How to Make an American Quilt

by Whitney Otto

  “I want to marry you,” he says miserably, not looking at her.

  “I’ll still love you,” she tells him.

  “What the hell does that mean?” He wipes his nose with a swipe of his hand. “If you don’t want me, then you could love me or hate me—the result would be the same.”

  “Did I say I didn’t want you?” she demands.

  “Yes,” he tells her, “that is exactly what you said.”

  She is silent, thinking, I am losing him and I cannot lose him. Yet she cannot stop thinking about or wanting Noe, who lies in his flat across town, wanting, she knows, to hear from her. There is no resolution. Everything in her life is at war with everything else: her mixed blood; her Americanism transplanted into French soil; her attraction to catastrophic love (she can love more than one person at a time); being a woman working a man’s job. She cannot be made whole, cannot be joined together with herself—or with someone else.

  “Can we just go to sleep?” she asks.

  In bed, Alec cannot touch her; he turns his back to her, cocooned in the covers. Once, during the night, his arm strikes out and hits her, but when she sits up in bed to scream at him, she discovers that he is fast asleep. This makes her cry, knowing that he could not slap her in his waking life but would hurt her in his dreams.

  MARIANNA PACKED her valise, told Alec she was leaving. Alec begged her to stay, told her that she would get over this other man, that he would be patient, help her as long as she gave them another chance. But Marianna shook her head. No, it could not be done. Because she had been longing for Noe, aching for him, and thought it was Noe whom she loved better. Loved more. Alec kicked the door shut behind her.

  SHE STAYED with Noe a week, only to discover that she still loved Alec, missed his kisses in the small of her tired back. That she felt emptied out. Noe accused her of being unable to love a black man.

  “Funny,” she said. “Alec said I was leaving because he was white.”

  But Noe did not kick the door shut behind her. He gathered her in his arms, held her so tightly Marianna thought he would break her, then, without kissing her, wished her luck. They even made a date for lunch that Marianna knew they would not keep, simply because there was no reason to.

  After Alec and Noe came Jacques, then Giles, then Michel, then Benjamin, then Luciano. Again and again, Marianna fell in love, had affairs, then moved on with her life. There was something in her that spurned marriage; she did not know what it was. All she knew was that she was capable—no, destined—to love more than one man at a time, and that this could hardly be good for a marriage.

  Sometimes the men she spent time with treated her badly because she refused to marry them. It was not simply her refusing to marry them as much as she would say, “I just don’t want to marry anyone.”

  They would look at her with hurt, angry eyes (Jacques, Giles, Michel, Benjamin, and Luciano) and ask, “I could be ‘anyone’ to you?”

  All the while, Alec continued writing her letters, which she seldom answered. His last letter said, This makes the third letter I have sent without a reply. Don’t make me beg.

  Marianna eventually gave up on lovers altogether. She decided that she was too cold a woman to be a mistress and too stubborn to be a wife. She wanted things her way, and compromise held no charm for her; Marianna of the divided heart and soul.

  She felt ready to go home. Anna had written her about the changes for the black man: There was Dr. King’s message of love and Malcolm X’s to use whatever means were necessary and its implication of force. He said, If you don’t answer Dr. King’s knock at your door, you’ll have to answer mine. There was President Johnson’s Great Society; marches and protests and violence and rage and the unmourned death of Jim Crow (At last, wrote Anna). And still this was not quite enough to lure her home.

  What brought her back was missing her mother and the way her garnet necklace caught and refracted the light. And Marianna felt older, stronger, for her stay in France, which was not devoid of prejudice, but it took a different form.

  She was done with grafting; she had grown tired of it. No matter how well she did it, it would always have to be done again to new plants. The roses simply could not be bred to stand alone; they would always require the hardier base. The fusion of the bushes can only give the illusion of oneness, but can never truly be one. Finally, when she recalled her many love affairs, she became convinced that they indicated a cold heart, one that will not allow closeness or for anyone to be close. This astonishes her, because she used to think that her many lovers were the sign of a great capacity to love, a capacity greater than any one of her lovers could match. Now she knows that it was an inability to love.

  SHE SAID GOOD-BYE only to Alec, who seemed happy to see her arrive at the house and disappointed that she had come just to say farewell.

  “Not Kern County, Marianna,” he said. “Don’t go back to Grasse. Go to San Francisco or New York. That’s where you should be.”

  But she told him, “Grasse is my home. Let those who don’t like me move out. You know I dislike making adjustments for anyone.”

  He smiled. “Yes,” he said, “I know that about you.”

  WHEN MARIANNA ARRIVED back in California, she discovered Constance’s rose garden. Constance would nod to Marianna as she passed by, Marianna occasionally pausing to dispense advice on pruning or soil or disposing of aphids. Constance knew that Marianna was Anna’s daughter, recently returned from France. She remembered Anna mentioning her, showing her picture to the quilting circle. There was Marianna, sitting in a neglected garden of some friend’s house, drinking wine, barefoot in the tall grass. She’s lovely, thought Constance.

  Anna said, “Constance, my girl is about your age, give or take a year.” Which made Constance realize that the photograph of the girl in the grass was rather dated.

  And Marianna recalled her mother writing about some woman who had “fine roses you should see.”

  Still, the two women did not converse freely when Marianna happened by.

  CONSTANCE HAD TO TRAVEL back east to see her family. She was not sure how long she would be gone, so she asked Glady Joe to look after her roses. The first day Glady Joe went to Constance’s, she stopped by Anna’s to ask Marianna to join her (Marianna, who had been tending Glady Joe’s garden since her return). When Constance arrived home it was Marianna she had to thank for the healthy state of her roses. After that, when Marianna had time, she would visit Constance, working the flowers by her side, usually in comfortable silence.

  Marianna was sometimes asked—Marianna, who is now on the late edge of middle age—“How can you, an educated woman, work for a white lady, caring for her garden?” Often, it was a white person who posed this question.

  Marianna knew that pride and self-worth were everything and that there was not a farmer in Kern County that she would consider working for today, in 1988, and that maybe her life had been stacked against her, but Glady Joe’s garden was the most beautiful sight for miles around.

  No one ever said to her, “Marianna, Grasse is an ugly, dusty place—how is it you can perform such miracles in Glady Joe’s garden?” For this bit of land was Marianna’s small miracle, her contribution to beauty in this hot, colorless place.

  ANNA RESOLVED HER LIFE (as much as a life can be resolved, which is not saying much at times) and became more content, a little calmer and accepting. She was well aware of what her life was not, would never be, and she was angry over Marianna’s life, but she could not bear the weight of that feeling anymore. Though her quilting business allowed her artistic expression, a living, and respect, she still could not forget her early love of the heavens, and cursed and blessed her youth. What could have been. Still.

  In turn, Marianna took on the tolerance of her mother. She joined the quilting circle at Constance’s insistence (“Because you are my friend,” said Constance, knowing that Marianna could not possibly know how unusual that was for Constance to have a woman friend). Marianna liked Constance’
s unruffled independence, so unlike the other women in the circle. She had a hard time imagining Constance as a married woman—it did not seem possible—even though she had slightly known Howell Saunders. Of course, she and Constance were the same age. About Dean, Marianna laughs to herself; no, she would not pass judgment on Constance and Dean—not with what she knows of love.

  Marianna is drawn to abstract quilts—seemingly random splashes of color and texture, with strange, unlikely composition. They express what she has to say.

  ANNA AND MARIANNA ARE STUCK, being both black and white; being neither black nor white; and while they do not particularly like white people, they eventually grow to accept Glady Joe, Constance, and the memory of the boy from Chicago. One could say they appear more comfortable with their difficult beauty.

  The quilters accepted Anna and Marianna, and no one ever made the mistake of saying, “We don’t even notice color; they are just like us.” It was this recognition of their differences that allowed the group to survive, not pretending to transcend them. The impulse to unify and separate, rend and join, is powerful and constant.

  the crazy quilt

  This quilt is often thought to be the easiest to make. It is certainly the most common. The Crazy Quilt’s roots are in the nineteenth century, and it is not considered, by its detractors, the most skillful or beautiful of quilts. Some call it faddish. It was quite popular during the Great Depression (with nothing, no tiny scrap, wasted) and still has its admirers in the Midwest and the American South.

  The women in your circle must contribute odds and ends to the project. They must sit in their places around the large wooden frame, piecing their fabric to the base cloth and cotton batting. As I mentioned earlier, some women enjoy the freedom of form afforded by the Crazy Quilt, while others prefer the discipline and predictability of an established pattern.

  And you can come to understand other things about the quilters simply by paying attention. Sometimes you can tell what is on their minds from what they avoid saying or the way in which they say it. Or their seating arrangement for the evening. You would think that it would always be the same, unchanged, but it is not. I am reminded of some sort of complicated, intricate dance of many partners, facing many different directions.

  The only constant I could discern was the way in which the other quilters hesitated briefly until Anna had chosen her chair.

  It is wise to bear in mind that these are polite women in the best sense of the word and that Anna is older than my aunt Glady Joe by eight months, making her the eldest of the group. That fact commands respect even if her role as their leader did not. I know these things from my own observations. If I learned nothing else in grad school, I learned to be a fairly careful witness. (Or maybe I was drawn to grad school because I have always liked to watch.)

  For example, Marianna Neale loves the lush wildness of an English garden, but she seldom sews garden quilts, preferring instead more abstract, brilliantly colored quilts. Some of these are almost cubist in design, yet with a subtle, discernible pattern that is almost sensed by the viewer rather than seen.

  (What happens to quilts that are not handed down or acquired by museums or thrown across beds? I read somewhere that they are purchased by a well-known fashion designer and worn by women in New York City or Los Angeles or Chicago—probably seen hailing a cab or dining with friends—skirts with bright patches that swing on the hips.)

  Some suggested contributions for the Crazy Quilt are: Sophia Richards’s child’s design in lambs or bunnies; Em Reed’s Double-Wedding Ring in miniature; Constance Saunders’s modified design that is Chickie’s Garden in colors of yellow, peach, salmon, and pale orange; perhaps a location like Glady Joe Cleary’s Shenandoah Valley or a famous person or a mythical creature like a mermaid, which interests Hy Dodd; and Anna’s fine eye and considerable skill holding it all together.

  I’ll tell you what makes me happy about marrying Sam, that is, about marrying in general: I know our marriage has just as good a chance of being wonderful as it does of missing the mark. There is a strong possibility that it will be both. And, contrary to what current belief is, it has always been so. This is a tremendous relief. I came to understand this from talking with Anna about the various quilters. However, I am banking on our love for each other to weigh a bit heavier on the “wonderful” side. I do not expect to be wrong about this. It is a matter of faith.

  Anna finally made good on her promise to have a long talk with me, quite by accident, I think. She needed to go to San Francisco, and since Sam is living there, I thought we might go together. As I do not have a car, my grandmother and Aunt Glady Joe offered the Chevy wagon, which is heavy and built like a boat, though (I have to admit) quite comfortable inside. It’s a good traveling car, they said, and something else about “feeling safe.”

  So, maybe it was the duration of the trip or my blood relation to Glady Joe and Hy or the nostalgia of the car (I could not help but notice the way in which Anna gently ran her hand over the upholstery, as if the contact between seat and fingertips could unlock some almost forgotten memory); or maybe she had grown accustomed to my presence this summer.

  We began by talking about quilting. I learned quite a bit.

  Then suddenly she turned to me, the windows rolled down and the wind rushing about the interior of the car, and asked, “What is it you want to know?”

  And, to a question like that, what other answer is there besides, “Everything”?

  But to return to the Crazy Quilt, which has so divided the women.

  Which has so joined the women.

  As for material, any old, worn, or used clothing would be fine. Corrina Amurri contributes olive drab, over and over, like a problem she is trying to solve. A husband’s old shirt is good, or possibly a line of dress buttons, affixed to a patch to look like a string of pearls. Maybe the pearls were given to you as a St. Valentine’s Day gift when you were estranged from your man or maybe it is the song that stays with you. Or perhaps you are the gardener of the most elegant garden in all the surrounding counties or you like Kandinsky or Bach or Mondrian or maybe a boy from Chicago fell in love with you on a cattle ranch one summer so many years ago that it all seems like a dream to you now.

  Remember, you do not need to tell anyone what your contributions mean and it is more than likely they will hold meaning for you alone anyway. Do not explain. This is your right.

  A Note from the Author

  In researching my novel, I found the following books particularly helpful in providing quilting details: Twentieth Century Quilts, 1900–1950 by Thomas K. Woodward and Blanche Greenstein (New York: E. P. Dutton, 1988), and Hearts & Hands by Pat Ferrero, Elaine Hedges, and Julie Silber (San Francisco: Quilt Digest Press, 1987). The work of Setsuko Segawa is a wonderful example of the quilt as fine art; she has a number of books out on the subject as well.

  I cannot thank these authors enough and I strongly recommend their books to anyone interested in quilting.

  I also wish to thank the PBS series Eyes on the Prize: 1954–1965.

  For John

  ALSO BY WHITNEY OTTO

  Now You See Her

  A Collection of Beauties

  at the Height of Their Popularity

  about the author

  WHITNEY OTTO has a B.A. in history and an M.F.A. in English from the University of California at Irvine. She is a native of California and currently lives with her husband and son in Portland, Oregon.

  How to Make an American Quilt

  WHITNEY OTTO

  A Reader’s Guide

  A Conversation with Whitney Otto

  Diana Abu-Jaber is Writer-in-Residence at Portland State University and author of the novel Arabian Jazz. She is also a food writer who frequently dines with Whitney Otto.

  Diana Abu-Jabar: The quilt and the making of quilts forms a central motif in your novel. Tell us about how you came upon the idea of quiltmaking for the book and why you decided to use it.

  Whitney Otto: I was in a two
-year graduate writing program at UC Irvine and during our summer break we were expected to continue writing in order to have something to give the workshop when the term resumed. I had had a very lazy summer and waited until the last minute, so that when I did finally sit down to write, I really had no idea what I wanted to write about. As I sat at my typewriter, I found myself writing this story title “How To Make An American Quilt” before promptly going back to trying to think of something to write about. There I was, working to come up with something, anything, and in the meantime sort of putting down this quilt story as a way of attempting to jumpstart an idea. By the end of two days I had a 24-page short story called “How To Make An American Quilt,” which reads like an abridged version of the novel. And the thing is that even when I had finished this short story—that I didn’t want to show to my teacher because I thought he would think it lightweight and make remarks about the ways in which I spend my time—I was still worrying about what to write about.

  As I was worrying about whether to show the story to anyone, that very teacher, Don Heiney, called my home (something he never did) and asked what I had written over the summer. I said I did have this one short story. “Good,” he said, “Bring it by my house sometime today and I will read it tonight.” Though this was not in my plans, I reluctantly did as he asked.

  That night he called again, excited, telling me that he hadn’t seen anything quite like my story and what did I think about turning it into a novel? It was, I have to say, a pretty wonderful moment and about a year later I did make it into a novel, though not in the way he suggested. I wrote the story in 1988, and the novel in 1989.