The Sweetgum Knit Lit Society

by Beth Pattillo

  “Mr. Rochester is, of course, the symbol of fallen and broken humanity,” Eugenie said, guiding the book discussion as deftly—and dominantly—as she knitted. Eugenie hadn’t waited for Camille to return before starting their meeting.

  Esther hadn’t finished the book—she abhorred the Brontës, all that unnecessary emotion—so she couldn’t knit, nor could she contribute to the conversation. How to hide in plain sight? She had never been good at avoiding the spotlight. That was her sister’s job. Ruthie, in her oversize sweatshirt and Lycra pants. Esther could only hope she hadn’t worn that getup to work today.

  According to her husband, Frank, the potential new minister had dropped by the church to have a look around. Please, Lord, let the night janitor have vacuumed the sanctuary. Frank was the chair of the church board. He’d been working diligently to secure a new minister, but it wasn’t easy to find an intelligent, accomplished pastor who wanted to live in a small town like Sweetgum. This new man, though, sounded promising. He was a bit too old—over sixty—but he’d grown up in nearby Columbia and had an interest in returning to his roots. At least that was what Frank had reported when she’d called him at his law office earlier. He had given her the update on the search for a minister, and she had told him when she’d booked his appointment with the cardiologist in Nashville.

  “Esther, don’t you agree?”

  Her head popped up. Eugenie’s dark brown eyes drilled right through her.

  “I’m sorry, Eugenie. I was concentrating on my knitting.” She slid the needles into her lap so no one could see the tangled mess. The harder she tried, the more the yarn slid off the needles. She tried to push the loops back on, but she wasn’t sure which ones were the actual stitches.

  “I asked whether you thought the story represented the eternal human dilemma of obedience to God versus the need for expression of our free will.”

  Esther clenched her teeth so her jaw wouldn’t drop open. “I guess I hadn’t thought of it that way,” she said, head high and back straight. She never allowed her spine to touch the chair. Legs crossed at the ankles only, never at the knees. She wasn’t the first lady of Sweetgum merely by default.

  “Why does Mr. Rochester’s first wife symbolize evil? After all, he was the one who locked her in the attic,” Ruthie said, taking off on a tangent as she always did.

  The teenager—what was her name? Hannah?—rolled her eyes but kept knitting away. Esther peered more closely at the girl’s work. Her stitches were so tight they were probably waterproof. Esther glanced down at the loose, uneven mass in her lap. Her stitches should have been regular and firm. Where had she gone wrong? She glanced at Ruthie, whose needles flew as if they were motorized. How could someone so sloppy in appearance produce such marvelously even work?

  With a sigh, Esther slid her knitting into her lap and picked up her book, pretending to look for a particular passage. She’d perpetrated this charade for months now. Amazing, really, how little people saw of what went on under their very noses. After the meeting, she’d hand off her project to the person she paid to complete them. And the members of the Knit Lit Society—even her own sister—still would not suspect. Fortunately for Esther, Camille came back into the room. Eugenie pursed her lips and carried on pontificating about Charlotte Brontë’s use of imagery. Camille slid into the chair on Esther’s left, but she offered no apology for the phone call or her disappearance. Esther thought highly of Camille’s mother. Nancy St. Clair had worked hard as the owner of Maxine’s Dress Shop until her illness had forced her to retire. She had always been able to order what Esther needed when she couldn’t get to Nashville or Memphis or New York. But Nancy, unlike her daughter, knew that a small town like Sweetgum thrived on order. On people knowing their purpose. And their place.

  As Esther turned to watch Merry effortlessly produce a cable knit baby blanket, she idly wondered if she should pack an overnight bag for tomorrow in case Frank had to have an emergency bypass operation. She would hate to be caught in Nashville without the essentials.

  After thirty minutes, Eugenie gave up on the discussion. It was clear that Ruthie and Merry were the only ones who had actually finished the book, and she doubted whether Esther and Camille had even cracked the spine on their copies.

  “So shall we display our shawls?” Eugenie asked. They would all have much more to say about their knitting than they ever did about their book selections.

  “The silk turned out very well,” Esther said, spreading the gorgeous shawl she’d created across the table. All the women made admiring noises, but Eugenie knew their unspoken thoughts almost as if she could read their minds. The yarn for the shawl must have cost in the high hundreds of dollars.

  “I made a heavy wrap for Jane Eyre,” Merry said, once Esther’s work had been sufficiently praised. “When she flees Thornfield, I always feel like she’s not warm enough.” She withdrew the item from her bag and laid it on the table for the other women to see. The thick eggplant-colored wool formed a large triangle.

  “Very nice,” Eugenie said, reaching over to finger the piece. “Anyone else?”

  Camille spread her work out on the table, a black angora concoction worked in a difficult lace stitch. While Eugenie could admire the intricacy of Camille’s work, the shawl was hardly appropriate for a Victorian heroine. “Also very nice,” she said though, keeping her judgments to herself. “Ruthie?”

  “I’m in love with this soy silk.” Ruthie spread out what she’d finished of the cherry red triangle. “I thought Jane could use a little something daring to attract Mr. Rochester’s notice. Plus it’s organic. They make it out of the by-products from processing tofu.”

  Eugenie paused before replying. “It’s very … natural, isn’t it?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Eugenie’s head snapped up in surprise at Hannah’s scornful tone. The teenager slapped her yarn and needles down on the table and leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her budding chest. “How lame can you be?”

  Eugenie knew a challenge to authority when she saw one.

  Hannah was most unhappy about the punishment Eugenie had meted out. But learning to knit and reading a few decent books—instead of tearing pages out of them—seemed pretty light as far as sentences went.

  The other women looked to Eugenie for her response to Hannah’s challenge.

  “Hannah, as long as you are a part of the Sweetgum Knit Lit Society, you will conduct yourself with dignity.” She shot her a warning look.

  The girl rolled her eyes but picked up her yarn and needles, heaved a sigh, and resumed stitching. Eugenie ignored the evil looks the teenager shot her way. Conversion took time, and today was only the first step in what would surely be a long and lively process with Hannah.

  “Now,” Eugenie said, “does anyone have any questions about next month’s assignment?”

  Having handled Hannah’s rebellion easily, she turned her attention back to the group. She had no intention of letting the Sweetgum Knit Lit Society, the library, or anything else in her life get out of hand.

  Ruthie did not want to read Little Women, of all things. One sister in this lifetime had been plenty, thank you very much. She couldn’t imagine three others, and what’s more, she certainly couldn’t envision a world where all those sisters turned out to be supportive and caring. There was a reason girls like that only existed in books.

  The members of the Knit Lit Society were scattering into the growing darkness as they called good night to one another. The streetlamps had come on, splashing pools of glowing amber along Spring Street. The air was heavy now with the promise of rain and the first hint of fall. She and Esther had studiously ignored one another as they passed through the church doors and went their separate ways. Merry, per usual, made sure to say a proper good night to everyone. Eugenie hustled her latest stray off toward the library, and Ruthie could only speculate about what sin the girl had committed that earned her the Knit Lit Society as penance. Camille had slipped into
the darkness too, in that ethereal way she had, studying the display on her cell phone with a frown. Ruthie was the only one who didn’t own a car, so she set off for home, her tote bag slung in its customary place over her shoulder. Her worn running shoes slapped against the cracks in the sidewalk where stray tree roots had crumpled the concrete.

  In Sweetgum, Ruthie could walk home at night without being afraid. Her snug little clapboard house was only three blocks away, and how much trouble could she possibly encounter between the church and Ragland Street? She should remember to set the ferns out in the yard to catch the rain. They were brown at the edges after a long, hot summer, but they weren’t dead yet. It was too dark by now to deadhead the last of the spindly petunias in her front flower bed. They would have to wait until morning. Since she didn’t have to be at work until nine o’clock, she had plenty of time to see to her plants and animals before heading off to the church.

  Ruthie was sorry that Esther was upset about the luncheon, but if she tried to apologize, it would only make matters worse. Esther would never understand. She saw no reason why Ruthie couldn’t pop over to the house on her lunch hour, mingle with the country club set, and then return to typing up the church bulletin for Sunday. They were as different as two sisters could be, and so were their lives. They’d made their choices long ago, and now both lived with the consequences.

  If only Ruthie didn’t feel quite so alone lying in the proverbial bed she’d made for herself.

  She hadn’t thought far enough ahead that morning to leave the porch light on for her late return, so her small house lay in darkness. Pecan trees shadowed the front lawn, the little picket fence’s disrepair invisible in the gloom. She would have to paint it soon, but her back had been hurting lately and she didn’t relish the task. Ruthie had never feared being alone when she was younger. Now she realized how increasingly vulnerable she was becoming. Age would accomplish what her sister’s intimidation had never managed. Someday she would have to relinquish her independence and place her life in someone else’s control.

  Ruthie had one foot on the front porch step before she sensed his presence. The squeak of the porch swing chain confirmed the tingling along her spine. He must have parked around the corner and walked to her house. It had been several years since he’d shown up on her doorstep like this, a specter in the darkness.

  “One of these days you’re going to scare the life out of me,” she said, although she didn’t mean it. She didn’t look at him.

  “I wouldn’t come unless it was important.”

  Ruthie paused, fingers on the handle of her storm door. “Does she know where you are?”

  He rose from the porch swing and stepped toward her. “Of course not.”

  She hadn’t expected him to answer any differently, although once upon a time she might have hoped he would. “You can’t stay,” she said.

  “Just five minutes, Ruthie. Please, I need you.”

  Not enough, though. Never enough. “We made our choices. It’s too late to change them now.”

  “I know. But I still need to talk to you. I need to get something off my chest.”

  The haunted quality to his words hung in the air, filling up the space between them. She’d loved him for more than thirty years. She certainly wasn’t going to turn him away now.

  “You’d better step inside before I turn the light on. I don’t want the neighbors to see you here.” She opened the front door.

  “It’s not locked?” She could hear the disapproval in his voice.

  “This is Sweetgum, Frank. Who’s going to walk into my house that I don’t know?”

  She waved him inside and then followed behind, closing the door firmly against the night and the outside world.

  And she wondered what Jo March would do if she were the one in love with her sister’s husband.

  Merry knew she shouldn’t resent the fact that Jeff was staying at the office after hours to catch up on his backlog of cases. He had always been a hard worker and a good provider. But these days she rarely saw him, and she missed him. Missed the way he came through the door and kissed her, loosened his tie, fixed himself a glass of iced tea and sat down on a bar stool at the kitchen island to tell her about his day and ask about hers.

  Merry sighed and continued to chop the onion for the casserole, the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional rumble of the icemaker her only company. She’d been reading the opening chapters of Little Women—first in the carpool lane at school and then later curled up in her favorite reading chair while the kids did their homework—and now dinner was behind schedule. But she was determined to finish the book this month and set a good example for the Knit Lit Society’s newest member. And so now she was chopping onion double time, trying not to take off the tip of a finger in the process.

  The sharp sting of the onion brought tears to her eyes, but she continued on, the knife hitting the butcher block with even, satisfying thwacks. The kids would hate this recipe. She didn’t know why she bothered.

  A scarf. A wool scarf. She couldn’t think of anything more boring for the month’s knitting project. As for Little Women, well, she was determined to at least get an A for effort. She’d read the book once years ago and thrown it away in disgust, just as Jo March had thrown away her chance to marry her wealthy best friend Lawrence and instead settled for an old, rumpled German professor and a life of poverty. As a mature adult, Merry still wasn’t entirely convinced that the author had made her case for true love over deprivation and hardship. Fortunately for Merry, she hadn’t been faced with that choice. Jeff had been her high school sweetheart, and he’d also been smart and ambitious enough to satisfy even Merry’s demanding mother.

  Courtney appeared in the kitchen doorway and slouched against the frame. “Mom, where did you put my library book?” Like most thirteen-year-olds, Courtney believed that every glitch in her existence was due to her mother’s incompetence. Merry remembered feeling that way herself once upon a time, but these days she had newfound sympathy for her own mother.

  “I haven’t seen your book. It’s not in your backpack?”

  Courtney rolled her eyes and sighed as if Merry had just uttered the stupidest words ever to fall from the lips of a human being. “No, it’s not in my backpack. Would I have asked you where it was if it was in my backpack?!”

  She should discipline her daughter for sassing her. Merry knew that. Courtney’s attitude had nosedived in recent months, but Merry was so tired and worried and confused and she’d been letting Courtney take advantage of her for so long that she didn’t know if she had the strength to enforce the rules now.

  “Are you sure you brought it home from school?”

  “Mom, if you’re not going to be helpful, just don’t say anything, okay?” Courtney spun away in a twirl of long hair and self-righteousness.

  Merry scooped up the onion and dumped it into the bowl with the chicken and rice mixture. She’d clipped the recipe out of Southern Living several months ago. The kids would certainly have preferred McDonald’s or even frozen chicken nuggets, but every once in a while, she made herself prepare a home-cooked meal and forced her kids to eat it.

  “Mom! Where’s my uniform? Did you wash it?” Jake came tearing into the kitchen and then slid across the Brazilian slate floor in his stocking feet before coming to a stop with a bang against the custom white pine cabinets. “I’ve got a game tomorrow.”

  “I told you to put your uniform in the laundry room if it needed to be washed. Where did you see it last?”

  Jake shrugged. “I dunno. You can find it faster than I can anyway.”

  Merry sniffed and wiped back onion tears. “All right. Let me get the casserole in the oven.” Sometimes it was just easier to do it herself.

  “Casserole?” He made a gagging sound and clutched his stomach before sinking to the floor in a paroxysm of mock agony. “Don’t kill me before the game. My team needs me.”

  Merry laughed. Jake’s sauciness didn’t hold the edge of contempt th
at Courtney’s did. He was honest to a fault but rarely judgmental. She wondered if the hormone poisoning that was puberty would turn Jake against her as it had Courtney.

  By the time she’d searched the house for Jake’s uniform, as well as Courtney’s missing library book, she was exhausted. The early stages of pregnancy had always been like that for her. With the older two, she’d been proud of herself if she could stay awake to watch the six o’clock news. When Sarah came along, Courtney and Jake were in school and she’d napped during the day to compensate for her need for extra sleep. Now Sarah was in preschool, but only for a few hours in the morning. Naps were not in Merry’s immediate future.

  It was after seven o’clock before the casserole finished baking and Merry herded all three children to the table. Guilt pricked at her, sharp and needlepointed. A better mother would have dinner on the table at six, not seven. A better mother would have served at least two green vegetables (that everyone would eat) along with the hateful casserole. A better mother’s children would be devoted to her. That Marmee character in Little Women didn’t know how good she had it. Sure, her family was poor, cold, and often hungry. But when Marmee came home, the girls vied with one another to plump her cushion, bring her tea, and rub her feet. Clearly Merry had missed the boat somewhere.

  “Mom? Where’s Dad?” Jake pushed the casserole around on his plate with a fork. He’d wolfed down two dinner rolls in seconds, but he wasn’t in any hurry to tackle the main course. Merry sat at one end of the long dining room table, Courtney and Sarah on her left and Jake on her right. The chair opposite Merry’s was conspicuously empty.

  “He’s got a big case right now, Jake, and he’s trying to catch up on some things. I know it’s hard for you not to have him here, but it won’t be forever.” That empty chair was the price they all paid for the large Colonial-style house that backed up to the ninth fairway of the Sweetgum Country Club.