Elm Creek Quilts [12] The Winding Ways Quilt

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  A chicken salad sandwich with sweet dill pickles awaited her on the table when she went downstairs to the kitchen. Her mother looked up from washing dishes, turned off the tap, and dried her hands on her apron. “Do you want some milk?” her mother asked. “Lemonade? Iced tea?”

  “Milk would be great.” Good for the baby, Gwen added silently as she sat down and began to eat. The familiar flavors brought tears to her eyes, but she quickly blinked them away as her mother set a glass of milk on the table and seated herself across from Gwen. “This is delicious. Thanks, Mom.”

  “It’s nothing.” Idly, Gwen’s mother brushed crumbs from the table into her open palm and scooted her chair over to reach the trash can beneath the sink, the chair legs squeaking on the linoleum. “How’s Dennis?”

  “Stoned, probably,” Gwen said without thinking, and immediately regretted it when her mother recoiled. “I—I don’t know. I left him in Kansas City.”

  Gwen’s mother mulled this over. “Left him? You mean he’ll be joining us later?”

  “No, I mean I divorced him.”

  Gwen’s mother looked horrified, for all that she had never met Dennis and had little reason to think well of him. “Oh, Gwen, no. Not a divorce.”

  Gwen picked the last crumbs from her plate, still ravenous. “We didn’t marry in the church.”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “To you? Since when?”

  “A marriage is a marriage.” Gwen’s mother rose and took bread from the bread box and a covered bowl of chicken salad from the refrigerator. “Was it a Protestant service? What denomination?”

  “A friend who had spent a year in a Buddhist monastery heard our vows on the beach.” Gwen inhaled deeply and sighed, remembering the waves crashing on her ankles, numb from cold, the sunlight making the water sparkle, her friends’ voices raised in song, Dennis’s kiss. “It was a beautiful day.”

  Her mother fixed her with an inscrutable look, but her hands kept deftly working, making Gwen another sandwich. “Then it wasn’t really a true, legal marriage.”

  “It was real to us.”

  “Well.” Her mother passed the plate to Gwen and sat down again. “I think it’s fair to say that you aren’t really divorced. You’ve just stopped living in sin. That at least makes matters less complicated.”

  Gwen bit into her sandwich and washed it down with a gulp of milk. “I’m having a baby.” When her mother showed no response, she added, “In June, I think.”

  Her mother’s eyes slowly filled with tears. “Well,” she said again, her smile trembling. “Isn’t that lovely.”

  “So you might want to tell your friends that I was really married after all. I’ll go along with whatever story you want.”

  Her mother took a deep, shaky breath and dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron. “So you’re planning to stay?”

  Gwen’s heart turned over. It had never occurred to her that her parents wouldn’t want her to. But of course, this was Brown Deer. A daughter who left town with so much promise and potential, dragging herself home as a college dropout, divorced or never married depending upon your point of view, pregnant—of course they would want her well on her way out of town before she began to show. “I—just for a while,” she stammered. “I know people will talk. I’ll figure something out and leave before I give anyone anything more to gossip about.”

  “No.” Her mother reached across the table and seized her hands. “You’re staying here. Your vagabond lifestyle was bad enough when you had only yourself to think of. A baby needs a home and a family.”

  She spoke so fiercely that Gwen could only manage, “But the neighbors—”

  “They’ll have a lot to say, I’m sure. I don’t care and neither should you. I’m not letting you disappear again, not with my only grandchild. I’m putting my foot down, as I should have done years ago. You’re staying, so you might as well get used to the idea.” Gwen’s mother released her daughter’s hands and gestured to the sandwich. “Go on. Finish your lunch. You’re skin and bones.”

  For the first time in ages, Gwen found herself without a witty rejoinder.

  She spent most of that first week home sleeping and rereading all of her old books. When her mother scheduled Gwen a long-overdue checkup with their family doctor, she insisted so adamantly upon driving her that Gwen knew her mother feared that if on her own she would hop in the car and disappear forever. When she ran out of things to read and began to grow restless, her mother suggested that she invite some of her school friends over.

  “Who did you have in mind?” Gwen asked, sitting at the kitchen table and toying with a bread wrapper twist tie while her mother unpacked groceries. She’d had only two good friends in Brown Deer: Kelly, an aspiring poet and editor of the school paper, and Angela, who could play any instrument she touched but could barely spell. Kelly was pursuing a law degree somewhere in New England, and Angela had left town the day after graduation to become a session musician in Nashville.

  “I saw Vicky in the Piggly Wiggly this morning. She said she’s thrilled to hear you’re back in town and you should come over for coffee sometime.”

  “Vicky invited me to Chateau Sinclair?” jeered Gwen. “I don’t believe it.”

  “She’s Vicky Hixton now. I know you girls weren’t real friendly, but you’ve both grown up and people change. She’s married and has a baby, too, so she knows what you’re going through.”

  “She has no idea what I’m going through,” Gwen retorted. So Vicky had married Pete after all. How cliché—the cheerleader marrying the captain of the football team. She doubted either of them had ever left Kentucky, except perhaps for their honeymoon. Apparently Pete could read a map better than he could read a book, or they never would have found their way back to Brown Deer. Of course, Vicky had probably told him what the multisyllabic words meant, just as she had always done to keep his grades up so he could keep his academic eligibility. At least he could add money and make change; that and his winning personality would serve him well at his father’s used-car dealership—

  Abruptly Gwen abandoned her silent, scathing appraisal. Pete was dim, but he didn’t smoke grass and he was probably a devoted husband and father. As much as she hated to admit it, Vicky had chosen a better father for her children than Gwen had—but that didn’t mean Gwen admired her and wanted her for a friend.

  Her mother pursed her lips, put a gallon of milk and a carton of orange juice in the refrigerator, and picked up the phone. “Think of something polite to say fast, because I’m calling her.”

  Against her better judgment, Gwen found herself two days later carrying a plate of her mother’s best sour-cream cookies down the tree-lined streets of Brown Deer on her way to Vicky’s house. Vicky greeted Gwen at the door wearing a cashmere twin set, lipstick, and pearls, her honey-blonde hair swept back in a headband. “Well, if it isn’t the long-lost Gwen Sullivan,” said Vicky, unsuccessfully masking her shock with a cheery smile. The towheaded baby in Vicky’s arms stuffed a chubby fist in his mouth and stared at the visitor. “What a surprise to see you back in Brown Deer. I know your folks have missed you terribly.”

  “It’s nice to be back,” said Gwen as Vicky ushered her inside, although at the moment she didn’t believe it. She forced a smile and held out the plate of cookies. “These are from my mother.”

  “Isn’t she sweet. That must be the secret recipe my mother says the bridge club raves about.” Vicky showed Gwen to the living room, her smile never faltering as her gaze flicked over Gwen’s worn sandals, patched jeans, and fringed vest. “Why don’t you set that plate on the coffee table and take a seat?” She excused herself and hurried off to the kitchen, the baby riding her hip, and soon returned carrying a coffee service on a silver tray. “It’s so good to see you,” she said, pouring them each a steaming cup. “Are you home for the holidays?”

  It was an odd question considering that Thanksgiving was still two weeks away. Either Vicky already knew the whole sordid story and was
playing dumb, or she was so disconcerted by Gwen’s sudden reappearance in Brown Deer that a holiday visit was the only possible explanation that came to mind. “No, I’m home for a while.” Gwen leaned forward to stir cream and sugar into her coffee, praying she wouldn’t spill anything on the plush white sofa or the shag carpeting, both strangely pristine for a home with a baby in it. “Your son is adorable. How old is he?”

  “Six months. Pete Jr. is his given name, but we all call him PJ.” Vicky shifted her son to her lap and took one of his feet in each of her hands. “My boobs have gotten so huge from nursing that his daddy can hardly keep his hands off me. I bet it won’t be long before I’m in a family way again.”

  So this is the discourse of popular girls, Gwen thought as she forced herself to join in Vicky’s laughter. This was what Gwen, Kelly, and Angela had missed out on while observing the cheerleaders with equal parts envy and disdain from the worst table in the school cafeteria, the one with the short fourth leg. If a newcomer set down a tray too suddenly, those already seated would find their food catapulted through the air. It had been one of the more humiliating occupational hazards of their exile. Pete, especially, had found it very entertaining, for slapstick was just about the only humor he understood.

  “How is Pete, anyway?” Gwen heard herself ask. “How did he manage to avoid getting sent to ’Nam? I can’t picture him burning his draft card.”

  “Oh, Gwen, you sure haven’t changed. The cream hasn’t even cooled your coffee and you’re already talking politics.” Vicky gazed heavenward as she untangled a long strand of honey-blonde hair from PJ’s fist. “He tried to enlist, but he’s stone-cold deaf in his right ear. Too many tackles, the doctor said, so he obviously doesn’t follow sports because he’d know Pete hardly ever got sacked. It wasn’t how many times he got hit, but how hard. You remember that game junior year against Greenup County?” She waved a hand dismissively. “No, of course you wouldn’t. You never cared about the team. Anyway, I think that’s the tackle that did it. And all that time I thought he was just ignoring me, when it turned out he couldn’t hear a word I said if he was facing the wrong way. Isn’t that funny?”

  “Very,” said Gwen, determined to be agreeable. “Who would have guessed?”

  “Not me, that’s for sure. But how aboutyou ? How have you been? I heard you got married.”

  “I was married. I’m not anymore.”

  “Oh, my. What a shame.” Vicky tsked her tongue as she carefully selected one of Gwen’s mother’s cookies from the plate. “At least you’re still young enough to find someone else, and since your ex isn’t from around here you won’t, you know, run into him at the post office or something. Thank goodness you don’t have any kids.”

  “I will in about seven months.”

  Vicky’s eyebrows formed perfectly plucked arches. “Oh.” She sank back against the white velour. “I see.” She held PJ a little closer, then fixed Gwen with a bright smile. “If you need to know the best places to get diapers on sale, or which girls you can trust to be reliable baby-sitters, all you have to do is ask.”

  It was the kindest gesture anyone from Vicky’s crowd had ever shown her. “Thank you.”

  “Isn’t it funny how things turn out?” Vicky stroked her son’s downy hair. “You were always so smart, getting that college scholarship and thinking you were too good for everyone. You couldn’t wait to shake the dust of this town off your feet and never look back. Now here you are, right back in Brown Deer with the rest of us—knocked up, no husband, no job, no fancy college degree. I can’t imagine what you’re going to do next.”

  “Neither can I,” said Gwen, although her inclination was to turn the coffee pot over Vicky’s shining blonde head.

  During the next two weeks, Gwen left home only to drive an hour away to the nearest library—escorted by her mother, of course—or to pick up necessities at the grocery store, or to attend church services with her parents. She didn’t want to go; she believed less than half of what the priest droned, although she was drawn to the idea of Mary as an iconic mother goddess figure. Still, she went because she appreciated what it meant for her father and mother—who were head usher and leader of the Altar Society, respectively—to sit beside her in all her shame. She was their daughter, and despite her mistakes they intended to stand by her, dragging her out in public if necessary to prove that she had no need to cower inside ashamed. Touched by their faithfulness and impressed by their determination, Gwen resolved to give the neighbors nothing else to gossip about. After all, there was only so much they could say about a divorced pregnant former valedictorian, and Vicky had already said most of it.

  Since Gwen was obviously making no effort to build her own circle of friends, her mother cajoled her to join her quilting club, the Brown Does. Gwen laughed off her invitations until she realized her mother was sincere—and resolved. Gwen had absolutely no interest in quilting, growing flowers for the Altar Society, or planning bake sales to support the volunteer fire department, and she was not about to pretend that she cared. She also didn’t need all those matrons, including Vicky’s mother, carrying home cautionary tales about Gwen’s rapidly expanding waistline.

  Then her father took her aside and offered his stern opinion. “These are your mother’s friends,” he told her. “They stood by her all those long years when you were gone. They held her when she cried. They prayed for your safe return home. The least you can do—the very least you can do—is show up for one meeting, put on a pleasant smile, and show them that you were worth it. It’s nothing to you, but it would mean the world to your mother.”

  Chagrined, Gwen agreed to join the Brown Does for one weekly meeting in the church basement, but only after promising her father that she would keep her opinions about quilting to herself. It wouldn’t be easy. She couldn’t stand to see otherwise intelligent women waste their time on pointless busywork, trivial distractions that prevented them from devoting their time and energy to work that might actually make a difference. Registering women to vote, for example. Speaking out against injustice. Pursuing an education—not that Gwen had much credibility in that regard anymore.

  She vowed to keep silent for her mother’s sake as she pulled up a metal folding chair and joined fourteen of her mother’s quilter friends around a long table usually reserved for potluck dinners, wedding receptions, and yard sales. To her surprise, she was not the youngest present. Two of the Brown Does had brought their daughters, who were affectionately referred to as Fawns. Everyone seemed surprised to find Gwen among them, but when an older lady inquired if she was their newest Fawn, Gwen shook her head vehemently.

  While the others worked on their own projects, Gwen sat idle, listening. To her relief, after asking how she felt and clucking sympathetically when she admitted to lingering morning sickness, they steered the conversation away from her pregnancy and left her blissfully alone to join in, or not, as she saw fit. The chat wasn’t as dull as she had expected it to be, which shouldn’t have surprised her, considering that she had known them and the people they discussed all her life, and she had a lot of catching up to do. She took a bit of guilty comfort in discovering that she was not the only resident of Brown Deer whose life had taken an unexpected and embarrassing turn; it wasn’t schadenfreude so much as a dawning comprehension that others had recovered from worse downturns in fortune, and in time she might, too.

  The next week, she told her mother she was willing to give the Does another try, almost regretting it when her mother greeted the news with unconcealed delight. Gwen had no intention of making the visits a habit, but she had finished her last library book and had nothing better to do. Upon her return to the church basement, the eldest Doe, a mother of twelve, greeted her with a box of gingersnaps, which she promised could cure even the worst morning sickness. Another Doe sought her opinion regarding a selection of fabrics for a new quilt, since, as she said, Gwen had such an “iconoclastic style.” The women included her in their circle as if she belonged there. It was onl
y later that Gwen learned that daughters were considered Fawns from birth regardless of their own inclinations.

  As the weeks passed, Gwen grew tired of sitting around while the others pinned and sewed, so she began assisting the others on tasks that required little technical skill—tracing templates for one Doe, cutting pieces for another. When asked when she planned to start a quilt of her own, Gwen laughed and said she didn’t have time.

  “Seems to me you have little else but time,” a Doe remarked.

  “What are you afraid of?” teased the youngest Fawn, a senior at the high school. “That you’ll make a quilt so ugly that you’ll have to dump it in the lost and found?”

  The others laughed so heartily that Gwen looked around the circle in surprise. Were they referring to her notorious refusal to take home ec? Why would they assume her quilts would be ugly? Just because she didn’twant to learn to quilt didn’t mean that shecouldn’t.

  Sensing her bewilderment, her mother patted her arm reassuringly. “It’s an inside joke,” she explained. “There’s been a Pineapple quilt sitting in the church lost-and-found box for ages. Whenever we’re dissatisfied with one of our projects, we threaten to abandon it there.”

  “But we always let the other Does talk us out of it,” another chimed in.

  “That Pineapple quilt is perfectly nice, or it would be if it weren’t wadded up and stuffed in a cardboard carton,” said Mrs. Moore, Gwen’s former fifth-grade teacher. “So our joke doesn’t really suit.”

  “Why hasn’t someone returned the quilt to its rightful owner?” asked Gwen, still perplexed. “Maybe she thought she misplaced it somewhere else, and she doesn’t know to look for it here. You know all the quilters in Brown Deer. Don’t you recognize the handiwork?”

  “If we knew who made the quilt, we wouldn’t have left it to gather dust in the lost and found, now, would we?” said Vicky’s mother.