by Terri Thayer
I handed Vangie a piece of cardboard that had fallen. "Need help?"
Vangie shook her head. "Last load. Did you get the cashier's check?"
I patted my back pocket, then held up the bag of zucchini. "But I ran into Gussie at the bank, and, long story short, I missed the deadline to mail it at the post office."
She glanced at the clock. "It's too late to call them now. Too bad, these New Yorkers already think all Californians are weirdos. Now we go and flake on them. I told them I'd have the check to them by eleven tomorrow."
This wasn't Vangie's fault. It was on me. I held my hands up. I laid the bag on her desk. She made a great ratatouille. "I'm sorry. I know I screwed up. I'll make it right."
I took the check out of my pocket and put it in the safe.
Vangie said, "Zorn's here." She motioned with her head toward the kitchen. "He's in there. Mrs. Unites nabbed him on the way in." She bumped the back door open with her hip and headed for the dumpster.
Pearl called to me from inside the classroom. "Dewey, come here."
I poked my head in and told her I'd be right back. "I've got to do this one thing."
I gathered a dozen fat quarters, those cute little bundles of fabric that quitters loved, picking the latest fabrics in an array of colors. Kym watched me carefully. There were no customers in the store, and she was busily inspecting her fingernails for chipped polish.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Customer relations. I'm giving a free fat quarter to everyone whose car got stuck here overnight."
She tossed her hair back. "Aren't they all locked?"
"I assume so, which is why I'm going to stick them under a windshield wiper."
Kym watched as I pulled the barcodes off and stuck them on a spare piece of paper. I'd have to write these off as promotions, and I needed the barcodes to do that. I gathered some business cards and tossed her the feather duster from the hook behind the cash register.
"As long as you're not doing anything..." I said. She caught the bright pink thing like it was a tadpole and reluctantly flicked it over the nearest shelf.
Outside, I tucked a fat quarter on each windshield in the back parking lot. I wasn't even sure they were all from the class last night but it couldn't hurt. I attached a Quitter Paradiso card and hoped it would be enough to waylay any hard feelings.
The big van was last. There was no sign of Tim Shore. I didn't really want to leave him a gift, but I couldn't skip him. Good customer service didn't get talked about, but bad always did.
His windshield wiper was out of my reach. I stepped on the black rubber step by the driver's door and grabbed the door handle to hoist myself up. The door swung open, nearly dumping me on the ground.
I brushed myself off and laid the fabric on the front seat, then thought better of it. He might just sit on it, without noticing my goodwill gesture. I decided to move it to the console. A stack of coffee-stained mail was sitting there. The van smelled as though someone lived in it. I looked around. The back seat had been taken out and the back equipped with a bed. The Shore family obviously liked to camp.
I dropped the fat quarter, knocking over the pile of mail. The entire stack fell next to the passenger seat. I had to climb farther in to reach them. I felt ridiculous, half in and half out of the van. If Shore saw me or worse, Zorn, I'd be mortified.
Straightening out the pile of bills, I noticed the address on the PG&E bill. It had been sent to an address in Milpitas.
That asshole. He'd taken enough taxi money from me last night to get him the twenty-five miles to Santa Cruz, when he really lived less than five miles away in Milpitas. My face flamed. He had sixty dollars of mine. I hoped I was around when he came back for his van, so I could give him a piece of my mind. For free.
Zorn was still monopolizing the kitchen when I went back in.
I went into the classroom where Pearl and Ina were quilting at the frame. I'd promised Gussie not to tell her friends about her huge withdrawal. As for Celeste's breakup with Larry, that was her news to tell, not mine. She would never forgive me if word got out before she was ready.
But I was concerned about Gussie. Maybe I could leave the money out of the discussion, but still find out if Gussie's house looked like a train wreck normally.
"I ran into Gussie," I said as an opening gambit after greeting Pearl and Ina. "She took me home with her. The place was such a mess, I was thinking of asking Officer Wong to check on her."
Pearl was aghast. "You would call the pigs on Gussie?" Pearl was a veteran protester.
"Come on, Pearl. Have you seen her house?"
Pearl and Ina glanced at each other, and laughed.
"That's what set you off?" Ina said. "How did it look? Piles of magazines? Fabric and yarn everywhere?"
I nodded.
Ina took off her red reading glasses and waved a dismissive hand. "That's Gussie in the middle of a project. She hates to pick up after herself-thinks it interferes with her creativity."
"It would be ridiculous to report her to the police, Dewey," Pearl said. "They would assign her a social worker, who might decide she's not capable of being on her own. Once you put someone in the system, it's impossible to get out."
I didn't mean to open such a can of worms. "Never mind, I won't tell him then. I'm sorry. I was a little worried. I thought she'd been robbed."
They laughed again. I wanted to ask them if she was growing pot, but I wasn't going to risk being humiliated again.
"What about Larry? Have you seen him today? Gussie was looking for him," I said.
Pearl said, "Leave the old ladies be, Dewey. We're perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves."
Ina said, in her best school teacher voice, "This is a great time for you to catch up on last night's lesson."
I headed for the door. "No way. I've got a million things to do."
Pearl stopped me, and twirled me around. She said, "Oh, but look. It's right there on the whiteboard."
Sure enough, someone had written on the bottom of the To-do list: #26. Quilting lesson. It was underlined in red and followed by several exclamation points.
I looked from one to the other. They were very pleased with themselves. "Very funny."
Ina giggled, and Pearl laughed. "Come on, Dewey. I've already set up the sewing machine."
My grandmother's shiny black Featherweight sewing machine with the ornate scrollwork was plugged in and ready to go. They'd gotten out my fabric and cut several pieces from last night's lesson.
"Mark a line at a quarter-inch on all the pieces, Dewey," Ina said. "You're going to sew only to that mark, and then stop and pivot."
I wasn't sure I could do that. I whined, "Pivoting sounds hard."
Ina shot me a look. "You're making it harder."
I said to Pearl, "Do you know how to do this, sew these fancy seams?"
"I do," she said. "I choose not to. I make art now, not quilts. Seam allowances and mitered corners are meaningless."
"Why can't I do it like that?" I said to Ina, piteously.
"You've got to learn the rules to break the rules," she said. She bent to break a thread with her teeth. Taking advantage of Ina being out of sight, Pearl shook her head and mouthed, "no you don't." I laughed and ducked my head down so Ina wouldn't see.
But Ina knew something was up. She had teacher radar that told her when someone was goofing off in class. And she wasn't happy. She pointed a thimbled finger at me. "Listen, you asked me to teach you how to quilt. That's what I'm teaching you. If you want to learn something else, then stop wasting my time."
"Okay, okay," I said. I hated to have her mad at me. Now there was no way I could get back to the work waiting for me in my office without spending a few minutes sewing, just to appease Ina.
I carefully lined up the two pieces of fabric and put them under the needle. I lowered the presser foot. The unfamiliar action made me nervous. It wasn't that I didn't like quilting, I just felt like a real klutz. I was always sure I was going t
o sew over my finger.
Pearl and Ina were quilting quietly. After a few minutes, I realized this was a good opportunity to find out more about Gussie's grandson. Having his contact information might not be a bad thing. If Larry wasn't going to take the money to Jeremy, the kid would have to come and get it.
"Whatever happened to Gussie's daughter, Donna? I remember when she dropped out of high school to have a baby."
Ina looked up, surprised. "You do? But she's what-five, six years older than you?"
"Yeah, I was in middle school, but it was a big deal. It was the first time I'd heard about someone getting a GED."
I took my foot off the power pedal and turned the big flywheel so the needle stayed in the fabric. I said, "I remember, because I thought a GED was a venereal disease."
Pearl guffawed. Ina joined in.
"Oh, the elastic mind of an eleven-year-old," Pearl said.
"She had the baby, right?" I asked.
Pearl said, "That's Gussie's grandson, Jeremy. He was trouble right from the get-go."
Ina said, "Donna's started a new life for herself. She has two baby girls and a new husband and lives in the Central Valley somewhere. Last I heard, Jeremy's in college."
Vangie stuck her head in the classroom. "Dewey? Quick question." She talked over the noise of my sewing machine, so I kept sewing, slowly. "One of the students from Ina's class last night is here to get her car. She wants to drop out and get a refund."
Ina and I exchanged a look. I'd hoped that by the time Ina's class met again next week, this would have all blown over. There were eleven people in that class. If I offered a refund to one, I'd have to offer it to all.
Ina said, "Want me to talk to her?"
I shrugged. "Would you please?"
"I know you can persuade her to stay on," I said sweetly. "If you can talk me into quilting instead of doing my real work, you can talk anyone into anything."
Ina frowned, "Don't shine me on."
"I'm not ignoring you, Ina," I said, ducking my head.
When she got to the door that Vangie held open, Ina turned back and said. "Don't iron until I come back. I want to show you the correct way"
"YEE-Ouch," Pearl said painfully. She laid down her needle and pulled her other hand out from under the quilt top. I saw a drop of blood. She sucked on the tip of her middle finger. "This is why I hate hand quilting. It hurts."
"How come?" I asked. I moved my hands farther away from the bed of the sewing machine.
"You have to use your bottom hand to know when to push the needle back up," Pearl said. She demonstrated, poking the tiny needle into the quilt top, and slipping the injured hand underneath. "If the needle doesn't go through all three layers, you're not quilting. But if you let the needle go too far down, your stitches get big and unseemly. The only way to know if the needle has pierced all layers is to feel it with your finger."
"We carry a tape. It's padded, I think, and it's supposed to avoid that problem."
Pearl shook her head. "I've got to be able to feel the tip."
I looked at my own fingers. "So you let the needle cut your fingertip? Over and over again? Seems like a silly way to do things. You're always hurting yourself."
"It's the only way I know how," Pearl said. "You've got to feel the pain to know where you're at."
She took some more stitches, and I sewed on the machine. I stopped and rolled my arms, trying to work out the stiffness that was building.
Pearl poked her needle in the quilt top. She got up and came behind me, kneading my shoulders. "It's easy to get tense sewing," she said. "You have to make sure to take breaks."
I stopped sewing. "Thanks," I said, wriggling my back. "A little to the left, please."
She laughed, but complied. We were quiet, while she got rid of the knots in my neck. She had me in a tight grip when she said, "Why all the questions about Donna? You pregnant?"
I pulled myself out of her grasp and twisted around to see her face. She looked so disingenuous, I laughed. "That would have to be a miraculous birth," I said.
Pearl's hands flew up to her face. "Oh, sorry, I just assumed." She was flustered, a rare sight. "You and Buster have been dating, and you're not ...?"
I shook my head quickly before she could finish the rude gesture to illustrate her point. I held her hands in mine.
She pulled up the chair next to mine and leaned in, looking at me closely. "Is there something wrong with him? I mean, you know..."
I put my hands over my eyes. "Omigod, no. He just wants to take it slow."
Pearl frowned. "Slow? More like glacial. Is it a religious thing? Did you take some kind of oath?"
I started sewing, as much to drown out Pearl's question as to get finished. I watched the fabric fed into the sewing machine, feeling my ears go red. "Not exactly an oath. More like a bet. I've been trying to get him to move the deadline up, but we're having a little trouble with that."
"You are having a rough week," she said sympathetically.
Tears welled in my eyes. "It's not just Buster. It's the store. I need this sale to go well, and everything I do turns to shit. This afternoon, I blew a good opportunity to make cash. And if I don't get the e-mail notices out soon, no one will come to the sale."
"You'll get it all done. You always do," Pearl said. She gave my back a series of quick pats. "This, too, shall pass."
"Hard to remember," I said.
"That's for sure, but just remember it's all minutiae, when it comes to your real mission on this earth."
I laughed bitterly. "Like I know what that is."
She frowned. "What happened? You were so clear last spring. You wanted to run the shop."
Her words felt like the x-ray apron at the dentist. Heavy and dense. I wanted to throw them off.
I thought I knew what I wanted last spring. "I guess the reality is different than what I'd imagined."
"Always is, kiddo, always is. But you've got to keep in mind what you're passionate about." Pearl turned my chair to face her. She looked into my eyes.
I tried to take in what Pearl was saying. Why did I want to run the shop? In fact, I had more reasons now than I'd had last spring.
There were so many things I hadn't known then. Like how many beautiful, unique finished projects the customers would bring in to show me. How proud I'd feel knowing that they used QP fabrics. I didn't know yet how many stories I'd hear about the babies who carried their quilts with them all the time, or the teenage boys who went to sleepovers with their quilts, or the fathers in nursing homes with lap quilts that warmed their bodies and souls.
I'd had a chance firsthand to see what quilting meant to people. I'd gone to the homeless shelter and handed out quilts to kids without families. I'd gathered Pink Ribbon blocks that were made into quilts and auctioned off to raise money for breast cancer research. I'd shipped quilts to Katrina victims. I'd really grown to love my customers and my workers. And quilts.
There was plenty that touched my soul. But there was also more trouble.
Pearl touched my hand, bringing me back. "What's the one thing you can do to make this store better? More like the place you envisioned?"
"Get rid of Kym." As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I felt guilty, but then noticed an easing in my gut. It felt good to say the truth aloud. Even if I could never act on it. "We really don't belong working together, but what can I do? She's my sisterin-law."
Pearl crossed her arms and leaned back. "Did you ever consider she might not like working for you any better than you like being her boss?"
I turned back to the machine, sewing another three inches, concentrating on stopping the needle right on the yellow chalk dot I'd marked. "She loves it here."
Pearl lowered her voice. "No, she loved it here."
I couldn't have this discussion now. "I've got to get through Saturday," I said. Pearl gave me a sad smile and scooted back closer to the frame and started quilting again. In and out, over and over again.
The trouble with
quilting was that it gave you time to think.
I pivoted, turning the fabric under the needle and sewing down the next seam line. It wasn't as hard as I thought.
Ina came back in the room. "One satisfied customer. She said thanks for the fat quarter, by the way. She found it on her car?" She looked at me questioningly. I just shrugged.
"Anyhow, she's looking forward to the sale and spending lots of money.
"Great job." I pulled out the fabric from under the needle and cut the thread. The seam was tight with no signs of puckering. I felt a flash of pride. I'd done a good job.
"How does my block look?"
Ina picked it out of my palm and frowned. She prodded at the seams I'd sewn, and pushed down the middle with her fingers. "Pretty good. Go iron."
Ina kept up her quilt talk. I tried to follow what she was saying, but it wasn't easy. "Be careful," she said. The edges of your diamonds are bias, so you have to be very careful of the way you iron them... "
"Iron? You didn't tell me there was ironing in quilting. Come on, I'm the one who irons wrinkles into my clothes. I'm a great folder."
Pearl was grinning.
I continued, "Trust me, if you're a good enough folder, you don't need to iron."
Ina said. "I'm sure that philosophy suits you well for life, but in quilting you must iron." She pointed to where the ironing board leaned up against the wall.
Pearl said, "Don't worry, it's far more fun pressing quilt blocks than khakis. Go on. Set up the ironing board."
I was shaking my head as I pulled the ironing board away from the wall. The legs made a terrible screeching noise as I put them down. I tried not to think of it as my own screams.
One glimpse of the ironing board's new cover told me why the two women were grinning.
The entire top of the new cover was a photo of a nearly nude fireman, abs rippling, red suspenders defining his pecs. His fire pants rode low on his hips, showing just the beginning of the hairy line that led from his navel and disappeared.