “Absolutely,” said Theresa again, nodding.

  They stood there looking at each other in strained silence. Anna couldn’t think of anything else to say, so she stammered something about having to catch the bus and left.

  As she rode home, she felt tears of embarrassment and anger gathering. How dare that woman make her feel inferior? Theresa was “too busy” to bake; important people like her never had time to cook for themselves. Only insignificant people like Anna could afford to waste time over pots and pans. People with doctorates hired people like Anna to save themselves from such menial tasks.

  “You’re really like, just, like, a lunch lady, right?” Anna muttered, imitating Theresa. “Not a real, like, ‘chef’ chef, right?” For a poet, Theresa was amazingly inarticulate. She was also a snob, and Anna hated that she had been too surprised to defend herself properly. What was worse, though, was the sinking suspicion that if Gordon had been there, he would have agreed with every word Theresa had uttered.

  They were perfect for each other.

  Anna ought to face the facts: She and Gordon were a mistake. She had never doubted herself or her life choices before they got involved, but now she did little else. What precisely did he find so offensive about Anna’s cooking and quilting? She was hardly a throwback to the Dark Ages just because she enjoyed traditionally female pursuits. She was not about to stop voting and driving and she defied anyone to try to stuff her into a corset. Admittedly, Gordon and Theresa knew much more about feminist theory than Anna ever would—their English department offered entire courses on the subject—but it hardly seemed very liberating to expect Anna to become ashamed of her talents just because they did not meet other people’s expectations.

  What on earth was wrong with being a chef?

  Gordon had known what she did for a living from the very first. Why had he asked her out if he was ashamed of her? Unless those feelings had come along later, courtesy of Theresa’s influence.

  Anna walked home from the bus stop dejected and lost in thought. Jeremy, descending the apartment stairs in a rush, almost ran into her. “Sorry, Anna,” he said cheerfully, but a second glance stopped him short. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

  Anna just shook her head.

  “What did Gordon do now?”

  How did he know? She never complained about Gordon to him. She had a sudden, frantic worry about the thickness of the building’s walls. “It’s nothing like that,” she said. “I’m just—I don’t know. I’m just tired.”

  “Uh huh.” He leaned against the banister, studying her. “Maybe you’re tired of Gordon.”

  “I’m not tired of him, but maybe I am tired of some of the things he does.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  She did not want to pursue this line of questioning, knowing where it would lead. “There must be a difference. What a person is is not the same as what they do. ”

  And that was precisely what Gordon would never understand.

  Jeremy still looked concerned. “If you ever need to talk—”

  “I know. You’re right across the hall.” She continued upstairs. “See you, Jeremy. Thanks.”

  Upstairs, she checked her answering machine—Gordon had not called—and washed her cake pans and batter bowls in the tiny sink. She had a sudden craving for a rich dessert and wished she had kept the torte for herself. Gordon would not appreciate it. He and Theresa would make it the subject of a research paper for an academic journal: “Tortes and the Chauvinistic Female in Contemporary American Society.” They would probably win an award and Anna would end up assigned to the English Department’s celebratory banquet.

  Rather than make and devour an entire second torte, Anna brought out her sewing machine and worked on the blueberry quilt. Sending the fabric beneath the needle with the pedal all the way to the floor was as effective a form of therapy as eating, and much better for her.

  A few hours later, she heard a pounding on the front door over the cheerful, industrious buzz of the sewing machine. She finished a seam and went to the door. Through the peephole, she saw Gordon standing in the hallway, his hands behind his back.

  She resisted the instinct to rush around to conceal all evidence of her quilt. She opened the door. “Hi, Gordon.”

  “Hi,” he said. “Thanks for the cake. Theresa and I tried it. It was delicious.”

  She stood in the doorway, her hand still upon the knob. “I’m glad you liked it.” She could not care less what Theresa thought.

  “May I come in?”

  She let him enter, and after she closed the door behind him, he held out a bottle of wine and a ribbon-tied scroll. “For you. A token of thanks.”

  Wine she recognized, but she eyed the scroll warily. “What’s this?”

  He held out the scroll until she took it. “It’s a poem. A sonnet. I wrote it for you.”

  “You wrote me a sonnet?” She untied the ribbon and carefully unrolled the paper. “That’s sweet. No one ever wrote me a poem before.”

  “I hope you like it.”

  She read the lines, trying to make sense of them. “Come, Sleep; O Sleep! the certain knot of peace,” it began, and became even less clear as it went on. Maybe it was the old-fashioned language he had used, but the poem didn’t seem very romantic. It sounded more like someone complaining about insomnia.

  Gordon must have sensed her doubt. “It’s about a man who begs for sleep to overtake him so that he’s no longer tortured by thoughts of the woman he cares for.”

  “Thoughts of me torture you?”

  “No, no. What I mean is, thoughts of not being with you, not being able to have you. Thoughts that you might be angry at me.” He gestured to the paper. “That’s why in the poem I’m so eager to fall asleep, because then I can dream about you.”

  “Oh. ‘Livelier than elsewhere, Anna’s image see.’ That’s the dream.”

  “Exactly.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed her on one side of her face, close to her mouth. “I’m sorry I wasn’t home when you came over. Theresa said you left in a huff.”

  “I did not,” said Anna. “And even if I had, I had every reason to, after what Theresa said.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She called me a lunch lady.”

  “Did she?” Gordon considered. “Don’t you prepare lunch in the dining halls?”

  “Yes, but my job title is not ‘lunch lady.’”

  “Did you tell Theresa your job title?”

  “I …” Anna tried to remember. “I think I told her I was a chef. I can’t remember.”

  “If you can’t remember, how can you expect her to?” He kissed her other cheek, lingering. “Just forget it. Theresa loved the cake. I loved the cake. Let’s not fight anymore.” He kissed her on the lips.

  She returned the kiss, and as she did, she reminded herself that she was annoyed with Theresa, not him. Gordon did love her, even if he never said it in those exact words.

  Suddenly it occurred to her that she and Gordon both wanted the other to be something they weren’t. If it was wrong for Gordon, it was wrong for her, too. She had to accept him as he was and hope he would learn to do the same.

  But how could she get Gordon to appreciate her for who she was? Distracting his attention away from Theresa couldn’t hurt. It was a pity Theresa didn’t have a boyfriend of her own. If Gordon saw that Theresa was happily involved with someone else, he might lose interest.

  Maybe that was the answer: find someone for Theresa. But whom? Theresa would probably want someone well educated and interested in the arts, but most of the men
Anna knew who fit that description were confirmed bachelors nearing retirement age or already married.

  Except for one. The perfect one.

  After that flash of inspiration, Anna was so eager to get started with her plan that she could not get rid of Gordon fast enough. As she guided him to the door, he protested mildly until she reminded him about his upcoming candidacy exam, when he perked up and agreed that he ought to get to the library. She watched from the window as he strolled down the block and turned the corner; then she hurried across the hall and knocked on Jeremy’s door. Jeremy was the ideal prospective boyfriend—cute, considerate, smart, funny. If Anna were not already attached, she might ask him out herself.

  Anna gave him her brightest smile when he answered the door. “Hi, Jeremy. Listen. I have a huge favor to ask.”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “Would you go out on a double date with me, Gordon, and Gordon’s roommate, Theresa?”

  “Go where with whom?”

  “I know it’s a lot to ask. Double dates can be awkward if everyone doesn’t know everyone else and blind double dates are even worse. But if you could do this for me, I would make it up to you, I swear. Chocolate desserts every night for a month.”

  “Seriously? Every night?” Then he shook his head. “Wait. Hold on. Anna, you know I have a girlfriend.”

  “But I thought …” Anna hesitated. “When Summer moved out, I thought you broke up. I thought she was going away to graduate school in a few months.”

  Jeremy shifted his weight and shrugged. “She did, we did, and she is, but we’re back together and planning to stay that way. At least that’s what I’m planning.”

  “Oh.” Anna considered. “Well, do you think she would mind?”

  “I think she might.”

  “What if all four of us agreed that we were just going out as friends?”

  “Anna, you’re making my head hurt.”

  “I’m sorry. I know this sounds strange, but Gordon has this—I don’t know what to call it—this strange fixation on his roommate. Fixation isn’t the right word. He’s letting her influence him too much. I think it would be healthier if she met some other guys, and, and, maybe—”