The Sweetgum Knit Lit Society

by Beth Pattillo

  “It’s hard to do my job when all I can think about is you,” he said.

  Camille forced her knees not to buckle. Sure, it was a cliché. Corny even. But when Alex said something like that, she forgot to be on her guard. Forgot to play it cool.

  “You still haven’t guessed who was in the shop.”

  “I don’t want to guess. I want to know if you’ll come to Memphis this weekend.”

  Camille’s throat went dry. “Really? You want me to come there?” She could picture him in his law office in an old building downtown that overlooked the Mississippi. Of course, she’d never actually been there, so her image was a jumble of what she’d seen in John Grisham movies and memories from her senior class trip, when they stayed at the Peabody Hotel.

  “I have the whole weekend free. What do you say?”

  Tears stung her eyes. At last. She’d been waiting for this invitation for such a long time. “Does this mean what I think it means?” She would have to find someone to stay with her mother. And find the money to pay that someone. But there was no way she was going to turn down this invitation now that he’d extended it.

  “I’m finalizing the lease on an apartment. I’ll call you back later in the week to figure out the details,” he said.

  “But you still didn’t guess who was just in the store.” She wasn’t ready to say good-bye to him.

  “Camille, I give up. I grew up in Sweetgum, and I know everybody. And I’m sure they all come into your store at some point.”

  “Yes, but this was a special somebody.”

  “Special? As in male special or female special?”

  The note of jealousy in his voice sent a thrill through her body. “Female special.” She almost laughed. “As in your mother.”

  She thought he would laugh too. Instead there was dead silence.

  “Camille …” His voice held that familiar warning note.

  “Don’t worry. I didn’t say anything.”

  “I’ll tell her in my own time.”

  “I know.”

  He paused. “So what did she want?”

  Camille didn’t tell him the truth. Secrecy was part of what Esther was paying her for. “A cardigan. She left hers at home, and I guess she decided she’d rather buy a new one than run home to get the one she forgot.”

  He sighed. “Sounds like Mom all right.”

  “She was really nice to me.”

  “Camille …” The warning note again.

  “Honestly, Alex, I’m hardly likely to rock her world when she comes into the store to buy a sweater.” That sounded good. Especially that little note of sophistication she’d managed to inject into her voice.

  “Oops. Gotta go. My next client’s here.” His voice was brusque again. “Call you later. Ciao.”

  “Ciao,” Camille said brightly, but his scolding had made a little of the glow fade from the day. Still, he’d invited her for the weekend. He was getting an apartment. That had to mean something.

  She clicked the button on her phone to end the call and tapped the pink Razr against her chin. Well, at least she had a whole store full of clothes to choose from. And if she was very careful and didn’t stain or tear anything, they could go right back on the rack on Monday morning. Customers weren’t the only ones adept at the old trick of wearing something and then returning it.

  In the days since the new pastor had arrived in town, Eugenie had avoided the Sweetgum Christian Church like the plague. Of course, since she only went to the church on the one night a month that the Knit Lit Society met, the task wasn’t that difficult. The problem, of course, was that the new pastor was bound to venture out of the church sooner or later, and Eugenie could hardly stay holed up in her office in the library simply to avoid an encounter with her past.

  So other than avoiding the church, she was determined to stick to her normal routine. After all, no one in Sweetgum knew that there was any connection at all between her and the Reverend Paul Carson. And there was no reason anyone should ever know. As long as matters stayed that way, everything would be just fine.

  Except that he’d said she looked familiar. Right before she’d fled as if he were an ax murderer.

  So a little before eleven o’clock in the morning, Eugenie walked down the library steps with firmness of purpose, determined not to show any fear or hesitation. This library, this town—they were hers. She would not let his presence take that away from her, not when she’d sacrificed so much to have them in the first place. Not after all these years.

  The bright October day was the best kind of Indian summer, warm but not hot and with no humidity to cling to skin or scalp. Eugenie quickly walked the two blocks to Tallulah’s Café on the town square. Her only concession to the tension vibrating through her body was the white-knuckled fingers clutching her pocketbook. She had dressed as she did every day—dark skirt, crisp blouse, cardigan. When she crossed Spring Street, she saw Esther driving past, on her way to her bridge club no doubt. She returned Esther’s cheerful wave. Once, long ago, the ladies had asked if Eugenie would care to join their group. It hadn’t occurred to any of them that she could hardly skip out of the library for three hours every Tuesday. And of course they would never dream of meeting in the evenings when they were home with their husbands and, once upon a time, their children. Bridge club types like Esther had no understanding, really, of what Eugenie’s life was like.

  Had been like, she corrected herself. Because if Homer and the rest of his cronies had their way and she was forced to retire, everything would change. And she doubted very much it would be for the better for anyone, least of all for her.

  Tallulah’s Café occupied a corner storefront on the west side of the town square. The square itself, a hodgepodge of buildings of every shape and size, was dominated by the imposing Victorian courthouse in its center, which had been built well before the ravages of the Civil War wracked the town. The café had been serving up fried chicken livers and icebox pie since Eugenie arrived in Sweetgum forty years before. Over the last few years, it had become her regular Tuesday lunch place.

  “Morning, Eugenie,” Tallulah greeted her when she entered the café. Tallulah Browning was older even than Eugenie, her tanned face lined with wrinkles but wreathed in a smile. No one was forcing Tallulah to retire or telling her that her time had passed. No, those same men who were putting so much pressure on Eugenie, saying she was too old for her job, well, they would squawk like the dickens if anyone suggested Tallulah should hang up her apron.

  “Good morning, Tallulah. How are things today?”

  “Busy enough to run me ragged but not busy enough to make me rich,” she said with a chuckle. “Your table’s waiting for you.”

  “Thank you.” Eugenie nodded her gratitude and slid into her usual two-top by the café’s large plate glass window. A glass of unsweetened iced tea sat waiting. Tallulah followed her to the table and hovered while Eugenie settled into her chair and carefully unrolled her silverware from its paper napkin.

  “The usual, Eugenie? Or do you want to live a little? The special’s chicken-fried steak.” Tallulah’s teasing grin held no malice, and so Eugenie accepted her good-natured ribbing with a smile of her own.

  “Just the fruit plate, please.”

  “All right. If you’re sure.”

  Suddenly Eugenie didn’t know if she was sure. For years now she’d been coming to the café every Tuesday and ordering the same lunch—two peach halves and a large scoop of cottage cheese accompanied by a packet of saltine crackers. The fruit plate was by far the healthiest thing on Tallulah’s menu, and Eugenie had always prided herself on how well she’d maintained her figure. What’s more, since she never gained weight, she never had to worry about buying new clothes every season. Her serviceable skirts and blouses could last for years, a fact that suited her natural frugality.

  But now, sitting in the window of Tallulah’s with one nervous eye on the square searching for any sign of Paul Carson, Eugenie needed more sustenance—and comfo
rt—than canned fruit and cheese curds could provide.

  “Wait.” The word fell from her lips before she could talk herself out of it. She looked into Tallulah’s kind eyes, blue as robin’s eggs. “Maybe I will have the special.”

  Tallulah was nice enough not to look surprised. “Sure thing, honey. You want your mashed potatoes with or without gravy?”

  Why not go whole hog? “Gravy. And some fried okra if you have it.” Eugenie couldn’t believe what she was saying.

  “Coming right up.” Tallulah’s smile was even wider than usual. Eugenie forced herself to turn her attention back to arranging her silverware on the Formica tabletop. And that was when she heard the familiar baritone voice at the entrance to the café calling out a greeting to the owner.

  “Good morning to you too, preacher,” she heard Tallulah answer. Eugenie willed herself not to look over her shoulder. Instead she fixed her gaze on the marquee of the art deco movie theater kitty-cornered from the café. She could hardly make sense of what the marquee advertised—something about a new animated children’s movie. But as hard as she stared, she couldn’t distract herself enough to keep from overhearing the conversation at the door.

  “Sit anywhere you like,” Tallulah said. Eugenie felt the moment Paul’s eyes landed on her.

  “Anywhere?” Since the café was empty at this early hour except for Eugenie, he had his choice of tables, booths, or counter seats. She wasn’t surprised, though, when she heard his footsteps walking toward her. Didn’t all preachers instinctively know how to work a room?

  “Morning, ma’am.” He appeared at her side and extended his right hand. “We never finished our introductions that night at the church. I’m Paul Carson, in case you don’t remember.”

  Her eyes rose the long, long way up his neatly pressed button-down shirt to rest on his never-forgotten face. She put her own hand out and felt his palm press against hers, his fingers curled around the side of her hand.

  “Hello, Paul.” She didn’t say her name. She couldn’t. Her tongue was as thick as a compendium of Shakespeare’s plays. The warmth of his hand holding hers sapped the remaining good sense out of her brain.

  “Eugenie.” His eyes lit with recognition. He didn’t so much say her name as breathe it. His face widened in a look of wonder and then one of understanding. “Of course.”

  “Of course?” she asked, forcing a small smile to her lips. “You were expecting to find me at Tallulah’s?” Her wry tone covered the panic that flooded her chest. Every instinct told her to do exactly what she’d done the last time she saw him—flee for her life. Or her sanity. Or both. Anxiety had been banished from her existence for more than forty years. Eugenie refused to entertain, much less tolerate, such a useless state of emotion. But now it was as if every fear she’d ever denied or banished had come flooding back and threatened to swamp her.

  “May I?” Paul nodded toward the chair opposite hers. He was still holding her hand, and out of the corner of her eye Eugenie could see Tallulah watching them in fascination.

  “Yes,” she said, opting for the lesser of two evils. Paul Carson sitting across a table from her had to be far less threatening than Paul Carson standing there holding her hand again after all these years.

  “I can’t believe it.” He sank into the chair and kept his eyes on her face. She could feel the flush rising in her cheeks. She who never blushed. Ever. She wouldn’t allow herself to. But now she could do nothing to stop the flood of color or the dizzy feeling that threatened to tip her out of her chair onto the black-and-white tile floor of the café.

  He continued to stare at her. She reached for her iced tea and took a sip to calm her nerves. It would take something far stronger than tea to accomplish that task.

  “You live in Sweetgum?” he asked, and then he waved a hand as if to dismiss the question. “Sorry. That’s obvious. Of course you do. I just can’t believe it, after all these years.”

  “It has been a long time.” She kept her words light, refusing to let him see the pain his presence caused. “I’m surprised you remembered me.” She didn’t mean the self-deprecating words but said them for her own protection.

  He frowned. “Remember you? Eugenie, I’ve never for—”

  At that moment, Tallulah walked up to the table with another glass of iced tea in hand. “Here you go, preacher. What can I get you for lunch today?”

  “Grilled cheese would be fine, Tallulah. And maybe some onion rings?”

  “Sure thing.” She turned to Eugenie. “Shall I wait and bring your food out with the preacher’s?”

  In her wildest imaginings, Eugenie never would have envisioned sitting down to lunch at Tallulah’s Café with Paul Carson after forty years of separation. Or sitting down with Paul Carson anytime, for that matter. She’d so neatly and carefully packed away her memories and her feelings. Now they were spilling out of her like a waterfall, and she had no idea how to contain them again.

  Before she could answer Tallulah, Paul responded. “The same time would be great. Thanks. Eugenie and I have a lot to talk about.”

  Tallulah’s eyebrows arched like the beams in the church sanctuary, but she simply nodded. “Five minutes or so. Shouldn’t be too long.” And then she walked away, leaving Eugenie at a loss for words.

  “How long have you lived in Sweetgum?” Paul asked. He reached for a packet of sugar, ripped it open, and poured it in his tea.

  “Over forty years now,” she answered quietly. She was torn between looking into his eyes and avoiding his gaze. “I’m the head librarian.” She stopped. “That sounds more important than it is, since the only other staff are two part-time ladies who help me shelve the books and a janitor who splits his days between the library and the courthouse.”

  Paul smiled. “Knowing you, I expect it’s the best-run library in Tennessee. An impeccable collection and nary an overdue book in sight.”

  Eugenie stopped herself from wincing at the accuracy of his statement. He hadn’t meant any insult, she was sure, but somehow his words stung.

  “I do my best. It’s been a good job.”

  “Been? You’re retired?”

  “Not yet, although I’m being pushed in that direction.”

  Paul chuckled. “I’d like to see the man who’s brave enough to try to force your hand.” And then his smiled faded.

  “I’m sorry, Eugenie. I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s okay. I know you didn’t.”

  The whole episode was surreal. Paul. The café. The decades of separation that lay between them on the chipped top of the well-worn table. Eugenie felt like one of those clocks in the Salvador Dali painting, as if she, too, might slide out of her chair and onto the floor. The idea held a certain appeal.

  “Is there anyone—” Paul stopped. “I mean—”

  “I never married.” She looked at him now, bracing herself for the pity she would see in his eyes. That was the worst part, really, of seeing him again. Knowing that he of all people would see the empty spaces around the shape of her life. “Did you? Marry, I mean?” For the first time, she let her gaze drop to his left hand, where it rested on the table. There was no ring on his finger, but she could see the outline where one had been. Her stomach twisted, and she knew she would never be able to choke down even one bite of her chicken-fried steak.

  “Yes. After seminary. Helen and I were married for more than thirty years.”

  “Were?”

  “She died two years ago.”

  “And that’s why you’re in Sweetgum?”

  He laughed, but the sound held no joy. With a sigh he leaned back in his chair. “You aren’t the only one who knows what it’s like to be pushed out the door.”

  “I can’t imagine a church asking you to leave.” She might have questioned his devotion to her but not to God.

  “Really?” He reached for his glass and took a long drink. “Apparently some parishioners prefer that their preacher not engage in anything messy, like a wife fighting a prolonged battle with c
ancer.” He stopped, set the glass down, and took a deep breath. When he looked up again, Eugenie’s breath froze in her chest. Rarely had she had the occasion to see that kind of pain in another person’s eyes.

  “Paul.” Instinctively, she reached out to take his hand, but she saw movement out of the corner of her eye and realized Tallulah was only steps away with their plates of food in hand.

  “I’m sorry, Eugenie. Didn’t mean to be maudlin,” he said.

  Tallulah slid their plates in front of them. “Here ya go, folks.” There was noise and bustle from the doorway as more customers arrived. “Enjoy.” And then she was gone, leaving Eugenie at a loss as to how to continue.

  What did a woman say to the love of her life when he turned up again after a forty-year absence?

  “Pass the salt, please,” was all she could think of.

  She’d known it would be difficult seeing him again. She just hadn’t realized how fresh that long-buried pain would feel now at its resurrection.

  Ruthie stopped to rub her eyes after staring for so long at the computer screen. Sometimes she longed for the old days when she typed up the church newsletter and worship bulletin on an IBM Selectric. True, it hadn’t been nearly as flexible as a computer, but a typewriter also wasn’t as demanding. Back then all she’d needed to know was how to type and how to do it accurately. Now she was faced with a plethora of choices and decisions. Word processing programs. Publishing programs. Design templates. Uploading the newsletter to the church’s Web site. At the end of a long day like today, it made her feel as if her eyes might roll back in her head.