The Sweetgum Knit Lit Society

by Beth Pattillo

  Camille might be only twenty-four, but she wasn’t stupid. Except apparently when it came to married men.

  “Honey, you want more coffee?” Alex called from the kitchen on the other side of the living room.

  “No. I’m fine.” She clutched the lapels of her robe closer together. She should have been basking in triumph now that he had left his wife. She should have been standing on the little balcony, trumpeting her success. Instead, she felt hollow inside. She had never anticipated that it would feel like this, that regret would choke her throat so tightly she couldn’t swallow the first sip of coffee.

  “Be careful what you ask for,” her mother had always warned her. “You just might get it.”

  If only she had listened.

  “Your cell phone’s ringing,” Alex called again, unseen. “Do you want me to answer it?”

  “No!” She shot across the room and around the partial wall that divided the living area from the kitchen. “It’s probably my mom.”

  Alex was standing in front of the sink filling the coffeepot with water. He chuckled. “You’re a grown woman, Camille.”

  “And Sweetgum is a small town. She might recognize your voice. Besides …”

  “What?”

  She blushed, ashamed of her lack of sophistication. “It would upset her if a man answered my cell phone before eight o’clock in the morning.”

  Alex reached over to chuck her under the chin. “You’re cute.” Then he swatted her rear. “Answer your phone.”

  Camille scooped up her purse and hurried back to the living room. She sank onto the sleek leather sofa—if you could call such a minimalist piece of furniture a sofa—and flipped open her phone.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m sorry to be a worrywart,” her mother said by way of greeting. “Just had to check on you.”

  “I’m fine, Mom. Is everything okay there? Is Eulene taking good care of you?” Camille had finally found someone suitable to stay with her mother for the weekend, a retired woman who was a friend of Ruthie’s.

  “Eulene is terrific. She’s going to help me with my bath this morning.”

  Camille covered the phone’s mouthpiece to mask her sigh of relief. Her mother must like Eulene if she was letting her help with that particular chore.

  “You left your knitting,” her mother said. “I thought you were going to take it with you.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll be back tonight.”

  “Are you having a good time?”

  A hot rush of shame swamped her. She’d never lied to her mother like this before.

  “Your book’s still here too. I hope you remembered your toothbrush,” her mother teased.

  “I did.”

  “Well, have a good time with Carmen. I’m sure you have a lot of catching up to do.”

  Another lie. Her best friend from high school lived in Memphis but was conveniently out of town this weekend. It had made for the perfect cover story.

  “We stayed up way too late talking,” Camille said. How easily the falsehoods slid off her tongue.

  And then Alex’s deep voice called from the kitchen, “Sure you won’t change your mind about the coffee?”

  “Who’s that?” Camille’s mother asked.

  “Just Carmen’s boyfriend. He came over early to take us out for breakfast.”

  “Oh. Okay. Well, enjoy yourself, honey. You deserve it.”

  “I will, Mom. Thanks. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Drive safe on the way home. Not too fast.”

  “I won’t.”

  How many times had they had a similar exchange? Camille said good-bye and snapped the phone shut.

  Alex appeared around the corner from the kitchen. “Since you don’t want coffee …” He moved toward her, sliding onto the couch beside her and taking her in his arms. “What do you say we go back to bed?” His kiss was warm, practiced, and effective. Or maybe she just wanted it to be. She just wanted something to stop the pain and the panic and the frustration.

  So she said nothing. Just kept kissing Alex, hoping that he really meant it when he said that his marriage was over, that he loved her, that she’d never be alone again.

  The cold front arrived the first week of November and stayed well into the second week. As it turned out, Ruthie thought, it wasn’t a bad time to be knitting a shawl. She’d been using a lot of her free time at the church office to complete the project. The next meeting of the Knit Lit Society was only a few days away, and she was only halfway done. Perhaps that was because she spent as much time sitting behind her desk lost in thought, the knitting needles motionless in her hands, as she did stitching.

  Knitting helped a broken heart to start healing. At least that’s what Ruthie’s mother had told her when she bought her that first set of needles and skein of yarn thirty-some-odd years ago. Ruthie had just returned from her time in the Peace Corps. She had returned, in fact, to the news that Esther had married Frank. No one had wanted to tell her while she was an ocean away, herding goats or whatever it was she was doing in Africa. Ruthie wasn’t sure what they feared—whether it was worry for her mental health or physical safety. Or perhaps her parents and Esther had been more concerned that she might hop on a plane and come home in time for the wedding. In time to stop the wedding.

  She would have if she’d known.

  But no cable arrived, no telegram, no transatlantic phone call punctuated by static and abruptly disconnected. Instead, Ruthie’s parents had been waiting for her at the airport in Nashville on the appointed day. She’d been so excited to be back, although the culture shock proved even more severe than she’d expected despite the warnings of more seasoned Peace Corps veterans. The ease of American life, the bounty at even the smallest convenience store, Cokes in ice-cold bottles—she felt so out of place. How to reconcile the deprivation she’d witnessed in the last two years with the excess of her birthplace? She knew now how much she’d taken for granted. What a tremendous responsibility she bore. And none of her friends or family could even begin to comprehend what had happened to her.

  Overwhelmed by the memories, Ruthie set her knitting down and gazed out the window. The sweetgum trees were almost bare. Winter couldn’t be far behind. She hadn’t spoken to Esther since the afternoon she’d shown up in the church office. She hadn’t spoken to Frank either. Every day she’d gotten up, tended to her house and garden, gone to work, come home to a solitary supper, and gone to bed. A mindless routine, although her mind had certainly been busy of its own accord.

  Frank kept calling. Thank heavens for caller ID. She let his calls, and her sister’s, go to voice mail. And she knitted, even though she kept ripping out most of what she’d done. She never should have chosen a complicated lacy stitch to begin with. But then she’d never anticipated Esther’s request and the havoc it would wreak on her state of mind.

  Every day she waited brought Frank one day closer to death. Okay, perhaps that thought was a bit dramatic, but it contained enough of the truth to wake her up in the wee hours of the morning. There wasn’t enough warm milk in the world to soothe her back to sleep these days.

  Ruthie reached out and fingered the brochure on the desk in front of her. Namibia. The word on the cover jumped out at her. She opened it again and reread the contents for the hundredth time. Two-year commitment. Her completed application lay underneath the glossy brochure. Beside that a stamped, addressed envelope waited.

  Where would she find yarn, she wondered? Or books in English? She’d lived without creature comforts before, but she’d been much younger then. A child, really, in all the ways that counted.

  With a sigh, she folded the application, tucked it into the envelope and sealed it, and tossed it into the outgoing mail tray on her desk. Napoleon would pick up the pile of envelopes at the end of the day and take them to the post office.

  Ruthie paused. She couldn’t sit there all day looking at that envelope, so instead she grabbed her coat from the rack in the corner and scooped up the outgoing mail
herself. She needed a break anyway.

  She peeked into the pastor’s study. “Rev. Carson? I’m going to run to the post office.”

  “Okay, Ruthie.” He didn’t look up from the thick Bible commentary he was holding. The man certainly took writing sermons seriously. A refreshing change of pace from the previous pastor, who had downloaded most of his from the Internet. “I’ll answer the phone if it rings.”

  She smiled, but it felt bittersweet on her lips. This trip to the post office might mean he’d have to find a new secretary in a few months.

  Outside she pulled the lapels of her coat together at her throat and wished she’d remembered to loop a scarf around her neck before heading out the door that morning. The day was raw, but it was also alive, the stiff breeze challenging her every step as she headed into the wind. She opened the lapels of her coat long enough to tuck the mail into an inside pocket.

  The walk to the post office was a good idea. It cleared her head. She passed by familiar landmarks as she made her way around the town square—Kendall’s Department Store, the Rexall drugstore, the movie theater, where she’d seen scores of films. Tallulah’s Café, with its endless cups of coffee and black-bottom pie. How would she live somewhere that didn’t have those places? They were a part of her now. The first time she left home, she hadn’t known how dear it was. This time she would know utterly and completely.

  Merry dreaded the November meeting of the Sweetgum Knit Lit Society with a sense of foreboding she’d rarely felt in her life. Now that she was four months pregnant, more than one person had given her belly a second look. She was still at the stage where her burgeoning middle could be attributed to weight gain, but time was running out on her secret.

  And she still hadn’t told Jeff.

  How could she after the fight they’d had the week before? The only thing that could make our lives worse would be if we had more kids. She’d repeated his words over and over so often that they were burned into her brain. And so she kept her silence, even as she tried to keep down her breakfast. She was more nauseated with this pregnancy than with her last. The symptoms were similar to what she’d experienced with Jake, which probably meant another boy.

  It was the Friday before Thanksgiving, with all the added pressures of the holidays looming. She parked in her usual spot in front of the church, moving as quickly as her expanding middle would allow through the early evening drizzle. She had to be more careful now about slick spots on the sidewalk.

  After all, she was walking for two, she thought wryly.

  By the time she reached the top of the stairs, she could hear voices coming from the classroom. The ancient radiator system hissed and groaned as it tried to provide a modicum of heat for the old building.

  “Merry, there you are.” Camille met her at the classroom door with a forced, rather brittle-looking smile on her face.

  “Eugenie wanted to start without you, but I wouldn’t let her.”

  Merry didn’t know what to say to this unusual display of attention from Camille.

  “Thanks, Camille. I practically had to force-feed Sarah. And then I couldn’t find my car keys.”

  Camille smiled. “You’re here now.”

  Merry followed her into the room. This time she deliberately took the seat next to Hannah, whose hair and clothing showed no marked improvement from two months before. Merry wondered if she should offer to take the girl shopping for clothes, but she doubted Hannah would be any more receptive to that idea than she had been to Merry’s offer to buy yarn for her in Nashville.

  “Evening, Merry,” Ruthie said. “How are you?”

  They passed a few minutes in pleasant if inconsequential chitchat. Ruthie said she liked the new pastor pretty well. Eugenie mentioned a few new books that had arrived at the library. When asked, Camille informed them that her mother was about the same. Esther’s ten-year-old grandson was evidently about to win a Nobel prize, and Hannah grunted monosyllabic responses to any questions that came her way. A typical meeting so far, Merry thought.

  “So,” Eugenie began, when it was clear that the time for chitchat was over. “Let’s talk about the book. I must confess I’d forgotten quite a few details over the years, but one question did keep coming up for me, so I thought I’d ask it of you all.” She paused and looked around the circle. “Do you believe there’s a princess in every girl?” Eugenie asked.

  Hannah snorted.

  Merry thought of the Cinderella comforter set she’d just ordered for Sarah’s fifth birthday. Ruthie looked militant—she’d no doubt have a great deal to say about antifeminist propaganda—and Esther was practically preening. Not difficult to tell where she would stand on the issue. Esther clearly had no problems whatsoever with cultivating her inner princess.

  “I think that’s true,” Merry said. “Or if it isn’t, it ought to be.”

  “What does that even mean, though?” Ruthie frowned. “I’ve never understood why we set such unrealistic expectations for little girls.”

  “Boys have their own superheroes,” Esther pointed out. “I’m sure my son spent a lot of time playing Batman or Transformers or those strange turtle creatures. What were they called?”

  “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,” Hannah muttered.

  “Yes. Those things. The idea of being a princess gives a girl something to aspire to, just as boys see their superheroes as models of strength and courage.”

  “Princess seems to have a different definition today than it did when I was little,” Merry said. “Back then it was more about looks and being pleasant. Now it’s more powerful.”

  Eugenie looked satisfied at the direction of the conversation. “So how is it more powerful?”

  Hannah cleared her throat. “You don’t need a prince anymore. Nobody needs a prince anymore.”

  “You’re right.” Merry nodded. She hadn’t thought of it that way before, but Hannah’s observation made sense. “All of the stuff I buy for Sarah focuses on the princess. The prince has become an accessory, not a central figure.” Ruthie laughed. “I like it.”

  Esther pursed her lips. “Feminism.” A one-word indictment.

  “Reality,” Ruthie snapped back. “What did Gloria Steinem say about a woman needing a man? Like a fish needing a bicycle?”

  “But we like men,” Camille said, frowning. “We’re supposed to like them.”

  “But are they necessary?” Merry heard herself say. “Now that women can get an education and work and fend for themselves?”

  “Well, they’re certainly necessary in one way.” Esther’s mouth was tight at the corners. And then she realized she’d said something slightly risqué and fell silent.

  Eugenie intervened. “What about the character in this book?” She pointed to her copy of A Little Princess. “Did she need a man?”

  “In that world she did,” Hannah said. “She was just a kid. The grownups were supposed to take care of her.”

  Merry’s throat closed. In her mind’s eye, she saw the ramshackle trailer Hannah called home, the sagging redwood deck, the ominous pickup truck.

  “So what saved her in the end?” Eugenie asked. “Was it a man, the neighbor who knew her father, or was it her own goodness?”

  They fell silent, pondering the question. The radiator in the corner hissed like a kettle letting off steam.

  Esther was the first to speak. “The character held her head high even when circumstances were against her. Perhaps that’s the mark of a true princess, if that’s what you want to call it. I call it being a lady.”

  “But even she had a breaking point.” Ruthie said. “That’s the darkest moment in the book. When it seems as if all hope is lost. Even when the ‘magic’ comes, as she and Becky call it, it’s not enough. The headmistress tries to have them arrested for stealing.”

  “And then she is saved by a man,” Esther pointed out.

  “So how do you all feel about that?” Eugenie asked. “Do you agree that we can’t ultimately save ourselves, as the author seems to say?�
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  Merry chuckled. “If we can save ourselves, then I’ve been wasting a lot of years right here in this church.”

  Hannah snorted. “Ya think?”

  “Well, let’s move on. What about your shawls? How did they turn out?” Eugenie tactfully brought the discussion to a close and looked at the group with an unusual degree of expectation. Normally she was the most self-contained person in the group. Tonight she seemed almost … brittle somehow. Maybe the whole discussion of men bothered her. If you looked up spinster in the dictionary, you would most likely find Eugenie’s picture.

  Merry was happy enough to help Eugenie change the subject. The story of a parentless child left to the mercies of self-absorbed people struck a little close to home, and it couldn’t be comfortable for Hannah either. Merry reached into her bag and pulled out the tissue-wrapped shawl she’d brought. This project had been the one bright spot in the past two weeks. She couldn’t wait to see Hannah’s reaction.

  Everyone had something to place on the table. Eugenie’s thick, dark green wool looked warm enough to take on a subarctic trip. Camille had worked beads into the lustrous silk of her ruby shawl. Esther’s chenille piece shimmered with deep jewel tones. Ruthie’s was a vibrant cobalt blue shot through with a silver metallic yarn. And Hannah’s dull green wool was once again so tightly knit that Merry had to wonder whether it would give enough to wrap around the girl’s shoulders.

  “That’s very nice, Hannah,” Ruthie said with her usual kindness. “You finished that very quickly for a beginner.”

  Hannah had completed the shawl at an unusually fast pace, Merry realized. The girl must have knit every spare moment to finish on time.

  “Here’s mine.” Merry spread hers out on the table before her, her eyes fixed on Hannah’s face to see the girl’s reaction. She wondered if Hannah would recognize an apology when she saw it. “It’s for you, Hannah.” She slid the honey-brown shawl toward the girl. Hannah sat transfixed, showing no emotion. Her expression made Merry even gladder that she’d secretly bought the yarn Hannah had admired. It made those long hours of knitting over the last two weeks well worth the trouble.