“Some of you may wonder why we’ve called you all here this evening. You know the old saying about desperate times? Well, for tonight I’m going to ask you to put aside everything that you’ve heard about the Stitchery and everything you think about how the world works, and just—for now—consider everything that I’m going to say on its own terms. Tomorrow you can worry about what’s what. But for just this once, suspend disbelief. Try to. And maybe we can make something unbelievable happen.”
Little by little, Aubrey’s nerves began to quiet. She realized that she could actually feel her feet, her two feet that were holding her up, solid as tree trunks. She talked about the spells, about how Mariah had taught her to knit them. She gave instructions for new knitters to pair with veterans, but she also told them that it did not matter what they knit or if they knit at all. Tying knots, braiding, crocheting—anything would work, Aubrey said. The important thing was the essence of the spell, the vision or energy or imagination that was soaked up by the thing being made.
Of course, she was improvising. Nothing like this—no spell this large and complex—had been attempted since her ancestral guardians had first started keeping records in the Great Book in the Hall. But magic seemed to have certain principles—the sacrifice, the balance, the vision sustained—and she guessed that as long as she basically adhered to those principles, any spell would work regardless of the size. As she spoke, she realized what a simple thing magic was when you got down to it. She wondered in the privacy of her thoughts for a moment if perhaps they’d been doing it all wrong, if they’d made it too complicated, too exclusive, by limiting spell-casting to the Stitchery’s guardians, by giving magic such a ponderous lore. She looked into the back of the room, hoping to see Mariah’s face again just for the joy of it, but her aunt seemed to have served her purpose, and now she was gone.
“I can’t promise this will work,” Aubrey said in a voice that sounded stronger and braver and better than her own. “Magic is never a sure bet. But what is a sure bet is that if we don’t try something, there won’t be a Stitchery—or a Tappan Square—this time next year. Are we ready?”
The women of Tarrytown answered with steely and knowing nods.
“Then let’s hurry,” she said.
The idea—as Aubrey had explained it to Meggie earlier in the day—was to wrap Tarrytown in a yarn spell the same way Mariah wrapped a person up in a sweater or a scarf or a shawl. If they were lucky, the spell would work on the town the same way it worked on a person—with a quiet but persistent influence. And so while it fell to Bitty to convince Tarrytown’s matrons to show up at the Stitchery via the phone tree, and Aubrey to lead the knitting of the yarns, it fell to Meggie to take up the last portion of the spell—which she liked to think of as benevolent vandalism. It was right up her alley.
With Carson, Bitty, and some of the other younger women who had come for the festivities, Meggie stood in the Stitchery’s backyard, out of the sight of police cars. The night was crystalline with cold air blowing down from the North; the sky was clear black. With razor-sharp efficiency, Meggie split everyone up into small, nimble teams of two and three. They weren’t exactly Navy SEALs, in their black gloves and black watch caps and black sweatpants pulled on over jeans. They were lumpy and out of shape, and their stealthiest silence was punctuated by uncontrollable giggling. But they would have to do.
“You two, hit the urns in front of the library. You guys, the music hall. You three, head over to Patriot’s Park. And you, try for the swing set at Washington Irving Intermediate. When you’ve finished, return here and await further orders. We’ll head out in shifts, project by project, until we’ve got our yarns all over town.”
“But what if we get caught?” one of the women asked.
Meggie took in a deep breath. “That’s the risk we all take, soldier. The important thing is, if you get caught, you don’t breathe a word about this to the police. Not even if they threaten you with a night in jail. Not even if they threaten you with the bastinado.”
“What’s the bastinado?” Carson asked.
“Something that you wouldn’t like,” Meggie said. “If you get caught, you’re on your own. Nobody’s coming to your rescue. Understand?”
The little troop nodded.
“Good. Then everyone take my cell phone number—but be sure you put your phones on silent. Silent. Got it?”
After a whisper of agreement, Meggie sent everyone into the darkness. They went with all the giddy excitement that Meggie could remember from nights of playing manhunt with her sisters in the shadows of Tarrytown. Bitty and Carson remained by her side.
“What about us?” Carson asked.
Meggie looked down at him. “We stick together, Knickerbocker.”
Bitty shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“We don’t have time for second-guessing,” Meggie said. “We have to move.”
They climbed into Bitty’s minivan. As they drove through Tarrytown, three cop cars glided past in the dark, their spotlights peering into shadowed corners and up into trees. Tarrytown’s Halloween decorations glared at them as they passed: wolfmen with bloodied claws, zombie butlers with trays of worms and severed heads, six-foot spiders with blinking red eyes, and of course headless horsemen, dark and powerful on enormous steeds. Their timing for this adventure was awful, Meggie thought to herself. Any other night of the year and they would have had no trouble stringing up the yarns all over Tarrytown. But because tomorrow was Halloween, and Tarrytown’s finest were charged with the task of preventing Devil’s Night mischief, they would have to be extra cautious.
“Should I drive to the park?” Bitty asked.
“No. Just find a parking spot up here and we’ll walk down. We’ll be much less obvious if we don’t have a car in the lot.”
Bitty took in a breath that would have been a sigh if she hadn’t bottled it up at the last moment. She parallel-parked with ease, and then they climbed swiftly out of the car. Bitty started toward the little paved road that kinked and wound down to the river’s edge.
“No, not that way,” Meggie said. “We can’t take the main roads. We have to go through the woods.”
“But there’s fences and stuff,” Bitty said.
“And snakes,” Carson said.
Meggie gave them both a look. She hitched her bag of yarn higher on her shoulder. “Don’t wimp out on me now, you guys. You got my back or don’t you?”
Carson glanced at his mother. “We got your back.”
“Then let’s go.”
Meggie began to lead them through the underbrush. Everyone had agreed—the lighthouse at the park was a key target for the spell. It had stood in the Hudson’s waters off the shore of Tarrytown for over a hundred years. Meggie felt, in the illogical part of her mind, that if they could make the spell “take” to the lighthouse they might have a chance with all of Tarrytown.
The problem was that they weren’t the only people in the village interested in the lighthouse on mischief night. Something about the lighthouse’s round white walls begged for intrepid young vandals to graffiti it with giant penises. Meggie knew full well that the police would be making regular patrols through the park in an effort to keep miscreants away. But police or no police, the lighthouse had to be yarn-bombed before the night was through.
Quietly, Meggie, Bitty, and Carson made their way through the brush and over the fences that led down the long overgrown hill to the lighthouse. When they arrived from the east, it stood before them, monumental and glowing like a steeple against the black waters of the Hudson. They crouched in the bushes.
“Look,” Bitty whispered.
Meggie followed her sister’s gaze. A policeman was wandering around the park, his flashlight turned off, his arm swinging back and forth, back and forth, so that in the rippling dark by the river he looked like a figure in a story told around a campfire. She wasn’t sure, but he might have been whistling.
“New plan,” Meggie said. “Only o
ne of us goes. It’s too risky for all of us to climb up to the lighthouse and wrap the yarn. And since I’m the leader of this outfit, I’ll do it.”
“No way,” Bitty said. “If anyone goes, it’s me.”
“Why you?”
“Because like you said. You’re the one in charge of these shenanigans. The yarn brigade can’t afford for you to get arrested.”
She reached for Meggie’s bag of yarn. Meggie jerked it back.
“No—I’ll go,” Carson said.
Meggie shushed him to keep his voice down. His eyes were bright with excitement.
“Let me go,” he said. “I’m the smallest. I’m quick. I’m not as big as you guys so the policeman won’t see me.”
“Try again,” Bitty said.
“No, really.” Carson pointed. “Look. There’s a chain across the walkway that leads up to the lighthouse. If one of you guys goes, you’ll have to go over it or under it. And that might make noise, right? But I can fit right under it in a flash.”
“He’s got a point,” Meggie said.
Bitty was quiet.
“Look,” Meggie said. “If it looks like he’s going to get caught, I’ll—I don’t know—make a distraction.”
Carson put an arm on Bitty’s shoulder. “Mom. Are you worried you’re setting a bad example?”
“I’m worried it’s already set,” Bitty said.
“Don’t be. These are extenuating circumstances,” he said.
“Nice vocabulary,” Meggie said.
“This is the most insane thing I’ve ever done,” Bitty said. “Ten years of good parenting and it’s all flushed down the drain in one night.” She turned to Carson and looked at him with pleading eyes. “You know what to do, right? You’re just going to tiptoe up there, make a loop around the base of the lighthouse, then tie a quick knot and get out of there. It shouldn’t take more than a minute.”
“Ma,” Carson said flatly. He took the bag from Meggie’s shoulder. “I got this. All right? I got this.”
He hitched the bag on his shoulder and waited. Meggie was impressed by his calm. She wondered if reading all those comic books had paid off. When the patrolman started away from them toward the north end of the park, Carson made his move. There was some noise as he pushed from the bushes and into the field, but then, when he made a dash for the lighthouse, he was soundless.
“You should be really proud,” Meggie whispered.
“Proud that I’m teaching my son how to sneak around and avoid cops?”
“Your kids are awesome,” Meggie said. “They’re fun and smart and nice. I didn’t actually think I liked kids until I starting hanging out with those two. And it all goes back to you, Bit. To the kind of mom you are. So—all right—I’m just saying, I think you should be proud.”
Bitty said nothing.
“Are you … Is that …” Meggie thought she saw a slight flash of silver in Bitty’s eyes.
Bitty wiped at her face. “I’m not crying.”
Meggie laughed softly. “Right.”
“It’s just—” Bitty’s voice hitched. “It’s just … Being a good mom is important to me. And this past year, it’s been hard to know what’s right anymore. So it means a lot to me that you said that.”
“No problem,” Meggie said.
They watched Carson sprint up the gangway that led over a patch of murky water, stretching from the shore to the lighthouse. He set down the bag and began to pull out the long, thick cord of yarn that had been cobbled together in the Stitchery an hour ago. It was part tubular knitting, part crochet, and part hand weaving that one of the older ladies had done using nothing but the fingers on her right hand. Like a firefighter tugging a hose, Carson pulled the long strand out of the market bag, his arms working fast. He started to run with the free end, but the whole blob slid along on the metal lattice behind him.
“He’s got to tie the other end down,” Meggie whispered. He seemed to have heard her. He ran back and fixed the free end to the steel scaffold. And as he began to run again, the patrolman at the far end of the park turned and began to amble his way back toward the lighthouse.
“He’s going to make it,” Meggie said. “He has time. At least, he’ll make it around to the other side. Where the cop can’t see him.”
“Oh my God,” Bitty said. “We’re all going to jail.”
“No, we’re not. We’re fine. We’re—” Meggie’s assurances died her in throat. Something unthinkable happened. The yarn—which had been ruthlessly shoved in the bag—tangled into a thick, ragged knot. Carson tugged it once. Twice. He looked up at the patrolman, who was getting closer to the lighthouse, swinging his hands as he walked like a bored child.
“Distraction,” Bitty said. “Meggie—make the distraction. He’s going to get caught.”
“No, wait,” Meggie said.
“If you won’t do it, I will.”
Bitty started to get to her feet, but Meggie grabbed her. “Wait,” she hissed. “Wait!”
Bitty tried to shake her away. But then she saw that Carson had managed to tug the knot tighter, giving himself more cord to run with. And he was making his way around the lighthouse, gaining on the far side. He disappeared behind the thick white curve, and the wobble of the yarn as he moved was the only sign that a person was up on the walkway.
The patrolman had reached the base of the lighthouse. He was a young man—Meggie could tell from the way he carried himself, with his shoulders flexed and his arms bowed like he was carrying two five-gallon buckets—and he was looking up into the blackness where Carson had stood only a moment ago. He turned on his flashlight and ran its yellow-white oculus over the caisson and high white tower.
Bitty started to call out. “Hey—”
But Meggie pressed a hand to her mouth. Carson was a smart boy. She had every faith in him. Come on, she thought. Come on.
They watched in frozen dismay as the policeman ascended the gangway leading up to the lighthouse. He bent down and plucked at the trail of yarn. On the opposite wall, Carson poked his head around the curve of the lighthouse. He was looking into the bushes, but Meggie knew he couldn’t see them. Gesturing to him was futile, but Meggie did it anyway, pointing frantically to let him know the policeman was just on the other side of the lighthouse’s trunk, only a few steps away.
The patrolman, who wore heavy leather shoes, began to follow the chain of yarn around, stooped like Sherlock Holmes with his magnifying glass, running the fiber through his fingers as he traced the trail Carson had just laid out. His footfalls were loud and eerie on the steel.
Meggie realized that she and Bitty were clutching each other. The policeman circled, his shoes going ping, ping, ping. And as the sound moved, so did Carson. He shuffled to stay on the opposite side of the lighthouse from the officer, so they were circling each other, circling, Carson skittering back and forth, forward and backward, depending on the sound of the man’s boots, always just a few feet away.
“He’s brilliant,” Meggie whispered, so softly she hardly spoke the words at all.
The patrolman stopped and so did Carson. The water lapped the base of the lighthouse, the rocks on the shore. The man stood slowly, listening with a hunter’s attention. He’d heard something. He swept the beam of his flashlight across the bushes where Meggie and Bitty hid.
Meggie was sure they were done for—they were headed for the clink. But then a terrible wail split the darkness. The man jumped. It was a noise like a laughing hyena—the man’s cell phone ring. He snorted to himself and answered it with good cheer.
“Hey, sexy,” he said, loud enough that even Bitty and Meggie could hear him. “I was hoping you’d call.”
Distracted, he made his way down the gangway, his boots ping-pinging him over the mucky waters and back down to the grassy field. But Meggie did not breathe a sigh of relief until the man was once again at the far end of the park, until Carson had finished tying up the string of yarn around the great concrete trunk of the lighthouse, until he had hurried bac
k toward the bushes.
“Did you see that?” he whispered. “Did you see that? I could be in the CIA!”
Bitty kissed him. “Don’t get any ideas.”
“You’re total CIA material,” Meggie said. “Great job, Cars.”
She held up a hand for a high five.
And Carson, in all his exuberance and pride, gave it the hardest, loudest, lightning-striking-in-the-middle-of-a-field smack he could muster.
At the far end of the park, the flashlight came back on. The patrolman’s voice called out over the pine-dotted grass, his voice like a gunshot. “Who’s out there?”
“Crapballs,” Meggie said.
She grabbed Carson’s hand, and like a herd of clumsy trampling deer, they began to run.
On Halloween morning, Tarrytown woke to a spectacular day. The sky was crystal blue, the hills splashed with oranges and reds and the last lingering green of fertilized yards. Children lined up anxiously for the morning’s parade, dressed as princesses and ninjas and gorillas and spiders and their favorite Saturday-morning cartoons. The Boy Scouts hitched their “Legend of Sleepy Hollow” tableaux to the back of the pack master’s pickup truck. The high school band warmed up. The mayor’s assistant ran his boss’s cherry-red convertible through the carwash one last time.
But even before the parade began, perceptive people began to notice strange things. Joggers who rose early saw that a stoplight was covered with a cardigan sweater, and the red, yellow, and green were like three oversized buttons running down. Weekend commuters saw that the black receiver of Tarrytown’s last remaining phone booth had been wrapped in a rainbow of garter stitch. The tree trunk in front of the mayor’s office was encapsulated snugly in a tuber of stockinette. And lacy white sheets were draped like monster cobwebs on the decorative shrubbery in front of the bank.
One by one, the people of Tarrytown pointed to the odd vandalism that didn’t quite seem to be typical of Halloween, to the big peace sign of yarn that had been woven into the chain-link fence at the high school, to the curls of yarn that hung like streamers from the awning of the pet store. But few people knew what to make of what they saw. Some smiled to see such a funny thing as a NO PARKING sign made to look like a pumpkin. Others, who had other things to worry about, hardly noticed at all.
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