Aubrey’s smile dimmed. She handed the yarn back to Nessa. “I have to think about it.”
“But … why? It’s just knitting.”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“ ’Cause my mom doesn’t want me to learn?”
“Partly.”
“Because of that girl who just went running out?”
“It’s grown-up stuff.”
“That girl wasn’t a grown-up,” Nessa said. “She was my age. Practically.”
Aubrey sighed.
“I already know how to do a knit stitch. And—listen—I memorized the poem on Mariah’s wall. You know? In through the front door, out through the back. Peek through the window and—”
“Off jumps jack. I know it. That’s how I leaned to knit, too.”
Nessa’s hopes rose. “So? See? You don’t have to teach me anything hardly. It’s just that … I can’t figure out this casting-on thing. I need you to do the first row.”
Aubrey looked at the yarn.
“Pleeease?”
She glanced up.
“Pretty please?”
Aubrey was about to give in. Nessa could tell. She was this close.
But then, as per usual, her mother showed up at the wrong time.
They heard her voice at the same moment. She was climbing the porch stairs, telling Carson to get the door.
Quickly, Nessa shoved the yarn into a wooden barrel. She moved so fast she startled even herself. And then she knew—even before she looked up at her aunt again—that any chance she’d had of getting Aubrey to cast on for her was totally gone.
“Hi, ladies,” Bitty said cheerfully. The autumn air had turned her cheeks into pink apples. Her hair was pulled back in a jaunty ponytail. “Hey Aubrey—Meggie and I were talking about the three of us going out to dinner tonight.”
Her mom didn’t wait for an answer. She made a beeline down the Stitchery’s center hall toward the back of the house, her arms loaded with groceries.
Nessa looked back to Aubrey. Already, her hands missed the weight of the bright purple yarn. She began to wonder if maybe she’d miscalculated, if her aunt was going to rat her out.
“I’ll think about it,” Aubrey said.
Bitty called her husband in the afternoon when she got back from the grocery store. Her cell phone had a full charge so she went to the top of the basement stairs and closed the door behind her. The smell of dust and cement and dry rot filled her nose. She dialed her husband at work. If anyone happened to hear one side of the conversation—his or hers—it would have sounded cordial enough.
Hi. How are you?
Good. Fine. The kids are fine, too. The funeral? Yes, it was … well … it was interesting.
Is work okay?
Good. The kids and I are thinking of spending a few extra days here. What do you think?
Well … I figured you would want to have a say in it.
Yes, I know it’s almost Halloween. They can trick-or-treat here.
I don’t know how long.
I’m asking you.
No.
Plus I thought maybe you and I could use some space.
Well, maybe I need space.
Okay. So since you don’t have feelings about it either way, we’re staying.
What about the will?
No, she didn’t leave us anything.
Nothing.
That’s a terrible thing to say!
It’s different when I say it.
I have to go. We’re going out to dinner tonight.
Yes, I’ll have the kids call you tonight before bed.
Try not to miss me too much.
Uh-huh.
Right.
Bye.
Aubrey had forgotten what it was like to live in a house full of people—messy, loud, energetic people who bumped up against one another like heated atoms. There were things on the floor to step around. There was barely enough space on the hall coatrack, and inevitably one or two jackets ended up slumping to the ground. The iced tea pitcher, which had been full in the morning, had been put back in the fridge with no more than a few swallows left in the bottom. The Stitchery, which had been so very still and quiet for so many years, was now a tornado.
Bitty had scheduled dinner for five o’clock, and Aubrey had thought it funny to schedule a dinner among people who lived in the same house—until five o’clock rolled around and she was the only person who was ready to go. Meggie had locked herself in the bathroom, just like the old days. Bitty was in a motherly tizzy: Sandwiches had to be made for the children and there was a question about whether or not the ham was actually organic. Carson’s handheld video game console went missing quite suddenly, as if it had materially vanished, and for some reason that Aubrey could not divine, this stopped the entire process of leaving the house. Couch cushions were lifted, pillows thrown. The video game reappeared in a duffel bag that had been checked three times.
By the time Meggie sauntered down the hall stairs, the creak of old wood under her feet, Aubrey was starving, and she thought Finally. She’d skipped lunch and her tummy was growling. But the moment Meggie appeared in the living room, all preparation halted. Everyone looked at her, paused.
“What?” Meggie said.
She was standing with one hand on the door frame, dressed in a billowy fuchsia shirt that fell off one shoulder. Her leggings stopped at her shins. She was Meggie as usual. But it was her hair, her shocking new hair, that had rendered the family tongue-tied.
“Like you’ve never seen a person color her hair before,” Meggie said.
“It’s just so …” Bitty trailed off.
“Bleached!” Aubrey said.
Meggie’s short black mop of hair was gone, replaced by even shorter white-blond spikes that pricked up not unlike Icky’s quills when he was in a snit. Yesterday Meggie might have stepped out of a biker bar; “gothic fairy” she’d called it. Today she was showing her roots—literally and figuratively—as a child of the eighties.
Bitty lurched back into motion, tossing the video game controller to Carson and putting the couch pillows back in place. “Come on, guys. We have to get moving. We have—had—reservations.”
But her children moved toward their aunt like cabbage moths to a lightbulb. “That’s awesome,” Carson said.
“Are we ready?” Bitty asked. “Is anyone forgetting anything?”
After a few more minutes, they finally left.
Aubrey was famished by the time they sat down at their table in the little tavern, so hungry that her napkin was beginning to look like it could be edible with a little ketchup and salt. But the waitress was busy, hustling from table to table, and so Aubrey waited in agony with her menu open before her. Each description of each dish (mixed greens with dressing; burger and fries) struck her as being on par with the most exquisite poetry ever penned.
Finally, the waitress arrived. After a long Q&A followed by humming and hawing, Meggie settled on a fruity, frozen concoction called the Vampire Barnabas. Bitty got a white wine spritzer. Aubrey ordered a microbrew pilsner. They’d been sitting so long that the waitress not only took their drink orders, but their dinner orders as well. She looked up from her notepad, her gaze skimming Aubrey’s face.
“Hey—are you the girl who does all the knitting?”
“Oh. Yes.”
“Huh. How ’bout that.” The waitress tapped her pencil on her pad.
“How did you know?” Bitty asked.
She ducked her head in embarrassment. “Eyes like that. Even bluer than everybody says—but pretty, I mean. In a certain way.”
Aubrey thanked her. But she knew her eyes weren’t pretty so much as pretty awful.
“I was sorry to hear about Mariah,” the waitress said.
“Thank you,” Aubrey said. And she thought: Now please, God in heaven have mercy, go get us some food.
But the waitress just stood there, her face wrinkled as if she was having a debate with herself that only she could hear. “I s
hould tell you. I went to the Stitchery last year, you know? I met Mariah. I was … there were some problems with my ex-husband.”
Aubrey tensed. The waitress was getting emotional, her eyes dangerously red. When she spoke, she whispered. “If it wasn’t for Mariah, I don’t know what I would have done. He wasn’t paying the child support. And I didn’t know how I was gonna feed my kids. But Mariah … well, anyway. She knit me a beer koozie to give to him. Isn’t that funny? Knitting a koozie? Anyway, it worked. And without that, I really don’t know what I would have done.”
Aubrey nodded, relieved that—this time anyway—she wasn’t being held responsible for a spell gone wrong. Because the woman was on the brink of tears, Aubrey gave her a quick hug. By the time she left, Aubrey’s sisters were looking at her as if they were seeing her for the first time.
Aubrey laced her fingers together on the table. “Okay. Let’s have it.”
Her sisters were quiet.
“Come on. Let’s hear it. Tell me all about how I need to sell the Stitchery.” She waited. They all had known—though it hadn’t been spoken aloud—that tonight would be the night when they hashed things out, when the question of selling or keeping the Stitchery would be put to rest. The only thing holding Meggie and Bitty to Tarrytown was Mariah’s rather vague last wishes. This last little hindrance had to be done away with; then they would be on their way.
Meggie spoke first. “About that … I might have reacted a little too strongly.”
“Me, too,” Bitty said. “We didn’t mean to seem so harsh.”
Aubrey sat back in her chair. It occurred to her that when her sisters had gone shopping this morning, they must have been talking about her—and laying out their plan of attack. “So … does that mean you’re not going to give me a hard time about staying in the Stitchery?”
“We didn’t say that,” Meggie said. “We just want you to know that we understand where you’re coming from. We get why you want to stay.”
“But we still think you should sell,” Bitty said. “To a private individual or—if this eminent domain thing goes through—to the town.”
“Not gonna happen,” Aubrey said, trying to keep her voice light. In New York, legislatures liked to call the process of seizing property appropriation. In other countries, it had different names. But whatever the terminology, the idea was uniform: The government had the right to take a person’s property for the greater good. Aubrey might have been able to accept that if Tarrytown needed to turn Tappan Square into an orphanage or a hospital or a park. But if Horseman Woods Commons passed, the land was going to be sold for a song to a private developer—as if strangers could take better care of the land than its current stewards. That just plain hurt. “We’re having an emergency election of the Tappan Watch tomorrow night,” Aubrey said.
“To replace Mariah?” Meggie asked.
“Nobody can replace Mariah,” Aubrey said. “But, yeah. We have to figure out who’s going to take the lead.”
The waitress brought their drinks. She was smiling now, fully composed. “My name’s Jess Nysen, just so you know. And the first round’s on me.”
“Thanks,” Aubrey said. The waitress winked and went away. Aubrey sipped her beer; it was golden and smooth. She wiped at the foam on her lip and turned her focus back to her sisters. “You heard all of those people yesterday. At the funeral?”
“The people who got up and spoke?” Meggie asked.
“They weren’t just talking about Mariah, how important she was. They were talking about the Stitchery. About what it means to Tarrytown. People need the Stitchery. It’s important. Think of all the people who have been helped over the years. Like our waitress.”
“Right. And like the girl who was there this morning?” Bitty asked.
Aubrey looked at her sister. “How do you know about her?”
“Nessa said she saw somebody leave. Crying.”
“Oh.” Aubrey stamped wet circles on her paper place mat with the bottom of her glass. “What did you tell her?”
“The truth: that I had no idea what she was talking about,” Bitty said. “For the record, the Stitchery does not help everybody.”
“But that’s their own fault,” Aubrey said. “The magic is perfectly reliable. It’s just that if they don’t give up something—”
“I know the rules,” Bitty said.
Aubrey scooted her chair closer to the table. “The Van Rippers have been in the Stitchery since just after the Revolutionary War. There’s a whole list of guardians in the Great Book in the Hall, back to when they started keeping track in 1867 and all the way through to my name. I can’t be the one to leave. I can’t be the one to break the tradition.”
“But do you like the way things are?” Meggie asked.
“Sure,” Aubrey said.
“Of course you don’t,” Bitty said.
Aubrey was quiet for a moment. Then she gave up. “It doesn’t matter whether I like it. This is what I have to do. It’s what I was born for. There’s no other way.”
“Sometimes that’s true,” Bitty said. “But you have choices. You could do something else.”
“I just don’t think you understand.”
Bitty tapped the butt of her steak knife on the table. “I guess I don’t. Why wouldn’t you at least think about moving, making a better life for yourself? You could get a job in the city or go back to school. I mean—you don’t want to reshelve books forever, right? And you can always knit on the side.”
Aubrey laughed. “You can’t do anything you’re deeply passionate about on the side.”
Meggie jumped in. “Hey—how much money did the village offer you?”
“Two fifty.”
Bitty frowned. “That does seem low.”
“It’s fair market value,” Aubrey said.
“Why would the town put a decent value on properties that it obviously doesn’t value to begin with?” Meggie said.
“Good question,” Aubrey said.
“Even so, two fifty is still a big chunk of change,” Bitty said. “We’d get eighty-three grand each, not counting taxes.”
“Okay—that is a serious lot of money,” Meggie said.
The waitress brought their food. Bitty had a cranberry walnut salad. Meggie had a plate of colorful nachos heaped with guacamole and sour cream. Aubrey had ordered a favorite: a margherita pizza, plain.
Bitty spoke with her fork in the air. “Finances aside, it’s your decision, Aubrey. Whether the town takes the Stitchery or we sell it to someone else, it’s entirely up to you.”
“Neither of those things will happen.” Aubrey put down her slice of pizza. It was too hot to eat. “And anyway, what about you two?”
“Us?” They spoke in unison, then laughed.
“What’s the deal with Craig?” Aubrey asked her older sister. She tried to speak gently; she didn’t want to accuse. “Why didn’t he come to the funeral?”
“He had to work,” Bitty said.
“Right. The woman who practically raised you dies and he has to work.” Aubrey turned to Meggie. “And what about you? You haven’t told us a thing about where you’ve been or what you’ve been doing.”
“Maybe it’s not your beeswax.”
“For a while there it seemed like every time I got a postcard from you, it was from another state,” Aubrey said.
“Right. Because I’ve been traveling around a lot.”
“Are you working?”
“I have a website where I sell crafts and things. I don’t really like to pay bills, so I don’t have a car or an apartment. Nothing to hold me down.”
“And you’re not lonely? Traveling around all the time?”
Meggie laughed. “I meet a lot of people. Trust me. A lot.”
“But not friends,” Aubrey said. “Not people who know you—who really know you—inside and out. You have people you spend time with and then forget about when you move away. I wouldn’t call those people friends.”
“We’re not here to tal
k about me,” Meggie said. “We’re talking about the Stitchery.”
“And now you’re being cagey,” Aubrey said. “What are you not telling us?”
Bitty put down her fork. “Why are you doing this, Aub? We’re trying to help you.”
“I’m trying to make the point that while you’re both so busy scrutinizing my life, you’ve got your own stuff to work out.”
Her sisters were quiet. Outside, a car horn blared. People were walking up the sidewalk. The moon was a curled thread suspended in the sky.
“I guess that’s fair,” Bitty said.
Aubrey sighed. There was a time, she remembered, for a few years during their childhoods, that she and her sisters had been fully and completely on one another’s sides. Suffering could pull a family together; pain could be like gravity, pressure that held a shape, drawing everyone in to a central point. Or it could scatter a family apart, centripetal forces slingshotting each person wildly away. Sometimes, suffering could do both—gather and scatter—given a long enough time line.
The pain that had pulled them together, apart from any discomforts that might have been inflicted by life in the Stitchery, had stemmed from their mother. Years had passed between the day Lila Van Ripper went missing and the day she was declared deceased. Mariah, who had insisted that her sister was dead from the very beginning, had a terrible time forcing the government to recognize Lila’s passing. As the newly appointed guardian of three little girls, Mariah had hired a detective, had her sister’s bank accounts monitored, and had notified the Social Security agency of her sister’s “missing person” status—not because she wanted to prove that her sister was still living, but instead to prove she was thoroughly and properly kaput. In the uncertainty, the Van Rippers had pulled together—tight as a military unit of highly trained operatives, watching one another’s backs, until gradually the pain of Lila’s vanishing began to grow dull, and the ties between the girls began to loosen, and the Stitchery became like a slowly rising wedge, and they grew apart.
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