The Sweetgum Knit Lit Society

by Beth Pattillo

  Now all she had to do was convince the Sweetgum Knit Lit Society to welcome their newest member.

  Merry McGavin slid her minivan into a parking space near the main doors of the Sweetgum Christian Church and shoved the gear lever into park. The clock on the dashboard showed ten minutes past the hour. She scrambled from the van, grateful for the shade of the town’s namesake trees, and yanked open the sliding door to the rear seats. Empty water bottles, Happy Meal toys, and crumpled Wet Wipes littered the vehicle’s floor. Her knitting bag had toppled over when she rounded the last corner at Spring Street, so it took her a few moments to shove the jumble of yarn, needles, and books back into her quilted tote. The plastic water bottles and other detritus she ignored.

  Merry hated being late, but that’s all she ever was anymore. Late to teach Sunday school. Late getting Courtney to her orthodontist appointment. Late picking Jake up from soccer practice. Late retrieving Sarah from preschool. Late, late, late.

  “Merry!”

  She looked over her shoulder to see Ruthie Allen jogging down the sidewalk toward her, golden September light forming a halo around the older woman’s head. The Sweetgum Christian Church sat directly behind the east side of the town square on Spring Street, two blocks down from the public library. Ruthie, the never-married church secretary, had probably run over to Tallulah’s Café for a bite of supper after the church office closed. Merry wished she could eat a meal at the café’s counter in blissful solitude. Most of her meals were consumed standing up at her kitchen counter while she baked, washed, fried, or cried.

  Merry forced a smile. Ruthie was a rather plump woman of fifty-five, twenty years Merry’s senior, and she really shouldn’t be jogging in public. Not at her age. And certainly not without proper undergarment support above the waist.

  “Hey, Ruthie,” Merry said. “I’m glad I’m not the only one who’s late. Now I don’t have to face the wrath of Eugenie alone.”

  Ruthie grinned. She was wearing tight purple yoga pants, a sweatshirt that said “Love Your Mother” with a picture of the earth emblazoned on the front, and a worn pair of running shoes.

  “You can hide behind me,” Ruthie answered, hoisting her see-through plastic carryall higher on her shoulder. “I’m used to ‘the wrath of Eugenie’ as you so aptly put it.”

  Merry wished her smile was as genuine as Ruthie’s broad, toothy grin. Even though she thought the older woman was a bit too free-spirited, she envied her naturally sunny disposition. Merry’s own chipper outlook came from sheer determination, not from any inner sense of optimism.

  “At least I finished the book,” Merry said. So many book clubs just pretended to read the selection for the month. Some didn’t even pretend. But most book clubs weren’t led by the town librarian. Merry slung her bulging tote bag over her shoulder and threw the sliding door of the van closed.

  “Did you finish your shawl too?” Ruthie asked. In theory each member of the Sweetgum Knit Lit Society was required to complete the book and its accompanying project before the meeting. In reality … well, today was one of the rare occasions when Merry had managed to finish both on time.

  “I did, thankfully. Jeff agreed to take the kids out for ice cream last night so I could have a little peace and quiet.”

  “The book and the project? I’m impressed.” Ruthie nodded at Merry’s knitting bag as they crossed the sidewalk toward the front doors of the church. “So what are you working on now?”

  Merry’s knees wobbled, but she caught herself in time. “A baby layette. Hat, booties, blanket.”

  “How sweet!” Ruthie’s enthusiasm never seemed to flag. “Are they for anyone we know?”

  “No.” Merry tightened her cheeks so her smile spread even wider. “Just for a friend who’s pregnant.”

  “Well, you’re nice to do such a thoughtful thing for your friend.” Ruthie patted her shoulder. They’d reached the heavy mahogany doors, and Merry moved to open one.

  “After you,” she said, motioning for Ruthie to enter ahead of her. Merry needed a moment, just that brief moment while Ruthie’s back was turned, to collect herself.

  Late, late, late. She couldn’t be. But she was. In more ways than one.

  Camille St. Clair had been the first one to arrive at the church that evening. The Sweetgum Knit Lit Society shared space with the “Pairs and Spares” Sunday school class in the education wing. Usually Eugenie, the librarian, got there first. Camille sighed. Like the rest of Sweetgum, Eugenie was quite predictable. In fact, Camille would bet her meager savings account that nothing in her little hometown had changed in her entire twenty-four years. She sighed again and began to unpack her sequined bag, spreading her things on the table in front of her. Her mother’s tattered copy of Brontë’s Jane Eyre. Several skeins of glittery, furry yarn for the halter top she was knitting. The pattern for the top, her scissors, a tape measure to check her gauge for the millionth time. In knitting you had to come out with the right number of stitches per inch if you wanted your garment to fit. You were supposed to knit a sample swatch before you started. Camille hated knitting swatches. She was always too anxious to begin the project itself, and invariably she found herself with a half-done garment that was too big or too small. This time, though, she was determined to do it right, and so she dug into her bag for the size of needles the pattern recommended.

  “Hello, Camille!” two cheery voices called. Ruthie and Merry hustled into the room and looked relieved when they saw that Eugenie and Esther, the other members of the Knit Lit Society, had yet to arrive.

  “Whew! That was a close one,” Ruthie said as she slid into a chair, panting for breath. “I can’t believe Eugenie’s late. She’s never late.”

  “She’s probably finishing up some work stuff,” Camille said, waving a hand in the direction of the library.

  “Good.” Ruthie reached into her bag and pulled out her own copy of Brontë’s novel and the soy silk yarn she was using for the shawl project. “That gives me time to read the last few pages. Because clearly I’m not going to finish the shawl before she gets here.”

  The door opened again, and a small, polished-looking woman a few years older than Ruthie entered the classroom. Despite the warmth of the evening, she was wearing an elegant pale blue suit, opaque pantyhose, and pumps. If she’d had a matching pillbox hat, Camille thought, she would have looked like a blond Jackie O.

  “Hello, everyone.” The woman moved daintily to her place at the table and set her brown and tan designer bag on top of it.

  “Hello, Esther.” Camille returned her greeting. “That’s a lovely suit.” No doubt it was Chanel. Esther flew to New York twice a year to update her wardrobe, an unheard-of extravagance in a town like Sweetgum. Camille would have envied her, except that she knew Esther wasn’t nearly as perfect as she liked people to think.

  “Oh, I’ve had this for ages.” Esther smoothed the material of the skirt and nodded in receipt of the compliment. She perched on the edge of a chair. “I had a luncheon today and never found a spare minute to change into something more appropriate for this evening.”

  With Esther, Camille knew, everything was about appearances. She was constantly bringing in photos from her latest Alaskan cruise or her trip to see her perfect grandchildren in Memphis. Sometimes Camille found it hard to believe that Esther and Ruthie were sisters. She wouldn’t have believed it if they hadn’t both sworn to it the first time she attended the Knit Lit Society.

  “Hello, Esther,” Ruthie said. “How was the luncheon?”

  Tiny lines showed at the corners of Esther’s mouth. “You would know, Ruthie, if you’d bothered to attend. We raised a nice amount for the Christian Children’s Home.” Camille noticed that Esther didn’t look at her sister as she spoke. Instead she methodically unpacked items from the Louis Vuitton bag and set them out at precise intervals on the table before her. Luxurious angora yarn for whatever project she’d brought. Some very expensive hand-carved needles. Finally, Esther laid an embossed leather-bound versi
on of Jane Eyre on the table—a far cry from Camille’s own dog-eared paperback.

  Camille looked at Esther and then at Ruthie. She had never wished for a sibling. At least not until after her father left during her senior year in high school … and then, well, there’d been barely enough profits from the dress shop her mother had purchased with the divorce settlement to provide basic necessities for the two of them. Camille couldn’t imagine stretching their meager resources for a third person. When her father left town after her mother’s diagnosis, not only had he taken her future; he’d taken her weekly visits to the tanning salon, her membership to the YMCA fitness center, and her French manicures. College tuition had been out of the question. As had Camille’s long-dreamed-of plans to leave Sweetgum.

  “I wonder where Eugenie could be?” Merry said, interrupting Camille’s thoughts. As usual, the jumbled contents of Merry’s bag sprawled across the table in front of her with no particular rhyme or reason. Camille guessed that Merry was part of the group not because of her love of knitting or books but because it was the one place she could escape her minivan-mom existence. Camille herself only came to the meetings at her mother’s insistence. Her mother had been an original member of the group, but given how her health had deteriorated in the last few months … Well, now she sent Camille in her stead.

  A small frown drew out tiny lines of concern on Esther’s forehead. “Eugenie’s never late.” Whatever airs she might put on, Esther seemed to be quite fond of the librarian.

  “I’ll run down to the library and check on her,” Ruthie said, rising from her slouch to move toward the door. At that moment, though, the door opened to admit the librarian in question.

  “Good evening, everyone.” The gray-haired Eugenie spoke with her usual stiff formality as she walked across the room toward them. “I’m sorry to be late.” Eugenie wore a dark skirt, white blouse, and cardigan sweater. A pair of reading glasses hung from her neck by a chain. She was the poster child for librarians everywhere.

  And then Camille noticed the smaller figure behind Eugenie. A teenager, and a trashy one at that. Black Goth eye makeup and nail polish and clothes that looked like they’d been fished from a Dumpster. All in all, your basic nightmare.

  Eugenie stepped to the side and motioned for the teen to stand beside her. “Everyone, I’d like for you to meet Hannah. She’s the newest addition to our group.”

  Camille felt her mouth drop open. She quickly closed it. Ruthie, however, was not as fast and stood slack-jawed for a long moment. The creases in Esther’s forehead grew more pronounced, and Merry sat frozen, knitting needles in midstitch.

  The girl flushed and then scowled, her ghastly makeup and the classroom’s fluorescent lighting accentuating the unpleasant expression. Eugenie alone appeared unperturbed by the sudden silence in the room. Of course, for a librarian silence was a natural habitat.

  “Hannah, meet the Sweetgum Knit Lit Society.” Eugenie took the child by the elbow and pulled her toward the table. “This is Merry McGavin.” She paused meaningfully, and Camille watched in astonishment as Merry managed a nod and a garbled hello. “And this is Esther Jackson, and that’s her sister Ruthie Allen standing behind her.” Both women murmured greetings. “And this is Camille St. Clair.”

  “Hello, Hannah.” Camille couldn’t quite bring herself to say anything more. Why had Eugenie brought this girl to the group? From the silence of the other ladies, she knew they were wondering the same thing.

  “Hannah would like to learn to knit,” Eugenie said, motioning the girl to an empty chair. The teenager set a brown shopping bag with the familiar Munden’s Five-and-Dime logo on the table.

  “Well, learning to knit shouldn’t take long,” Merry said brightly, not looking at the girl.

  “You could probably learn what you need to know tonight,” Camille added, relieved. This Hannah wasn’t a long-term addition then.

  “Hannah, I’m rather thirsty. I suspect you are as well,” Eugenie said to the girl. She reached into her pocketbook—Camille doubted Eugenie had ever carried something as current as a handbag—and withdrew some change. “Would you mind going down to the end of the hall for soft drinks?”

  The girl looked around the room, then back at Eugenie. “Whatever.” She held out her hand, and Eugenie poured the coins into Hannah’s palm.

  “Thank you, dear.” Eugenie waited until Hannah had left the room, the door clicking shut behind her, before she addressed the group. “Actually,” Eugenie said, “we’re going to be changing the reading list for the next few months for Hannah’s benefit.”

  “Why?” Merry said before Camille could ask the question herself. “We agreed on the list. I’ve already bought the books.”

  “Yes, well …” Eugenie was rifling through her own knitting bag, one of those stand-up affairs with a wooden frame. The bag sat beside her like an obedient dog. “I discovered that Hannah has never read the girlhood classics.”

  “Girlhood classics?” Camille echoed. What on earth was Eugenie talking about?

  “I’ve made out a new schedule.” Eugenie pulled a sheaf of papers from the knitting bag beside her and one by one passed them to the other members of the group.

  “Little Women? Pollyanna?” Esther’s frown was in danger of becoming permanently affixed to her face. “Surely you’re joking, Eugenie.”

  Lines of tension radiated from the corners of Eugenie’s mouth. “I never joke.”

  Which was true, Camille thought with despair. She pictured the sullen girl again, her greasy hair and dangling skeleton-head earrings. Eugenie would never pull something like this as a prank.

  “You want to change the whole list? I already picked out my yarn for the next six months,” Camille protested. Each month, their knitting project was supposed to relate to the book selection. At the meeting they went around the circle and showed off their handiwork. Camille had planned six months of knitting with the most furry, glitzy, dazzling yarns available. Something with a little style. Some pizazz. Something you would never see in Sweetgum.

  “Yes, well, we’ll simply have to select different projects to go with the new list of books,” Eugenie said with a sniff. “Next month’s assignment will be Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women.” She pulled a second batch of papers from her bag. “I’ve taken the liberty of assigning a simple project so that Hannah will feel included. It only takes two skeins of worsted weight yarn. A nice wool would be best.”

  Camille snagged one of the papers from Merry’s hand. A Christmas Gift for Mr. March, it said. Below was a beginner’s pattern for a garter-stitch scarf. Who wanted to knit a boring wool scarf? That’s all garter stitch was. Going through the same motions, over and over and over again. Just like Sweetgum.

  And then Camille’s cell phone rang. Or rather it began to play the latest Gwen Stefani hit in lieu of a ring tone. Suddenly all eyes were on her, not the new reading list, and the other women cast nervous glances at Eugenie. Camille scrambled for her bag and dug through it until she located her pink Razr.

  “Sorry!” She glanced at the number on the backlit display and then leaped to her feet. “I’ll be right back.” She ignored Eugenie’s disapproving frown as she slipped out the door and down the hall of the education wing, passing that awful Hannah, who was carrying two cans of Coke. The girl pointedly ignored her. Camille knew Eugenie would fume about her cell phone going off—she was such a pain about stuff like that—but she didn’t care. What was Eugenie going to do? Kick her out of the group?

  “Hello? Alex?” She pushed open the front door of the church and skipped down the steps.

  “Hey, Camille. Am I interrupting something?” His voice, like his kiss, warmed and enticed her.

  She leaned against one of the sweetgum trees that surrounded the building. “No. No, not a thing.”

  “Are you outside?” he asked.

  Camille glanced around. “Um, yeah. I was just out for a walk.”

  “Out for a walk? You?” Alex made it sound as shocking as doing a
pole dance in Sunday school class.

  “Just getting some exercise.”

  “I guess there’s not much else to do in Sweetgum.”

  “Not when you’re not here.”

  He chuckled, and Camille drank in the sound. If only he were here, next to her, where she could smell the scent of his cologne and put her hand on his arm.

  “I’ll be back in town in a few days.”

  “Promise?” Her heart beat faster.

  “I promise. By the middle of next week at the latest.”

  “And then?” The moment she asked the question, she wanted to take it back. She had learned early on that he was not a man to be pressured. He hated expectations.

  “Then I’ll take you out to dinner. We’ll drive up to Nashville.”

  She was disappointed with his answer but knew better than to let him hear her feelings in her voice. Above her head the sweetgum trees screened out the dwindling September evening light.

  “I’ll be waiting.” He liked it when she said stuff like that. He liked to know she was expecting him. Camille only wished he liked to show up as much as she liked to anticipate his arrival.

  “Ciao.” Alex made a noise into the phone that sounded like he was blowing a kiss. “Ciao,” Camille echoed.

  And then the line went dead. Long before she was ready for it to do so. But at least he was coming back soon. And next time …

  Well, next time maybe he’d tell her the one thing she needed to hear. Maybe when he came, he’d finally tell her that he was leaving his wife.

  Esther stared at her needles in despair. She would not cry. Not in front of Eugenie. Not in front of Merry. And certainly not in front of her sister.

  She could feel Ruthie looking at her. With dogged determination, Esther jammed the point of the needle through what she hoped was a stitch. It should have been so simple. She’d been at it for months now but had yet to complete one of the assigned projects herself. None of the other women had problems like this. Even that wretched teenager was aggressively stitching away after a mere fifteen minutes of instruction from Eugenie.