The Sweetgum Knit Lit Society

by Beth Pattillo

  “So what are you guys wearing to the winter dance at the club?” Courtney asked, including Hannah in the question. “There’s nothing decent in that lame dress shop on the square.” She paused to pick at the dressing-free salad on her tray. “Of course, if my mom weren’t so involved in her charity work,” she cast a meaningful glance at Hannah, “she might have had time to take me to Nashville to shop.”

  This was going to be bad. Hannah clutched the book in her lap.

  “Yeah, your mom must really be into helping poor people,” Heather said. She was going to enjoy this just as much as Courtney. Hannah kept her silence. Either they’d get tired of goading her and leave, or it would get so bad that she’d have to be the one to flee. But she wasn’t going to concede the field of battle without putting up some sort of fight.

  “Maybe Hannah has something I can borrow?” Courtney turned to face her, and Hannah could feel the gaze from Courtney’s MAC-heavy eyes boring into her. “Maybe you could knit me a dress?” She snickered and Heather joined in.

  “Guys …” Lindsey looked around and leaned forward to speak in a low voice. “Come on. Let’s go back to our table.”

  “You don’t think Hannah’s enjoying our company?”

  Courtney flicked that hair like it was Zorro’s blade. “What do you say, Hannah? Want to knit me a Dolce & Gabbana cocktail dress? Or maybe a Vera Wang?” Her snicker turned to a full on laugh. “God, how lame can you be?”

  Hannah bit her tongue until she tasted blood. If she said anything, did anything, she knew what would happen. The free lunch girl versus the prepsters. She’d never stand a chance in the kangaroo court known as the principal’s office.

  “You’re so pathetic,” Heather said to Hannah, all pretense of politeness gone, claws fully extended. “If you really want to be Courtney’s clone, you’re going to have to get some decent highlights. And lose a lot of weight.” She exchanged a look of triumph with Courtney, and they both burst out laughing. Obviously they’d been rehearsing this for a while. But Hannah refused to give them the satisfaction of so much as a wince.

  “Not my problem if your mom would rather hang out with a slacker than a wannabe princess.” Hannah kept her voice low and didn’t look at any of them when she said the words.

  “What did you just say?” Courtney’s voice rose to a squeaky pitch. “Tell me you did not just say what I think you said.”

  “I didn’t just say what you thought I said,” Hannah replied, sarcasm dripping from her words like poison.

  “OMG,” Heather said, her jaw hanging open. “Do you have, like, a death wish?”

  “Y’all, that’s enough,” Lindsey said quietly. “Let’s go.”

  “No.” Courtney’s cheeks were flushed beneath her expensive blusher. She looked like a clown Hannah had seen once at a low-rent circus her mother dragged her to. Of course, her mother had been more interested in entertaining one of the roadies than her daughter. “No,” Courtney repeated, her tone edging toward hysterical. “I don’t think Hannah here has quite gotten the message yet.”

  Before Hannah could do or say anything, Courtney slapped her hand down on the inside edge of Hannah’s cafeteria tray, flipping it. Quick as lightning, the contents—burrito stub, green beans, fruit cocktail—hit Hannah’s chest before falling into her lap, covering the book that lay there.

  For a moment Hannah was so stunned that she couldn’t move. Courtney and Heather laughed, high-fived, and scampered off as quickly as they’d materialized in the first place. Lindsey started to get up, shot a longing look at the departing queen bees, and then sank back into her chair.

  “I’m sorry.” She pulled her napkin from underneath her silverware and thrust it toward Hannah. “I swear I didn’t know they were going to do that.”

  “Whatever.” It seemed to be the only word she could say, might be the only word she’d ever say again. She knew Courtney McGavin was going to make her pay for that whole trip-to-the-yarn-store disaster sooner or later. “Just leave me alone.”

  “Come on. Let’s go to the rest room.” Lindsey stood up and came around the end of the table. She grabbed Hannah’s backpack off the floor and motioned for her to stand.

  Hannah hesitated. Was Lindsey sincere, or was this just a setup for another humiliation compliments of Courtney McGavin?

  “The longer we stand here, the more people will gawk.” Lindsey jerked her head toward the door. “Let’s go.”

  Hannah scraped the jumbled mess of food from her book and shirt back onto the tray. She stood up on legs so shaky she thought they might collapse underneath her, but she refused to give Courtney and Heather that satisfaction.

  “You’re committing social suicide,” she hissed at Lindsey, reaching out to snag her backpack off the other girl’s shoulder. “Just go back with your pack of she-wolves. You’ve done your good deed for the day.”

  “Quit being stupid.” Lindsey turned and headed toward the exit closest to their table. The girls’ rest room was just across the hall. Left with no choice, Hannah started after her—scared, confused, and biting her lip hard so she wouldn’t cry. She refused to give Courtney McGavin the satisfaction of making her cry.

  Hannah looked at herself in the bathroom mirror and took a deep breath to remain calm. The juice from the fruit cocktail had soaked through her T-shirt, leaving it practically see-through in critical spots. Her coat was in her locker, two hallways away, and she had nothing else to wear. The bathroom didn’t have an air-dry machine, so she dabbed at the stains with a paper towel. The bell was going to ring any minute, and she couldn’t go to class like this. But she couldn’t stay in the bathroom either. One more screwup and she’d be spending a whole lot of quality time in detention with Mr. Wharton. She could get a lot of reading done there, but he wouldn’t let her knit. She’d tried to last time, and he’d almost confiscated her yarn and needles.

  “I’ve got another shirt in my locker.” Lindsey was standing in the corner watching Hannah dab at the stains. The other girl looked at her cell phone, checking the time. “We have six minutes before the bell rings and every girl in Sweetgum Middle School comes in here to reapply lip gloss.”

  Hannah’s hand stopped midswipe. “Why are you doing this?” She was looking in the mirror, but she could see Lindsey’s reflection next to her own. “Being someone’s charity case is what got me into this. Go back to your pack and leave me alone.”

  “Bite the hand that feeds you much?” Lindsey smiled, but not in a mean way. “Just because Courtney’s my friend doesn’t mean I approve of everything she does. She’s lashing out at you because she’s mad at her mom. It’s not fair, just fact. I’m trying to minimize the collateral damage.” She stuck her cell phone back in her purse. “And now I’m about to risk detention on your behalf by sneaking to my locker to get you something to wear.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  Lindsey gestured toward Hannah’s now see-through T-shirt. “Oh yeah, I do.” She paused. “Look, I really am sorry about Courtney. I’ll try to keep her away from you.”

  Hannah didn’t get it. Since when did any of the popular posse care about the feelings of a free lunch kid? But before she could say anything else, Lindsey slipped out of the rest room. Hannah took one last swipe at her shirt and finally, now that she was alone, allowed the tears that had been threatening to fall freely. No good ever came of other people’s kindness. She ought to have learned that lesson by now.

  Munden’s Five-and-Dime hadn’t changed since Camille was a child. While the elderly Mr. Munden had been replaced behind the cash register by his daughter Maria, the all-purpose store continued to offer the same array of goods that couldn’t be found at the Rexall drugstore or Callahan’s Hardware. Munden’s was where you went if you needed office supplies, craft items, toys, or holiday decorations.

  Camille and Hannah moved across the brown tile floor underneath the fluorescent lights, passing shelves of picture frames, candles, and plastic flowers for decorating graves. Camille averted her e
yes when they passed the flowers. Death haunted her enough without having to be reminded of its consequences in aisle three.

  “What colors do you want?” Camille asked when they reached the back wall. Shelves of yarn stretched six feet high and ten feet across. Hannah had a pattern clutched in her hand.

  It looked like a freebie she’d downloaded off the Internet.

  Hannah shrugged in response. If they had developed any closeness during their ride home from the last meeting of the Knit Lit Society, it had evaporated. Camille wanted to brush off the disappointment she felt, but the girl’s cold shoulder bothered her. Hannah hadn’t spoken more than three words to her since she’d picked her up at school.

  “Can I see the pattern?” Camille tried a different tack. Honestly, she didn’t have the time or energy to put up with Hannah’s sullenness. But the continued silence of her cell phone had her acting strangely, more like her mother than herself.

  “Here.” Hannah thrust the paper at her. Camille unfolded it, smoothed out the wrinkles, and studied the design for a simple bag. Two identical squares, which were sewn together, and then a long strap for the handle. Well within Hannah’s capabilities as a beginner.

  “Looks good. Are you going to keep it or give it away? Knowing who it’s for can help with picking colors.”

  Again the girl shrugged.

  “Look, Hannah, you’ve got to cooperate a little here.” Camille tried to keep the impatience from her voice. Besides Sunday, Monday was her one day off. In her fantasies, she would be getting a manicure at Mademoiselle Salon or a facial at the new day spa on the outskirts of town. In reality, she needed to catch up on the laundry or the grocery shopping that never seemed to end.

  “Whatever.” The girl snagged a few skeins of dark brown yarn from the nearest rack. She whirled around toward the front of the store, but Camille put a hand on her arm to stop her.

  “Wait a second. That won’t felt. It’s acrylic, not wool.” If Camille was going to give up her time off, then Hannah was at least going to have to pick the right yarn.

  The teenager stuffed the brown hanks back where she’d found them. “Then you pick,” she said with a scowl.

  “Fine.” Camille pulled out several skeins of Pepto-Bismol pink wool. “Here you go.” She bit back a smile when she saw Hannah’s look of revulsion.

  “But—”

  “You said you didn’t care.” Even as Hannah frustrated her, Camille understood where she was coming from. A caged animal has only a limited number of ways to maintain the illusion of control.

  “I don’t care,” Hannah repeated for emphasis.

  “But you wouldn’t tell me even if you did.”

  Their eyes locked, a silent battle of wills right there in the back of Munden’s Five-and-Dime.

  “Come on,” Camille said finally, breaking the deadlock.

  “There’s someone I think you should meet.”

  Camille had never been a selfless person by nature. She wasn’t vicious like some of the girls she’d gone to high school with. It just simply didn’t occur to her most of the time to look out for other people. She had enough to handle looking out for her mom and herself. But the sight of that run-down trailer and Hannah’s palpable fear at being left there had made an indelible impression. Maybe it was just the common theme of abandonment running through both of their lives. Or maybe Camille was trying to salve a guilty conscience by doing a good deed. But at that moment, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she needed to take Hannah home and introduce the girl to her mother.

  The unflappable Maria Munden didn’t bat an eyelash when Camille St. Clair bought three skeins of hot pink yarn for Hannah Simmons. Hannah said a begrudging thank-you but held the brown paper sack containing the yarn as if it were a dead skunk. They walked to the car in silence, the same way they drove from the town square to the little bungalow on Carruthers Street. Camille turned off the engine and then swiveled in her seat to face Hannah.

  “Just one thing before we go inside,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Be nice to my mother, or I’ll make your mom look like a pushover.”

  Hannah blanched, but Camille could also see a light of respect in the girl’s eyes.

  “Come on.” Camille climbed from the car and headed for the house, Hannah right behind her. She wasn’t sure she was doing the right thing, but her mother always enjoyed visitors now that she was bedridden. Camille would get Hannah started on the felting project, let the girl visit with her mom for a while, and then take her home.

  And then her good deed for the day would be done and she could get back to wallowing in her own misery.

  The surgical waiting room at St. Thomas Hospital in Nashville contained the usual assortment of exhausted relatives, fast-food wrappers, and desperation. Frank had been admitted to the hospital the night before. Ruthie and Esther had arrived very early that morning after spending the night in the upscale Loews Vanderbilt Hotel. Ruthie had wanted to stay at the more economical Hampton Inn, but Esther insisted. And since Esther was footing the bill, Ruthie complied just as she usually did. Still, she resented both the enforced luxury and the reminder that no matter what Frank might believe, Esther was still calling the shots.

  “Do you want more coffee?” Ruthie clutched her empty cup. “I can go get some.” The Starbucks cart was conveniently located just outside the waiting room so that anxious friends and family could further caffeinate their agitation even as they told one another how soothing they found it.

  “No. I’m fine.” Esther reached into the designer bag beside her and pulled out her confounded knitting. The whole charade struck Ruthie like a punch to the midsection, leaving her breathless and aching. Her sister might think that merely by willing something to be fact she could make it so, that by passing off someone else’s work as her own, she could be a bona fide member of the Knit Lit Society. Maybe that approach worked for Esther much of the time. But knitting, unlike so many other things in life, couldn’t be faked.

  “I can go to the cafeteria if you’re hungry.” Ruthie would rather not sit in the waiting room, there amongst the soothing teals and sea foam greens. Every time the phone at the information desk rang, she jumped as if a shot had rung out.

  “I’m not hungry.” Esther was as calm and poised as always. You’d never know to look at her that her estranged husband was upstairs being cracked open and his chest splayed out. Ruthie both resented and envied Esther’s calm, but then she’d felt like that about her sister most of her life, so today was nothing unusual.

  “The new minister said he’d come by today.” Esther had a habit of sticking her tongue out the tiniest bit when she was concentrating on something difficult, like trying to knit. Ruthie’s nerve endings felt raw and exposed. How could she possibly sit here for hours on end, acting as if nothing was wrong? Frank didn’t even know that Esther was there, for heaven’s sake. He’d made Ruthie promise she wouldn’t let her come, but how on earth was Ruthie supposed to do that? So she lied to Frank the night before, telling him she was off to spend the night alone at the hotel when she knew full well that Esther was there waiting to have dinner with her. They’d gone downstairs to the confusingly named Ruth’s Chris Steak House. In other circumstances, Ruthie would have enjoyed a nice meal out. But under these conditions, she could only choke down a few bites of filet mignon before setting her fork aside.

  Esther had eaten her entire steak and then asked to look at the dessert menu.

  Unable to come up with a good excuse to leave the waiting room, Ruthie sat down in the chair next to her sister. Although they’d arrived very early, they had to settle for plain chairs instead of the more luxurious reclining ones. But they were near the information desk and could easily hear when the volunteer called for “the Jackson family.”

  Esther continued to stab away at her knitting. Ruthie finally gave in to the inevitable and took her own yarn and needles out of the bag. She’d finished Heidi the night before in the hotel room, leaving the
book on the nightstand for Esther in case she wanted to read it later, although Ruthie was pretty sure Esther hadn’t read any of the books that had been assigned since Eugenie changed the reading list.

  Ruthie picked up her needles, threaded the yarn through her left hand, and began to stitch, but she could hardly concentrate she was so distracted by Esther’s stabbing motions. The would-be piece had more holes than Swiss cheese. Did Esther not know that anybody who was any sort of knitter could tell what a tangled mess she was making? Yet she sat there, calm as you please, as if she were the most capable knitter anyone would ever run across. Finally, Ruthie couldn’t take it anymore.

  “If you’d thread the yarn through your left hand, you could get enough tension so it wouldn’t be so lumpy.” She couldn’t help it. The words jumped from her mouth of their own accord.

  Esther looked up from her knitting and frowned.

  “I know you don’t want my help,” Ruthie continued before Esther could say anything. “But maybe you want to do this right more than you hate having to ask me for something.” Ruthie bit her lip. She should have been more diplomatic, and for heaven’s sake, now was certainly not the time to try and change the way she and her sister had interacted for the last fifty years.

  Esther looked at her, then down at her knitting. Ruthie could almost see her weighing her decision, like a butcher piling meat onto his scales. “All right,” she said after several long moments. “Show me then.”

  Ruthie looked at her in surprise. “It’s really not so difficult. You just need to—” Ruthie sighed. It was too hard to explain and much easier to demonstrate. “Here.” She reached toward Esther and took the yarn that hung from near the tip of the needle. “Lift up your forefinger and pinkie.” Esther did as suggested. “Okay, then slide your middle finger and ring finger underneath.” Esther followed her instructions. “Now when you turn your hand up like this,” she rotated her sister’s wrist so that her thumb pointed to the ceiling, “you have better tension on the yarn. Almost like threading a sewing machine.” Although Ruthie doubted Esther had ever threaded a sewing machine in her life.