Bill turned toward me. "Oh, hi, Babs," he said, with false enthusiasm. "I had a little run-in with my fountain pen the other day. Ha-ha. You know me. Loaning out bundles of money for a new little home over on Sycamore Street. Love it. Love it. Nice couple of kids. Say," he said, looking me up and down and making my blood boil, "you're looking great today. How's every little thing? New baby okay?"
When he's rational, Bill knows perfectly well I don't have a new baby, so I instantly deduced he was suffering from the nervous strain of thinking up ridiculous things to say.
"They're both fine," I said, feeling wicked.
"Both of them," he said, blinking nervously. "Okay. Good. Say, that's great."
"That'll be fifteen dollars," said Brenda, sniffing, "and that's the last time I'm cleanin' that kind of stain off your clothes, Bill Shumaker. I suggest you go home and read your Bible tonight, especially the Ten Commandments."
I was fascinated by the little drama I was watching. Fifteen dollars is highway robbery for dry cleaning a jacket, but with nary a whimper Bill peeled three five-dollar bills off a roll he pulled from his pants pocket, while mumbling, "Great. Great. Thanks, ha-ha. Good to see you, too, Babs," he said in my direction, and was out the door at a run.
I cleared my throat. "Brenda," I said, "I had no idea you had your finger on the pulse of so many Spotsburg crises." I thought that was rather artfully expressed, but it flew right past her.
"What?" she said. "What finger? What pulse? Barb, we're talkin' lipstick in the wrong shade here, and I won't be a party to hanky-panky!" Her half-glasses quivered with emotion. "Bill Shumaker will have to settle his own hash from now on, I tell you! Graze in his own pasture!"
"Oh right!" I said, amazed to see my normally so good-natured acquaintance so indignant. I cleared my throat again. "What you need," I said, "is a sign out front that says, ‘We clean up the world's trouble spots!'"
"What?" she said, staring after Bill, still savoring her wrath. "The nerve of some people. Expectin' ME to save his flea-bitten hide!"
And then I remembered that Brenda and Sam had a run-in with Bill Shumaker several years ago, when their auto repairs trade fell off, and they almost lost both businesses. Bill didn't waste an iota of pity or help on them, I tell you. Wouldn't make any sort of concessions or write out a new repayment schedule, and it was only Brenda's mother's untimely death and her modest bequest that enabled them to keep afloat. Remembering that, I was thoroughly indignant, too!
"Bum!" I muttered.
"Louse-covered sewer rat!" said Brenda.
"Pond scum!" I said.
"Lower than a snake's belly at a railroad crossin'!" said Brenda with feeling.
"Mangy mutt!" I rejoined, realizing my epithets couldn't begin to compete with snake's bellies and railroad crossings.
"Smellier than an overweight polecat in heat on a summer's day!" cried Brenda.
I was stumped. How could I top that?
Emotions spent, we sighed heavily and returned our attention to the coral robe spread out on the counter. I fingered the spots at the hem.
They looked like drips from a candle. "What do you suppose they are?" I said. I ran my fingernail along a larger spot. "It's heavy, like wax." I sniffed. It felt and smelled like wax, too, although much more fragrant than an ordinary candle. Very exotic.
I lifted up the lining at its edge. Considering how fine the fabric was, the edge was surprisingly stiff. Then I flipped the hem over to look at the underside, and—
Money. Sewn into the hem were several large pieces of paper, which I instantly recognized as foreign currency!
"Money!" I exclaimed.
"Well, I'll be a blue-nosed gopher!" said Brenda.
There were ten bills sewn into that hem. You couldn't see the whole of each bill, you understand, only about two inches of the upper half. The lower half of each bill was tucked under the fold of the hem and secured with minuscule stitches.
From the top half I could see these bills were inscribed in what I guessed (correctly, it turned out) was an Asian language, and represented denominations of 100,000 whatevers.
It was time to talk turkey. "Whose is this?" I said.
"Alfred Pike's," she said.
"Lucinda's son?"
"One and the same."
Evidently being in love has not completely robbed me of all my faculties, and I had one of my typical brilliant ideas.
"Brenda," I said, "I realize this is unusual, but would you let me take this to Alfred and ask him about it? It could be important." I wasn't sure why it might be important, but I could figure that out later.
"Sure," said Brenda. "Just give me a receipt so I've gotta record of where the thin' went."
So while I wrote her out a receipt for "one coral-colored quilted robe" and signed it, she hung it back on the hanger, fastened the frogs at the collar, and covered the robe with plastic. I drove straight to our library and a copy of the encyclopedia—it took me over an hour to find what I wanted—then home. I made two long distance phone calls, another phone call to see if Alfred was home, and roared off to his house. It's a small, shabby bungalow not far from Thripp Creek.
I wasn't sure how friendly Alfred would be to me, considering the rôle I'd played in the adventure with his deceased mother's quilt top, but he opened the screen door and let me in. I carried the exquisite robe by its hanger.
"That was fast," he said rather listlessly, and turned away from me. "Didn't know the Pierces had home delivery, either."
As he shuffled toward a pair of unattractive brown velour overstuffed chairs, I watched him. In addition to the shuffling, the tone of his voice was flat—something I don't like to hear in my patients. Except that he wasn't my patient, just an acquaintance.
"They don't," I said. "And it's not clean yet. But I found something interesting in this robe of yours, and I thought you might want to know about it."
"Yeah," he said, standing beside one of the chairs. "I found it in the attic. Thought I'd get it cleaned and give it to my girl."
By "girl" I correctly deduced he meant his daughter, Rachel. Alfred's wife Myrna died in '47 or '48.
"Can I hang this over the door here?" I said, eyeing the open closet door.
Alfred has always looked a little iffy to me—color not so good—and so I thought we'd better take it slowly. I didn't want him to have a heart attack in the midst of this proceeding. "Let's sit down," I said, motioning to the armchairs.
The room was suffering from big league neglect: cobwebs in the corners, thick dust on the tabletops.
"Sure," he said, sat down heavily, and focused his bloodshot eyes somewhere on the wall behind me.
"There's something special about this robe that you ought to know," I said, "and you don't have to tell me anything about it if you don't want to. But if you don't mind," I said, "I'd be interested in how this particular robe came into your possession."
"Got it in Korea," he said. "You know, I was there with the US ARMY? The Army. . . ." he said, shifting his gaze to the threadbare rug, patterned with roses seriously past their prime. I supposed the whole business of learning that he had been born in Canada and that his US citizenship might be in jeopardy had taken the stuffings out of old Alfred.
"Now Alfred," I said, deciding he was one of those woeful souls who can benefit from some bullying (I see his type so often in my nursing work). "Everybody knows about the citizenship business, and nobody cares a thing about it. And you had a great career in the US ARMY—" (I said it with what I hoped was patriotic fervor) "—and nobody can take that away from you. You," I said, remembering my eloquence at the dry cleaners earlier in the day, "are one of those brave souls who clean up the trouble spots of the world, and generations of children will bless you. You've got every reason to feel PROUD of what you've done! So let's not have any more of this whimpering and feeling sorry for ourselves."
It was a fine speech, if I do say so myself.
"Oh?" he said listlessly. "You think so?"
"I
know so!" I said, confused about which of my previous sentences he was replying to, but deciding to sound firm and enthusiastic anyway.
"Well, Barb," he drawled. "I don't suppose there's any harm in telling you about it."
"I'd be pleased if you would," I said. "And then I've got some good news."
He picked some lint off the arm of his chair, studied it for a moment, dropped it on the carpet, and said, "I was in Korea during some of the worst of the fighting. It wasn't all conventional warfare, you know. A lot of it was hit-and-run tactics. Not how you REALLY fight a war!"
"Of course not," I said.
"Nasty stuff. As a CAPTAIN I got to know some of the people in the villages near
us—"
"Good for you—"
"—Including a Chinese woman." He paused for a long time. "Her and her family lived in Japan before World War II. They fled from Japan—the Chinese weren't wanted there. Wandered for a while in China. Ended up in Korea." He sighed.
"Before WWII they were pretty well off. As a kid, she even came here to the US, to some fancy girls' school in Boston. Uh, when I met her, Myrna'd been gone for a number of years," he hastened to add. "You understand. There was nothing between us, the Chinese woman and me."
"Of course not," I said, though the light in his face told me different. He didn't actually look happy, mind you. But he looked less forlorn than I'd seen in a number of weeks.
"Then one night the Communists ambushed her village—there in Korea—and I had to escape from her hut pronto! And she handed me the robe, and told me keep it for her. You know: until we got together again. And I told her I would." He ran his hands across his face. "And I did. But," he said, "I never saw her again. After they partitioned Korea, her village ended up in the North—the Communist part. I've tried every which way to get word to her. Find out if she was alive, where she was—that sort of thing. Nothing's ever come of it."
"I'm sorry," I said, really meaning it. And then, brightly: "Well, there's a nice surprise in the robe. Come and take a look."
He rose from the chair, and slowly followed me to where I'd hung the robe from the closet door. I removed its plastic cover, unfastened the frogs, opened the front with a theatrical flourish, and voilà! there was the amazing woven picture of whooping cranes stalking the marshes. Only Alfred wasn't amazed at all!
"Yep," he said. "Looks like it always did."
Phooey. He went to all the trouble of bringing the robe home with him; I should have realized he'd look it over.
"Well, then," I said, determined to bring him good news. "What about these?" I lifted the hem of the robe with a dramatic air, so he could see the money.
"Yep," he said. "The way I figured it, her family's nest egg was in this robe. But the money's not worth a danged thing since North Korea was taken over and everybody's got new currency."
This was true: one of my phone calls had been to an international banking house in New York. His Chinese lady had given him a fortune. And now it was worthless.
"Alfred, you're right. The bills aren't worth anything. But I called an expert in Oriental art today, and he says the picture on the lining is probably very valuable."
I was thinking: his house needs repairs and redecorating badly. The expert in Chicago had thought the "silk tapestry" (as he called it) might fetch two or three thousand dollars at an auction house, depending on its condition.
Alfred looked hurt. "You're not saying I ought to sell it, are you?"
"Well, actually, yes I was."
He shook his head. For a moment my courage failed me and I thought: no amount of heartiness and enthusiasm on the part of an earnest health professional can cheer a person who's determined to mope.
"No, Barb," he said, slowly wandering back to the armchair and sitting down again. "I couldn't do that. It was hers, and I promised I'd keep it for her. After all," he said, "I WAS a captain in the US ARMY!" And he pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and blew his nose noisily.
And then, like a thunderbolt, I had a brilliant idea. The pockets! If there was anything I'd learned from Brenda at the dry cleaners, it was to check the pockets. I returned to the robe and studied the right and the left-hand seams, where pockets would be if there were any. Nothing. But it was funny, because there was a little lump in the seam on the right.
I looked more closely. I felt the seam again with my fingers. I lifted the robe off the door and carried it over to the window, which was dirty, but admitted enough light so I could see better.
Little tiny overcast stitches had been used to sew the pocket shut.
"Albert," I said, my excitement rising, "have you ever looked in this pocket?"
"What pocket?" he said.
"There's a pocket here," I said.
I slipped my hand under the lining, past the money in the hem, and ran my fingers all the way up to the hip. There was the back side of a pocket. And, plain as day, there was something in the pocket. Something stiff. Something that crackled when I pressed it. I thought about it for a moment. In order not to damage the gown, the pocket should be opened from the outside.
I grabbed my purse, which is large enough to contain a small first aid kit, a screwdriver, the burned-out overhead bulb for my Studebaker (for which I'd forgotten to buy the replacement at Pierces'), several old receipts for dry cleaning, rubber bands for I don't know what, half a candy bar, and A SMALL SEWING KIT! I took the tiny scissors out of the kit and, feeling for all the world like a famous surgeon, I carefully, carefully slit the stitches holding the seam shut. It was certainly nervous-making work. One slip, and I'd ruin the robe.
And (just as I had suspected) there was a note in the pocket. A sheet of unusual white paper, actually, folded twice, and covered with carefully written words in some western language. I didn't read it. Well, I read enough of it to see that the letter began, "To my most loved Alfred—"
It looked like this was going to be a big year for Alfred and correspondence. First his mother's letter. Now this. Perhaps this one would bring him better news.
I handed him the note and, standing behind his shoulder, averted my gaze as best I could while he read it. Still, certain phrases leapt to my eyes.
It was a letter from his Chinese woman, pledging her undying love. Additionally, as I had hoped, she told Albert where she would be if she ever escaped the war and Korea altogether. She would seek, as she put it, "the sanctuary of my dear school chum's, several of they whom reside, I believe, still in the Boston city."
Quickly I moved toward the window, gathered up my purse and sewing kit, and headed for Alfred's door. "I hope it's good news," I said.
"Don't know," he mumbled. But when he looked up I could see his eyes were shining.
As you have undoubtedly figured out by now, I can't let go of a puzzle until it's solved. "Before I leave," I said, "do you know what the spots on this gown are?"
He looked baffled. "Spots? I don't know about any spots." He tilted his head to the side and I could see he was trying to remember.
"The place where she lived was a filthy hole," he said in a far-off voice. "Not a fit home for a fine lady. Dirt floor. Dirt, maybe? Smell of cow dung—neighbors' animals. Incense? Sometimes she burned incense to fight off the smell. Sometimes nice-smelling candles."
"Ah," I said.
Wondering what he was going to do next vis-à-vis his lost Chinese lady, and nevertheless magnificently restraining my considerable curiosity, I wished Alfred well, and headed for my house.
To my surprise, Mike was there. He had let himself in, and was sitting on my sofa, reading my latest Agatha Christie mystery.
"I hope you didn't lose my place!" I said, sitting down beside him and giving him a friendly kiss. "And I forgot the bulb for my car. Which reminds me," I said, wanting to solve the other little puzzle, "Brenda said your kilt didn't really need cleaning. So why waste money?"
"Well," he said, putting the Agatha Christie down on the coffee table and losing my place after all, "I'm going to wear my kilt
at my wedding, and I thought it should look its best."
Something funny happened to my stomach. I think it fell into my metatarsal arches.
"You're getting married?" I said.
"Any day now," he said, looking very handsome and very serious.
"Uh-h-h," I stammered.
"I don't want a long engagement," he said. "When are you available?"
"I'm free all next Tuesday," I said.
13/ Trapunto on Broadway
I know. You're chomping at the bit, eager to read all the exciting details of our wonderful wedding. (Yes, it was wonderful.) But first things first.
Much to my surprise, it turned out that my groom-to-be was not unschooled in the arts of the needle. (My sensible friend Arden, reading the rough draft of this chapter, has pointed out to me that you may not understand my obscure and poetic reference to "the arts of the needle.") IN OTHER WORDS, Mike sews! Or sewed, at any rate, on one occasion.
Mike did a variety of odd jobs to put himself through the Ph.D. in physics program at Michigan State College (now, of course, Michigan State University) in East Lansing, Michigan. Michigan State is known for its usual types of courses—English, geography, chemistry, and that sort of thing.
But Michigan State is also world-renowned for its research in animal and plant husbandry. Those that snicker (they're often down the road at the rival University of Michigan) delight in calling MSU a "cow college." Sometimes they even talk about "Moo U."
I see it differently. There are millions of people in the world who are starving. I think it's HEROIC for a college to dedicate itself to solving the problems of subsistence-level farming and world hunger. If there's anyone out there who doesn't agree, just lead me to them!
So Mike took, as I say, an odd variety of jobs to help put himself through school. He sold tickets at MSU hockey games. He shelved books in the library. He mucked out the stalls in the Sheep Teaching Facility. (You can laugh, but that's what it's called: the Sheep Teaching Facility. Needless to say, many people ask what subjects the sheep teach!)
And he worked in the theater department, constructing sets. Until one day, when the costume designer led him to a sewing machine, for a most interesting project. And his tale resulted in this article for Aunt Maggie's.
The Name of the Quilt: Tales of Patchwork, Mayhem, and Murder Page 11