Heather glared at him.
“What was she supposed to do, Heather? Keep her eyes closed or keep her mouth closed?”
“She didn’t exactly use her mouth,” Heather said, rubbing the ice over the senseless flesh of her cheek.
He sighed. “You want to know the truth? I’m pretty amazed it took her as long as it did. You’re having his baby, for Christ’s sake.”
“It’s got nothing to do with her,” Heather shouted.
He glared at her. “Don’t be stupid. It’s got everything to do with her. Every time you show yourself in public it’s a billboard about her marriage. How would you like it if somebody paraded your most intimate secret up and down Elm Street? You can’t possibly be so naive, Heather.” He paused. “Or so insensitive.”
This took her aback.
“Yes.” He warmed to his argument. “Deeply insensitive. The woman is having her first child and her husband’s off messing around with somebody else.”
“Me too.” Heather was petulant, though it was hard to be fierce with the ice against her cheek. “I’m having my first child, too. You think she’d be good enough not to show up at my job and attack me. I ought to call the police or somebody.”
“That,” he chided, “would be extremely unwise.”
They looked at each other in silence. Then Stephen shook his head. “Listen, Heather. I wasn’t going to bring this up for a while, but it seems like a good time now.” He considered his own hands, folded before him on the desktop. “I don’t know what your plans are after the baby. I don’t know if they include coming back to work.”
“Of course I’ll be coming back to work,” she interrupted. More irritated than apprehensive.
“Well, I think you shouldn’t,” he told her. “At least, not here.”
“I love it here,” Heather faltered. She was starting to be afraid.
“I want you to meet somebody,” Stephen said evenly. “Somebody I think you’ll like. She might have work for you, and you might enjoy it even more than you enjoy coming here. And you could take care of your baby at the same time.”
“Pick’s able to help with the baby during days,” she objected. “I can still work here.” She was sounding a little panicky now. It had never occurred to her that she might be forced from the sports center. Ashley was at the sports center.
“Yes, I know. But this isn’t a good place for you, Heather. People know about you and Ashley, and they know you’re both here. In a couple of hours, they’re going to know what happened out there just now.” He eyed her. “Believe me when I tell you this won’t be pleasant for you. Now will you please take some advice from me?”
Heather shrugged. She wanted fervently to be rude, but she couldn’t seem to muster any rudeness. “Sure. Whatever.”
“Get your coat,” Stephen said.
Heather went to the staff room and got her coat. People were hitting the wall as she walked, glaring at her. She turned them to stone and passed them. Stephen was waiting by his car.
“Her name is Naomi,” Stephen said. He drove up Elm Street and turned right out the Goddard Falls Road. “She works in the old mill.”
Heather stared at him. “I’m not working in a mill!”
“No, no.” He actually smiled. “Don’t worry, you’ll see what I mean.”
She could hear the river, swollen in its rush. Stephen pulled into the parking lot. The mill was painted white and looked homey, as if somebody lived there. On the porch, in a peeling Adirondack chair, a squat woman with a long frizzy ponytail was hunched over a folderful of papers. She looked up and smiled, as if they’d been expected.
“Hey.” The woman’s voice was deep.
“Naomi.”
Stephen got out and went around the car to Heather’s side, as if they were on a date. He helped Heather out and presented her.
“Shit,” Naomi said, getting to her feet. “What the hell happened to you?”
“She ran into a rival embroiderer,” Stephen said, with false buoyancy, and Naomi, picking it up right away, stopped staring. She wasn’t really squat, Heather saw now. She was Heather’s own middling height, and it was her thick sweater that added most of the bulk. Still, the woman gave an impression of density and a certain graceless power. Also kindness, but that was because she was smiling, probably, and walking toward Heather with her hand outstretched.
“I’m Naomi Roth,” she said. “So you’re the artist.”
“I work for Stephen,” Heather said, shaking Naomi’s hand. “At the sports center.”
“But you’re thinking of taking on some other work, too?” Naomi prompted optimistically. “I’ve already seen some of your things.”
Heather frowned at her, then at Stephen.
“I brought Naomi those little things you made for the boys.” He shrugged. “I just thought she’d like to see them.”
“They were lovely,” Naomi gushed. “Your own designs, I take it?”
“What?” Heather said. “I didn’t have a design. I mean, I didn’t have a pattern or anything. I just made it up.”
“Well, you’re very talented,” said Naomi. “And I’m very happy you’re here, because I just lost two of my best quilters.”
Now Heather was completely lost. “Quilters?” She looked at Stephen.
“Naomi works with quilters, hookers. People who do embroidery.”
“I thought this was a mill,” Heather said suspiciously.
“It is. At least it was. Come on,” the woman said. “I’ll show you inside.”
Inside, the mill wasn’t a mill. The front room was a snug little office with a braided rug over most of its wooden floor, and curtains made of linen embroidered in thick bands of red cloud stitch. Clumsily embroidered, Heather noted, idly wondering who’d done them. There was a heavy wooden desk covered with a fan of computer paper. Mary Sully was sitting behind the desk. Heather knew Mary Sully. Her little sister had been in Heather’s class.
“This is Heather,” Naomi said cheerily.
“I know,” Mary said. She gave Heather’s right cheek an incisive glare.
“Here’s the workroom,” Naomi said, oblivious. She ushered Heather and Stephen inside. The circle of women stiffened in silence. The Hodge sisters were there, a single Irish Chain quilt across their spindly laps. Ina looked at Janelle and Janelle looked at Heather.
“Heather.” Janelle nodded. “Pick well?”
“Yes,” Heather said. Janelle had given Pick a lift into town only the day before.
No one else said a word, but they favored her with a look of unified intent. The disapproval made her straighten. One of her hands found her abdomen and stopped there, the universal symbol for Yes, I am with child. Somebody turned away in disgust.
“The room fixed up great, Naomi,” Stephen said.
“I know. And it makes such a difference. We were just enslaved by the schedule when we were in the church. You know, we had no more claim to the space than the Bible study group and the bingo—less, realty—so all we got were two or three nights a week, and people told me that was the only time they actually worked on their projects. They looked forward to coming, but they just didn’t get a chance when they were home. This way it’s completely a drop in, and people come much more often and they get much more done.” She looked at Heather. “So you see, you could bring your work here, Heather. Or, if you want, you could stay home and work there. The way we’re set up, it’s entirely up to you. Some people like to get together and talk, and occasionally the quilters pitch in together. And some people would rather be at home so they can watch General Hospital, or whatever. The only rules, really, are that you have to get your orders done on time and the work has to be good. Want to go back into the office?”
Heather gave them a last, defiant look, and followed Naomi out.
“Here’s our catalogue,” Naomi said, taking one off the stack on the desk and handing it to Heather. “This is for winter. I’m just getting the summer one together now. I do three a year.” Ther
e was a line drawing of the mill on the cover and a sepia-toned photo of the circle of women on the back. Inside were color pictures of quilts and rugs, a few crude bits of needlework.
“Most people want the quilts,” Naomi said, looking over Heather’s shoulder. “And usually the one they see in the catalogue’s already gone by the time they call, but by then there’s something else in stock, or they custom-order by pattern and colors. Then there’s restoration work —we get sent the quilt or the coverlet or whatever, and we repair it using old textiles. Rugs, too. They send us rugs you can barely hold up, they’re like Swiss cheese. See here?” She pointed to a photograph of a hooked rug, WELCOME arched over a grinning golden retriever. “I think every other family in suburban Boston owns a golden retriever.” She grinned. “It’s far and away our most popular thing. Or they say, I want a welcome rug like that, but with a cocker spaniel. Or sometimes they send us a picture of their dog or their cat. But it’s traditional to hook your pet into a rug, so that’s fine with me.” “Is this supposed to be a sampler?” Heather said. She knew it sounded a little rude, but the thing was crudely done in cross-stitch, and very dull.
“I’d like to offer better samplers,” said Naomi diplomatically. “It’s kind of virgin territory, you know. There’s plenty of old linen around. That’s my job, or part of it, anyway. I go around and buy fabric wherever I can. I also plan our advertising and deal with customers.” She smiled at Heather. “So tell me something. Who taught you to sew?”
“My grandmother,” Heather said. “She does everything. Quilts, rugs, sewing, needlepoint. She knit all my sweaters when I was younger. When she was a little girl, she won this contest for girls. They had to make everything in their rooms—bedspreads, pillowcases, curtains. She got to go to Washington on a bus.”
“How did she teach you?” Naomi said.
“Oh”—Heather shrugged—“I don’t really know. She just gave me something to embroider when I was little and then she told me whenever I was doing it wrong. She said I had the finger.”
“The what?” Naomi said, perplexed. Stephen was smiling.
“I guess it’s silly,” said Heather. “The magic finger, she said. Like an extra finger for needlework. She said you could sew all your life, but if you didn’t have the finger, then whatever you sewed would be ugly, and if that was the case, then you shouldn’t be sewing at all, because there are too many ugly things in the world as it is.” Mary was scowling at her computer screen. Heather looked at Naomi, then shrugged, embarrassed. “That’s what she says, anyway.”
Naomi grinned. “I’d probably agree with your grandmother. I’ll tell you the truth, I’ve had to turn down plenty of people who wanted to work in the collective. Though they’re free to come in, sit in with whoever’s here and do their own work if they want. And a lot of them get better that way, watching the others. But some people don’t have it. The finger.” She laughed. “Like me. I definitely don’t have it.”
“I’m sorry,” Heather said, because she was.
“Oh, it’s all right,” Naomi told her, happily enough. “I have other gifts. The main thing is, I can’t—well, I won’t sell something unless it’s beautiful.”
“My things are beautiful,” Heather said gracelessly. “I’m embroidering a baby sheet right now. I’m expecting a baby, you know.”
“Oh.” Naomi nodded. “Congratulations!”
“Thank you,” Heather said. She glanced at Stephen.
“I can see why you might be wanting to set up a more flexible schedule than Stephen can offer you,” Naomi rolled along. “You know, we’ve got some baby things out in the workroom, and there’s a playpen we can bring down from the attic. It’s part of the collective’s mission that children be absolutely welcome here—so bringing your baby to work is definitely an option for later.”
From behind the desk Mary Sully clucked in disgust and stabbed a number on her computer keyboard. Naomi frowned.
Heather looked over at the desk. Mary Sully had always been a snob, she recalled. Her younger sister, too. Goddard girls, whose father had the snowplow contract in winter and sat on his butt the rest of the year. Carol Sully had married somebody from their class and already had a kid. Heather had seen it—a wrinkled pruny thing dressed preposterously in a sailor suit.
“May I see your baby sheet sometime?” Naomi asked.
“It’s in the car.” Heather went out to get it. It surprised her how quickly this woman had become a person she wanted to impress. Naomi, Heather thought, was somebody who would understand about Ashley. She caught sight of herself in the rearview mirror as she bent for her bag. The mark had faded to pink: a four-clawed brand of pink in the middle of her cheek, and queerly beautiful. She went back inside.
The sheet, she was the first to admit, was excessive. Edged with bands of chain stitches alternating with bands of seed stitches in the palest pink, its center was busy with white and yellow flowers in satin stitch over all but a corner of the cotton fabric. “I’ll write her name here.” Heather pointed to the empty place. “And her birth date. And I might overlay the chain stitches with a darker pink,” she gushed, “I haven’t decided. I’ve made her a sampler, too—just an alphabet sampler, but there’s an object for each letter. Like an apple for A. It’s this big.” She showed with her hands. “But it’s already hanging in the baby’s room. I don’t have it here.”
Naomi was still holding the sheet, peering at it under the desk light, then holding it up to the afternoon light through the window. She hadn’t said anything.
Heather was suddenly worried. “I know how to make quilts, too,” she offered lamely, “but I’m not—”
“Uh-uh,” said Naomi, shaking her head. “I have plenty of quilters.”
“I’d love to work here,” Heather heard herself entreat.
Naomi reached up behind her own neck, lifting the untidy ponytail to massage some invisible ache. She made a face. “I think when you finish this one you should bring it in for us to photograph. Then you’d better get started on another one as soon as possible. This is going to be a popular item.”
Stephen chuckled. Heather was frowning. “Item?”
“Oh, absolutely. I can think of six customers in Fairfield County alone who are going to want one of these. If you can bear to stick to pink and blue that would be best.” Naomi sighed. “People are such Neanderthals when it comes to gender associations. They’re horrified by the idea of putting something pink on a boy or something with sailboats or baseball bats on a girl. Like an infant will suffer permanent gender confusion or instantly catch homosexuality!”
Heather stared at her, perplexed and horrified, and more than a little dazzled. Naomi, oblivious, went on.
“I like these flowers, though. They’re very subtle, not cloying at all. For boys you can do, I don’t know, trees or something. Pine trees? For girls I think this is just perfect. You leave the corners blank so people can custom-order. Did this take you long?” she asked Heather.
“No,” Heather said. “Well, yeah, ten days, but I’ve only been working at night.”
“Fantastic.” Naomi nodded. “So, what do you think? The sheets would be wonderful. Your sampler sounds great, too. You’ve got to bring it in, let me have a look. When can you start?”
Heather looked at Stephen. When could she start? Had she quit her job at the sports center? Was she fired? “When can I start?” she asked him.
“Whenever you want,” he said.
“I’ll start now,” said Heather. She took the sheet from Naomi’s hands. She took her bag. The circle in the room beyond did not exactly open for her. It was an effort, lifting a chair from against the wall and wedging open a place for herself. She looked at everyone in their turn, so everyone else would have a chance to see what Ashley’s wife had done, it seemed like years before. Her belly was too big to cross her legs, so she had to lean forward a bit, spreading her baby’s sheet across her knees. A bitterness broke out, and in its hush, her new life began.
C
hapter 15
The Country of Childbirth
HE WAS EMBARRASSED BY WHAT SUE HAD DONE. This was why he did not call her immediately. Two weeks, in fact, would pass before he found her again at Naomi’s mill, materializing suddenly in his truck with a load of new clapboard for the dilapidated rear of the building. They did not talk in depth about what had happened, but Heather could see how badly he felt. His feelings, at any rate, were unchanged, his ardor untempered, despite the fact that Heather, surging into her third trimester, grew increasingly distended by the hour. She didn’t want to stop either, and so they didn’t stop.
Only two days before Polly was born, Ashley waited for her on the porch step of the mill, deflecting the incensed stares of the women who walked past with their shopping bags of cloth and thread. She felt, when she first drove off with him, the beginnings of unwell, but her greed drove most of the nausea away and his mouth on her nipple banished the rest. This latest act—the last, she must have known even then, of their life alone together—had had a quality of almost mournful solemnity, but also of fervor, as if they both were trying to get things in, or perhaps out, before the inevitable division awaiting them. Ashley’s physical movements were small, but each seemed charged with object, symbol, perpetuity. She told his ear that she loved him. Their child woke and spun.
She knew, by then, that she was close, but Heather had never been given an actual due date for the baby. The midwife didn’t hold with due dates—more patriarchy, she claimed, and more mystification for Heather, who, in her ignorance of the patriarchy, figured the baby would come when she was good and ready. And Polly did, a bare twenty-four hours later, in the middle of an August night and with a herald of the sharpest, most precise pain. Heather was awake in the moment before the pain, and so she was not surprised when it came. After it had passed, Heather got stiffly to her feet in the dark room and went downstairs to phone the midwife. She arrived—a brown woman with a pinched, serious face and a tendency to hum—about seven, which was when Heather woke Pick, and everybody got down to the business of having the baby.
The Sabbathday River Page 13