How to Knit a Heart Back Home

by Rachael Herron

  Dammit.

  Owen got out of his car and locked the door even though people here left their keys in the ignition in case a neighbor needed to borrow the car. But old habits ingrained by years of city living died hard.

  Miss Verna was on duty tonight. Good. At least there would be Oreos.

  “Owen! I haven’t seen you for months!” She bustled out from behind the desk to hug him. She smelled of chocolate and plastic utensils.

  “I’ve been by, but I keep missing you.”

  “Janie told me you were in town. I’m so glad. How long are you here this time?”

  “I just rented a place. I’m staying for a little while, until I figure where I’m going next.”

  Miss Verna clapped her hands to her prodigious bosom. “Oh! That is good news. We deserve to celebrate! Go see your mama, and then I’ll bring you both some cookies and milk.”

  “Greatest place in the world,” Owen said, and kissed her cheek. He didn’t mean it though; he never did.

  Willow Rock was a small facility, only eight residents. Right now, most of them were in the TV room. He wondered what people did with their elders before television existed to keep them quiet. He sure as hell didn’t want to spend his dotage staring at Judge Judy, but he supposed it made things easier for everyone.

  His mother didn’t like TV either. But that’s not what made her the most difficult patient the nurses had. She would have been anyway.

  Irene Bancroft had always been a pain in the ass. Even when she was younger, when Owen was still in school, she was famous for shooing kids away from her prized rosebushes. She spent most of her time out in the garden, but it didn’t make her sweet, like it did the other gardening ladies in town. It seemed to make her cranky. The only thing that made her crankier was the winter cold and rain. She became an indoor cleaning machine during those cold months, and it had been hard for the teenaged Owen, struggling to keep his muddy shoes off the carpet and his dirty clothes off the floor.

  The only time he’d ever seen her crankier than that was when he’d moved her here, but after the two small fires she’d accidentally set, he’d had no choice. To pay for moving her into Willow Rock, he’d had to get power of attorney and sell her house, breaking her heart.

  But now he was here. He could start trying to make it up to her.

  His mother was standing at the window staring at the curtain when he entered her room, her back to him. She looked fragile, but her back was still straight.

  More than he could say for her mind.

  “Mom, it’s me.” She jumped as he switched on the overhead light but she didn’t turn around.

  “How are you doing, Mom?”

  She flapped a hand at him as if he were interrupting something, as if he were bothering her when she was in the garden. He’d seen that particular flapping too many times in his life to count.

  “Hey, Mom, if you want to look out the window, you should pull back the curtain, huh? It’s dark out there, but I bet the outside is more interesting than looking at that brown fabric.” Owen reached for the curtain cord and pulled.

  The floodlights in the backyard lit her face. His mother, for one second, looked like she did back then, back when she could still tell time and remember his name on a regular basis.

  Then she pulled back into herself. She moved to the left, out of the light. “I had a good view of my garden. Now I can’t see it. Ruined.”

  She stalked to her bed, head held high, and sat. “Home.”

  “Did you already eat?” he asked. Dinner was served so early in this joint, sometimes at four-thirty or five. But he supposed it made sense; it probably helped the staff get them to bed at a reasonable hour.

  “Waiting for the bus. Home.”

  The statement never failed to hurt, but he couldn’t do anything about it. Normally, he chose to ignore it completely. Every once in a while he could get her turned around and on to something else.

  Her hands jumped in her lap. They had never been still. A single tear rolled down her cheek, and her lips moved, as if she were trying to say something.

  This was what he hated most.

  Owen tried the stop-gap method—the small TV that neither of them would have normally chosen to watch. He flipped through the channels until he found something that caught her eye, a show on home renovations.

  “You like that, Mom? You want to watch with me?”

  But within two or three minutes she was slumped again, her shoulders rounded, looking toward the windows.

  “Anything good happen today, Mom? That you can remember?”

  Silence.

  “I met a girl named Lucy and she knows knitting people who know you. I bet she knits, too. This whole town is crazy for it still, aren’t they? I guess it wasn’t just some fad here, huh?”

  Irene didn’t even so much as blink.

  “You used to knit, remember? Remember that lady who used to come over? What was her name? You used to sit outside in the garden and knit for hours. She brought me a book once, when I was a kid, about a magical knitting needle that made . . . God, sweaters into gold and then back or something. . . . Mom, do you remember her? Eliza somebody?”

  No dice.

  Sitting on the bed, she cleared her throat.

  “Mom, you okay?”

  “Not here most of the time now, am I?”

  “What?”

  She turned to face him. Her eyes, a rheumy blue, met his, clear for the first time.

  “How did you get hurt?”

  She was here. His mother was with him, right now. Miss Verna had told him this happened sometimes: times when she knew exactly who she was and that she was sick.

  “I was shot, Mom. In the hip. And leg.” Just saying it made the joint burn below him where he sat.

  “Shoulda been an accountant.”

  Owen laughed, feeling an almost painful stab of joy. This was his mother, not some old woman concerned about a garden she didn’t have anymore, a home that was lost, but here, now, criticizing him. It felt like coming home.

  “Who shot?” Irene’s voice was sounding confused, and Owen wasn’t sure she was tracking the conversation anymore, but he desperately wanted her to be able to.

  So he took a moment to frame the answer. “An ex-cop gone bad shot me.”

  Irene didn’t say anything.

  “He’d been a friend of mine. A really good friend. I’d just found out about him when it happened.”

  Irene’s eyes stayed on his. Was she still listening to him? If so, she was probably judging him, sure, but there wouldn’t be anything new or strange about that.

  Keep talking, keep her present.

  “He was high, and when he found out we were at his house to take him in, he went crazy.”

  Owen broke off. No matter how present his mother was, he couldn’t tell her this story. He couldn’t even think about the story, not about how it had really gone down.

  “He died,” said Owen. “And I got shot.”

  “You killed him?” Irene’s voice wavered. She really had been tracking the whole conversation. God, if it wasn’t so macabre, he’d feel like breaking out the champagne.

  “I don’t know, Ma. There were a lot of people shooting.”

  “Maybe you did.”

  Owen felt like he’d been shot, all over again. Only higher this time. In the chest.

  “Maybe.” He paused. “Mom. I’m okay. Let’s not talk about this. Tell me something else. Tell me about how your nights are.”

  She looked blankly at him and pulled at the sleeve of the pink robe she insisted on wearing most days. It was wearing thin at the elbows and had strings hanging from the hem.

  “Why don’t you wear that other pink robe I bought you? The new one? It’s warmer.”

  “Gave it away.”

  Owen felt anger rise inside him. No. He took a deep breath.

  “Who did you give it to?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Great, Mom. That makes sense.”

&nbs
p; “Am I going to stay here until I die?”

  Shit. Owen looked at his tennis shoes. Her feet were bare on the tile floor. “Will you put your slippers on, at least?”

  “Is my house still there, Owen? How are my roses?”

  His mother’s voice was, for this moment, like it used to be. Sharp, steady. Her eyes were piercing again, and looked straight into him.

  “The house is still there, Ma.” It wasn’t a lie. The house itself was still standing. He hadn’t looked at the roses.

  She went limp with relief. Her hands stopped twisting and dropped, still, into her lap. She almost smiled.

  Then she looked up at him, sharply. He didn’t have time to mask the guilt he felt.

  “Whatever.” She looked back out the window. Her eyes went unfocused again. “Cops. And aphids.”

  Time for the big guns.

  “I’m thinking about planting a Moondance tree rose. I’m going to do it in very dry soil. I don’t plan on giving it much water, and I don’t like to prune. Do you think it will do well?”

  She frowned and looked right at him and then she said, “Ridiculous. It will die. You can’t.”

  His mother sat up straight, perched on the side of the bed, her bare feet together, her hands moving in her lap. She told him about roses with halting, jumbled words that didn’t always match, but their meaning was clear enough to her son. Owen sat in the chair next to the bed and let her talk for as long as she could.

  Chapter Six

  Every once in a while, knit in the dark. Or even better, by candlelight. It makes picking your work back up again the next day that much more interesting.

  —E. C.

  For the second time this week, we’re at the bar,” said Lucy. “Does that mean we have a problem?”

  Molly shook her head. “It just means we need a coffee shop in this town that stays open later than six o’clock. Thank God your brother put in the espresso machine.”

  Jonas was behind the bar, doing something with the register, and Silas was in the side booth near them, reading a book that had a dragon on the cover, his signature red earflap cap pulled low over his forehead. Otherwise, with the exception of two drunk college-aged guys playing pool and a canoodling couple that Lucy was trying desperately not to look at, the bar was almost empty. The cool spring night had turned drizzly, and most people in town appeared to have stayed home for the evening. And the two who had their hands all over each other probably should have done them all a favor and stayed in, too, Lucy thought.

  She took a sip of her latte. “I wish this was a decaf, though. I’m going to be up all night.” She shook her bar sock in the air. “Although insomnia would help me finally finish this, I suppose. And I’m carrying the fire-department pager tonight, since Nadine has the flu, even though it’s a work night, so I could be called in at any time. Suppose it’s all right it’s caffeinated.”

  “Is that really what’s going to keep you awake?”

  Molly knew her too well. She ignored the question. “He has a limp. Did you notice that the other night?”

  “In the glow of the car fire? No. But how romantic!” said Molly.

  Jonas propped his arms on the bar and leaned forward. “How the hell is a limp romantic?”

  Molly sighed. “Isn’t it obvious? It’s a weakness, and any weakness in a strong man is an attractive quality.”

  “You mean you want to emasculate the man and make him into a child by taking care of him?”

  Molly said, “You’ve been watching Oprah again, huh?”

  Jonas said, “No, that’s what Aggie said once. Right before she returned my Wii.”

  Aggie left Jonas in the middle of the night two years before, running off with a beer delivery guy. Lucy thought Jonas still looked broken sometimes.

  “You weren’t good together. Everyone knows that. You’re better off apart,” said Lucy, taking another sip of her latte.

  Molly slid off the bar stool. “I’m going to play some music.”

  As Molly moved toward the jukebox, Jonas said, “So. About Owen Bancroft moving in.”

  “I’m in love. It’s serious, and it’s moving fast,” said Lucy. Then she shook her head. “He wouldn’t be moving into my house, you dumbass, just into the parsonage. And I haven’t decided yet, anyway. It’s been two days, and I haven’t called him. He hasn’t called me, either. He’s probably found somewhere else by now.”

  “You can’t just let him move in. How do you know he hasn’t turned into a serial killer since high school?”

  “You’re the one who was in his class in high school. Was he a killer then?”

  “I’m serious, Luce. It honestly worries me.” Jonas leaned back, folding his arms across his chest, giving her that look that said he meant business. He’d been giving her that look their whole lives.

  “He used to be a cop. He gave me references.”

  “Did you call them?”

  “Well, no. Not yet. But Mildred Elkins said that he’s home to be closer to his mother, who’s in some care facility, and he confirmed that. It sounded pretty sad, actually.”

  Jonas raised his eyebrows in obvious disbelief. “He was one of the bad kids, Lucy. Not little punk stuff, cutting class, not weed. His friends carried guns, stole cars. You’re the one who tutored him, you should remember this even better than I do.”

  Lucy tried to look confused. “Did I? Now that you mention it . . .”

  A look crossed Jonas’s face, and Lucy watched him remember. Her heart fell.

  Jonas said, “You had that crush on him.”

  “I did not.”

  “Did too. Something about a party, right?” He snapped her arm with his rag. “Dude, it’s all coming back to me.”

  “That thing is dirty! Don’t do that!”

  “The first time you got drunk? I remember Dad being mad at you for like the first time ever. Owen had dropped you off that night. That was the night the puke picture got taken, the one in the yearbook.”

  Lucy clucked her tongue and shook her head. She would not discuss it with her brother. “Nope. Not ringing a bell.”

  Jonas laughed. “You’re full of shit.”

  “Okay, okay. God, that picture is from hell. Yeah, he’s that one. But don’t remind Owen of it if you see him, okay? I’m hoping he has a bad memory for that part of it.”

  “Hey, Silas!”

  Silas looked at them from his booth, his eyes unfocused, clearly still deep in his book.

  Jonas said, “You remember Owen? Lucy’s big crush in high school? That’s why she’s thinking about letting him move in.”

  Silas frowned.

  Lucy laughed. “He has no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “God. Silas. Pay attention once in a while.”

  Silas nodded and went back to reading.

  Molly settled back onto her bar stool, back from the jukebox. “I’m flashing back, kids. Dire Straits, straight ahead.”

  Shaking his head, Jonas said, “No taste in music.”

  “It’s your jukebox.”

  One of the college guys at the pool table said something about the other’s mother and a ball hit the floor with a clatter.

  “Hey!” yelled Jonas. “Keep ’em on the table!”

  Lucy stirred another packet of sweetener into her latte even though it didn’t need it. Desperate to change the subject before Jonas led it back to Owen, she asked Molly, “How’s Booty-Call Barry?”

  Jonas snorted and leaned backward, watching them.

  Molly grabbed Lucy’s stir stick and broke it, then set the pieces neatly next to her coffee. “I told you, quit calling him that. Besides, booty calls don’t stay over, and sometimes he did.”

  “And?”

  “I haven’t called him back. He said I needed to watch my calorie intake, so I said he needed to watch his back.”

  Jonas rolled his eyes and walked away toward the dartboard. “You’re not fat.”

  Molly was a little on the padded side, it was true, but she was t
he kind of woman who wore it beautifully. Every part of her body was proportioned, and she had a waist, and hips, and breasts. She had a figure to die for, Lucy’d always thought, but she never listened when Lucy told her so. She reminded Lucy of a chick-lit book, pink and fun, with hidden depths not appreciated or noticed by everyone. Masses of straight black hair fell around Molly’s shoulders as if she’d just had it professionally done. She had a perfect ivory complexion, with a bloom of rose at her cheeks. She had the longest lashes Lucy had ever seen. She had Lucy Liu freckles and a perfect small gap between her two front teeth.

  Lucy patted Molly’s hand. “You know you’re not, right? And has your body shape ever slowed a man down?”

  Molly gave her a smile. “Believe me, I know I’m not. And no, my body shape just speeds ’em up, usually.”

  “It’s true. You were telling me about Larry.”

  “Barry. Prize jerk. But never mind about him, because now I’ve got a new thing going on with Theo down at the TV repair shop.”

  “Since when? A thing?”

  Molly shrugged and grinned. “A naked thing. Which is awesome when we’re not arguing. He’s spicy. Not like Barry, who was just an asshole.”

  Lucy said, “What if you like the fighting with the bad boys more than you like the relationship itself?”

  Molly didn’t deny it. “What’s better than make-up sex? It’s like a mental challenge. Better for your brain than crosswords.”

  “I’m glad about Theo, if it’s what you want, and I’m sorry about Barry,” said Lucy. “You want me to put flaming dog poop on his porch?”

  Molly brightened. “Would you?”

  That was the thing about Molly. She might be serious. Lucy shook her head and said, “No, not really. I don’t want to touch dog shit, let alone light it on fire, which I’m sure is some kind of arson. I’ll snub him if I see him in the grocery store, though.”