Knit the Season

by Kate Jacobs

  “I don’t think I ever knew that stuff,” Dakota said thoughtfully. “It’s weird to realize how well I knew my mom, and yet she had all these other parts to her. Hiding bills like a crazy person.”

  “No, it’s right,” replied Anita. “Necessary, even. You’re not a little girl anymore. You said so over and over, of course. But it seems to me that you’re ready to learn the different sides of Georgia Walker. Beyond the mom and business owner.”

  “We all knew her in different ways,” added Lucie. “She taught me a lot about courage.”

  “And about believing in impossible dreams,” said Peri, across the shop by the register.

  “For all of us, certainly,” said Anita. “But maybe we focused so much on protecting you through your teens that we didn’t help you see Georgia’s many facets.”

  “Like what? Tell me everything,” insisted Dakota.

  Ginger put down her bookmark and looked at the women. “Yes, everything!” she echoed.

  “No, what I think we ought to do is not censor ourselves so much, perhaps,” murmured Anita, gazing at Ginger.

  “Not like every story about Georgia is racy, either,” said Peri.

  “Is that a reference to my father? Because that is waaay too much information.”

  Lucie chuckled. “Perhaps what Peri meant is that Georgia was real. She had bad days. Sometimes really bad days.”

  “She even had days when she was ticked off at you,” said Peri.

  “Come, now,” said Anita. “I wasn’t thinking those types of stories.”

  “Like when?” asked Dakota.

  “The bike thing,” Peri said with enthusiasm. “When your dad bought those bikes and you were so excited.”

  “See, that wasn’t me,” said Dakota, and then gazed around. “Okay, a little bit me. I finagled getting that bike. But it was a damn good bike, you know!”

  She laughed, reflexively looking out toward the stair landing, where the bikes had once been stored.

  “This is what we don’t do enough,” announced Anita. “Telling happy stories. Or just remembering in a way that makes us laugh.”

  “Because Georgia was not a saint,” piped up Lucie. “She was so genuine. That’s what drew us all to her. We got her, and she got us. She made mistakes. Nobody’s completely got it together in the Friday Night Knitting Club. It’s a condition of membership.”

  “I’d like to hear the secrets,” said Dakota. “Or just stuff I didn’t know.”

  “Sometimes we all cling to a belief that we must make our lost ones perfect in our memory. It’s a dangerous game,” said Anita. “But from now on, I’ll make it a point to call up some stories about Georgia. And you, Dakota, can make it a point to ask the women in the club. Your father. You see, there’s something magical about the way you can get to know someone better even after they’re gone.”

  Just then Peri left the till to sit down with the women at the table.

  “Hey, Dakota,” she said with forced casualness. “Can I talk to you later? I’ve had something come up.”

  hanukkah

  Eight nights to recall an exhilarating triumph over adversity, a stubborn persistence when belief overtook logic. What a philosophy for life! Imagine bringing that same approach to knitting. Taking chances, risking challenges, hoping breathlessly that it will all work out. Consider the folly of tackling a stitch too far advanced, the welcome rush of satisfaction when you see it come together and hold. The victory of accomplishment.

  chapter four

  Everything ought to have been done already, thought Anita, for a wedding that had been on and off for more than a year: a zigzag of joy and frustration that was wearing her out. Was she silly to want to get married again at almost eighty years old? The New Year’s party was going to be their last effort, Marty warned her, before he was tossing the big wedding idea out the window and eloping with her. He didn’t care whether it was Las Vegas, Mexico, or New York City Hall: She was going to be Mrs. Marty Popper by the beginning of the New Year, and that was that. He had waited patiently for seventy-five years, he explained, and that was darn long enough.

  Anita sighed, sipping coffee as she sat on the cream-colored couch with her feet tucked up under her and waited for her wedding planner—aka Catherine—to bring over a pair of shoes that she insisted would be perfect with Anita’s latest dress. She’d purchased two new outfits, a sparkly silk sheath with Catherine as well as a two-piece combo on the sly, with a cowl-neck top and pants that were so wide they looked more like a split skirt. Either one would work with the redesigned wedding coat, though Anita was careful not to let Marty know she’d bought a spare. It would probably send the wrong message, imply that she was already thinking ahead to the next rescheduling. Truth be told, Anita found it easier to doubt that the wedding would come together than to risk yet another disappointment. And did marriage really matter if they had each other?

  “It matters to me,” Marty had said when she tried that argument.

  Funny how she’d have blown her top if her sons had lived with their girlfriends before a wedding, she thought. Then again, she’d certainly reached an age when she could make her own rules. She ought to write that down and remember to say as much to Nathan.

  Anita put down her cup and began to make a list, trying to focus on her upcoming Hanukkah party. It was an ad hoc plan that had popped into her mind just this morning: have the members of the club come over for the candle lighting, perhaps give them each special gifts, like new needle bags or cable-hook necklaces. The timing worked also because her sister, Sarah, was coming two weeks before the wedding, so she’d have a chance to combat her jet lag. Anita knew she was looking for distractions, trying to keep her mind off Nathan. That boy knew one song, and getting her away from Marty was all he could sing.

  “I just don’t think your heart is in it, Mother,” he told her over the phone last night, his voice calm and smooth. “If it was, you’d be married by now.”

  “Ha!” Anita paused, not wanting to have yet another shouting match with her oldest son. Those always left her awake most of the night, pestering Marty with endless “. . . and another thing . . .” insights as she re-argued with Nathan in her mind and used Marty as a sounding board for her imagined debates. She used to be sharper, she knew. But she felt weary these days, and her best lines came to her hours after the conversation ended. She tried to save up her smart retorts, but the moment to use them never seemed to come around again.

  “I’ve been rescheduling out of sensitivity to you,” she pointed out to Nathan on yesterday’s call. She might be exhausted, but she wasn’t out of the game yet, she reminded herself.

  “But Mother,” he insisted. “I never asked you to do that. The show must go on, as they say. You could have left me in the hospital room. I would have understood.”

  She loved him, yes, but on occasion she really didn’t like Nathan all that much. Even when he was a small boy, he could lapse into manipulation. Stan had been immovable; she wanted to compensate by giving in. Now his ego led him to believe she was easily fooled.

  The last wedding, the event that would have taken place two months ago in October, would have been a gorgeous affair, with burgundy calla lilies and yellow gerberas in high centerpieces and a whimsical cake, chocolate-fudge frosting with polka dots of buttercream. Those nuptials were canceled only a few hours before she’d been due to walk down the aisle, as Anita—in her previous version of her wedding dress and knitted coat—and her boys rushed a breathless, grimacing, chest-clutching Nathan to Beth Israel hospital only to find out, after multiple tests and hours of white-faced worry, that he had simply experienced a massive case of anxiety. Faked or genuine, it was hard to determine.

  The similarities to her late husband’s fatal heart attack—coupled with the fear of losing her oldest son, whom she loved in spite of his antics—left Anita hysterical. Marty held her for days as she relived Stan’s death, purging her system of the terrible shock, talking through regrets and concerns as she kn
it a vest of the type she’d made for Stan years ago. It took her almost a week to recover.

  What that man needed, Catherine had pointed out to his mother at the club meeting after the non-wedding, eating vigorously along with all the women to polish off the giant leftovers of wedding cake, was a dose of Valium, a few years with a shrink, and a good, swift kick in the ass.

  “And I offer my foot if it’s required,” Catherine had said, stuffing a huge piece of cake into her mouth. “Or both feet. Whichever will hurt more.”

  The doorbell rang in the apartment now, and Anita stepped back as Catherine blew in, her cheeks pink from the cool December air, dragging a giant shopping bag in one hand and a small bakery box in the other.

  “Here,” she said, handing off the box to Anita. “Before we do shoes. I brought you samples to try, since the last baker had such a hissy fit about his cake not being able to be admired.”

  Anita grimaced. All these shenanigans were tremendously embarrassing, from being left with a giant (and expensive) cake, to putting deposits on ballrooms, sending out invitations to friends old and new, then having to reach all concerned to postpone. Again and again. She felt bad for the other, probably young, brides who could have been able to use the dates and venues she’d reserved. Oh, and the travel arrangements that guests were making and breaking, from Marty’s brother to Anita’s other boys, David and Benjamin, to all the guests from Italy. Extra fees and penalties for everyone. Only Nathan paid his own with a smile.

  “I thought we were going to forgo cake this time,” Anita said glumly. “I can’t believe I’m on my fifth wedding and I only made it to the altar once—in the 1950s.”

  “We are not going to forgo anything,” Catherine replied, stepping into the kitchen and then coming back with a knife and the coffeepot. “Let me cut you a little taste of hazelnut and of lemon.”

  Anita took another sip of coffee, peering over Catherine’s side to see inside the bakery box. The bite-sized cakes were topped in smooth icing stripes of yellow and cream. “Nathan called again, and Marty was none too happy about it,” she admitted. “It’s kind of set the tone for the day.”

  “Nathan.” Catherine paused. “Strikes me as a man who doesn’t always know what he wants. So no reason to pay attention.”

  “It’s hard, as a mother, to simply ignore your child when he’s clearly upset,” explained Anita. “No matter that he’s in his fifties.”

  “Wouldn’t know,” Catherine said briskly.

  “Oh, it’s not too late for you,” reassured Anita, who well knew how Catherine had, on occasion, wished for a family. “Holly-wood stars are having babies until they’re seventy, it seems. You’re barely forty.”

  “Closing in on forty-five, and you know it,” Catherine said, focusing intently on slicing up the little cakes.

  “Numbers, all numbers,” said Anita, rummaging in a drawer for napkins. “If not Marco, then someone else.”

  “Not Marco?”

  “So then it is Marco,” said Anita, nodding. “I wondered why you’ve been so quiet recently. I decided it was either because you’d gone off him or because you were really sure.”

  “I wouldn’t say I’m sure, Anita. I like him, but I don’t know,” said Catherine. “I’ve made it clear I’m not looking to make it all permanent, of course. I’m trying to be a leader, not a follower, anymore.”

  “If you say so, my dear,” said Anita. “But in good relationships we have to play both roles, the leader and the follower.”

  “So, why don’t you elope, then, as Marty suggested?” said Catherine, wagging her finger in the air. “It’s because you’re not much of a follower.”

  “Sometimes I am,” Anita said softly. The two women stood, coffee cups in hand, nibbling at petit-four-sized tidbits of deliciousness.

  “They’re scrumptious,” said Anita. “But the wedding is too close. And then there’s the holidays. No baker would take it on.”

  “Not an issue,” said Catherine. “I’ve already arranged a meeting.”

  “When?”

  “How about now?”

  “You?” Anita tried to hide her shock.

  “What a vote of confidence,” said Catherine. “But no.” She walked over and opened the front door. Dakota jumped inside.

  “You don’t have time,” Anita started before Dakota could even open her mouth. “You have school, and holiday hours at the shop.”

  “And your dad is taking you to Scotland,” interjected Catherine.

  “Fabulous,” said Anita. “Just what you need. Back for the wedding?”

  “Yes! And no, I’m not going,” said Dakota.

  “What?” Anita was stern.

  “It’s not like that,” said Dakota. “No doubt I want to go and see Gran. But I have an amazing opportunity to intern in the V kitchen. No one else from my class has anything like this lined up. I have a life plan here.”

  “Are you sure? Choosing work over the holidays . . .” Anita smoothed Dakota’s cheek. “What did your father say?”

  “About that,” said Dakota. “I haven’t told him yet. No need to stress him.”

  Catherine covered her ears. “Don’t want to know,” she said. “I’m having coffee with James tomorrow.”

  “I’m a big girl,” said Dakota.

  “Well, big girls make big mistakes,” said Anita. “Trust me on that. Because I’ve had it up to here with interference in my own affairs.”

  “So, how about the cakes?” asked Dakota, her eyes pleading.

  “Too much,” said Anita. “I’ll say no simply to save you more work.”

  “I’m not doing it alone,” said Dakota. “I have a team of classmates who all want to pitch in. It’s good practice.”

  Anita tasted another bit of cake. “Yes, it is very good. I think you’re getting even better.”

  “Yup,” agreed Dakota. “I am. And I’ve never been able to do something really great for you, Anita. So, this is my chance.”

  “Well, once you put it that way, I can’t refuse,” said Anita, leaning in to hug her surrogate granddaughter. “I will pay top dollar, however.”

  Dakota rolled her eyes. “It’s a gift,” she said.

  “Nonsense,” said Anita. “Your love and hard work is the gift. For the rest, I write a check. A large one.”

  “You know she’s going to sneak money in somewhere,” said Catherine. “So, you might as well share it with your friends and invest in pastry bags or something.” She carefully unpacked the objects remaining in the oversized bag, including several shoe boxes, opening one to display the four-inch crystal-encrusted heels inside.

  “Oh, I’ll fall right on my head,” protested Anita. “Who wants a wobbly bride?”

  “All right, you can save those ones for your wedding night,” teased Catherine, as Anita blushed and made a swatting motion in her direction. She didn’t think she’d ever feel comfortable mentioning certain things in Dakota’s presence.

  “I brought something special for you,” continued Catherine. “More special than shoes.” She held up a tiny jewelry box. Once white, the paper coating had faded; the edges of the box had split long ago and been shabbily repaired with masking tape that was also yellowing with age.

  “Yes, this certainly looks like quality,” said Dakota, applauding. “I’m not sure this is going to match those pricey shoes.”

  Anita held her tongue, waiting. Slowly and carefully, Catherine eased the lid off the box to reveal the jewel inside: a sterling-silver butterfly pin.

  “That’s it? All this fanfare?” asked Dakota.

  “Well, it’s newly polished. I thought Anita could put this pin on her handbag,” said Catherine. “This butterfly is what I wore at the winter formal in 1981. Your mother ordered us matching pins from a mail-order catalog for sixty bucks. That was a lot of ice-cream cones to serve up at the Dairy Queen, I’ll have you know.”

  “You couldn’t borrow my grandmother’s pearls or something?”

  “That was just the point,” s
quealed Catherine. “All the other girls wore white dresses and borrowed necklaces. Georgia wore a cobalt dress with spaghetti straps, and I wore a red halter dress.”

  “And silver butterfly pins,” said Dakota. “Forgive me for stating the obvious, but the two of you sound like a pair of fashion don’ts.”

  Anita picked up the pin. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “It sounds like two good friends making a statement of their uniqueness. I bet if you dug around in your mother’s costume jewelry you might find her pin.”

  “Costume was all my mother had,” said Dakota. “I wear the few things that fit my style, but the rest just sits there.”

  Catherine ambled over to the sofa and sat down.

  “Anita, let’s get crazy,” she said. “You try on your dress with the shoes, and you, Dakota, listen up to one of the few times I ever saw your mother in a gown.”

  “I’m sure it was the only time,” said Dakota. “She mainly wore jeans, you know. And she liked it that way.”

  “Not always,” said Catherine.

  Georgia secretly liked the crinkling. The crunchy swish of her skirt as she walked down the hallway away from the school gym, the way the boys who never paid much attention before were looking her up and down. Even Simon Hall, whom she beat by one percentage point on the history final. Even him.

  She turned around to watch Cathy behind her, rolling her eyes at the retro disco song being played, then pushed the swinging door with her butt as the two made their way into the girl’s bathroom to update their makeup and talk, their dates standing around anxiously in the hallway, uncertain if it would seem okay to ask other girls to dance while they waited.

  It was nice to feel pretty, Georgia thought.

  To be fair, the entire scheme had been Cathy’s idea, which meant it would automatically be expensive. No one in Harrisburg would be wearing dresses from New York to the winter formal.