The Fortune Quilt

by Lani Diane Rich

  Will is giving me a plant in a pot that he painted himself, I realize, and much to my dismay an awkward sob punches its way out of me as a response to this small kindness.

  “Carly?” Will looks concerned, as well he should. My eyes are welling up. I can barely see him. Another sob breaks free and I clamp my hand over my mouth as the tears bounce down my cheeks and over my fingers.

  “Oh, hey, I’m sorry,” Will says, stepping inside and settling the plant down on the floor before putting both hands on my shoulders. “Do you… not like plants?”

  I manage a weak laugh and he smiles, a glint of hope in his eyes that this might turn out okay, but then there are so many tears, I can’t keep track of them all. It feels like they’re falling over me like rain. It’s a deluge. I am going to drown. Somehow, I make it to the couch, and Will is next to me with his hand resting on my upper arm. I swipe at my face.

  “I’m sorry,” I squeak out over the sobs. “I’m not… usually… like this.”

  “Can I get you something?” he says. “Some water, some Kleenex?”

  “I don’t have Kleenex!” I wail, as though I’ve just realized I don’t have a soul.

  “Yeah, me either,” he says. I look up at him, and he gives me a weak smile. “Yeah, that whole boy scout thing was a joke. I’m almost never prepared.”

  I don’t know why, but this brings on a fresh wave of sobs.

  “All right, that’s okay,” he says calmly. He squeezes my arm. “One second, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say, trying to catch my breath and failing miserably as another round of sobs takes over. “Okay.”

  It seems like he is instantly gone and instantly back, and he has a roll of toilet paper in his hands. He rips off a section and hands it to me. I swipe it over my face and try to calm down. His hand is running over my shoulder and down my arm, in comforting strokes, and my heart cracks right down the middle. I can feel it, I can hear it, and it hurts like a bastard.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks after a minute.

  I shake my head and there is a long conversational drought. Then, suddenly, for no reason I can understand, I start talking.

  “How could she just leave like that?” My voice is scratchy and tired, but I keep going. “If she loved me, she would have stayed. She wouldn’t have left me to raise a family at the age of twelve. If she loved me…” A fresh wave of pain washes over me, cutting me from the inside. “But she didn’t. She just didn’t.”

  “This isn’t…?” He sounds unsure as he forms the question. “Are you talking about your mother?”

  I nod and sniffle, and his face washes over with understanding. “Oh, man. That’s… wow. Huge.”

  “She came back,” I say. “Last week. I came home from work and there she was, sitting on the couch, drinking scotch with Dad.”

  Will is silent, his hand smoothing down over my back. I blow my nose and grab for more toilet paper.

  “She and Dad are going to therapy, I guess. Five wants to know her. Ella wants… I don’t know what Ella wants.”

  And there’s her voice in my head, You’re being terrible and selfish and you can just stay in Bilby for all I care. I feel the tears sliding down my cheeks, but at least they’re relatively calm tears. I simply lack the energy to wail.

  “I’m still so angry,” I say after a moment. “I can’t forgive her. I want to slap her and yell at her and everyone else wants to sit around a campfire with her, roasting marshmallows and singing freakin’ Kumbaya, and what the hell is wrong with them, anyway? Don’t they remember what it was like? Don’t they care what she did?”

  My throat tightens and I can’t talk anymore. It seems like there’s no space inside me for anything but tears. Will’s hand moves around my shoulders and he pulls me against him. I rest my head on his shoulder and another geyser opens, and I feel like I’m never going to do anything but sit here and weep. Will puts his lips to the top of my head and makes shushing sounds into my hair, and eventually, I start to come back.

  “I’m sorry,” I squeak, finally getting the strength to separate myself from him. I snatch some tissue off the roll and resolve to get some Kleenex the next time I’m at the store. “I’m usually tougher than this.”

  “Oh, hey, no,” he says, turning toward me on the couch, his fingers coming up to push my hair away from my face. “I’m amazed at how strong you’ve been. I don’t know how you’ve gotten through as well as you have.”

  “I haven’t,” I say. “Dad can forgive her. Five can. Ella can. I can’t. I’m a horrible, terrible, weak and petty person.”

  “Carly, come on,” he says. “You know that’s not true. I’ve just met you, and I know that’s not true.”

  I look up at him. My eyes are beginning to puff up and I wonder absently if I’m inadvertently squinting. “Wait until you know me better before you make any rash judgments.”

  He smiles at me. “I think I know enough.”

  I try to smile back, but end up just taking a deep, stuttering breath.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Everyone has bad days.” He reaches up and brushes some of my hair away from my face. I feel a shudder go down my back and I have a strong urge to curl up in his arms and let him hold me until I feel better. But we hardly know each other, so instead, I shift away from him and he drops his hand.

  “I’m so tired,” I say finally. “I think I might just go to sleep and think about all this again tomorrow. You know, pull a Scarlett O’Hara.”

  His smile quirks. “That’s probably a good idea. I’ll let you get to it.”

  I get up off the couch, and he places his hand gently between my shoulder blades as we walk to the door.

  “If you need anything,” he says, turning to me and bending his knees to bring his eyeline level with mine, “I’m within shouting distance.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I say.

  “Yeah, I know you will.” He gives me a slight smile, then opens the door and disappears. I close the door behind him, resting my forehead against the door as I stand there, staring at my Keds.

  “Hot damn, I’m a basket case,” I mutter to myself. Then I go to my new bed, hop on up, and pass out into a black sleep.

  ***

  It takes me exactly three days to transition from my old life to my new, re-imagined one. By the third day into my new existence, I have stopped picking up my cell phone to call Christopher, only to hang up before dialing, and I have mastered the cash register system at Art’s Desire. I have stopped dreaming about being back at work on Tucson Today, and I have made a friend in Allegra, who forces a new flavor or style of coffee on me every day during my break, refusing to believe that every day, all I really want is a Viennese latte. I have stopped waiting for my father to contact me to tell me he’s sorry, and I have met and been embraced by—in many cases, literally so—the vast majority of the people in Bilby.

  With the exception, that is, of Mr. Trimble.

  Mr Trimble is a skinny old guy who dresses entirely in black and buys one box of charcoals twice a week and who, I’ve discovered, does not respond well to being directly spoken to. As a matter of fact, on my second day at work, when I asked him if he needed anything else, he told me to fuck off.

  “Don’t worry about Mr. Trimble,” Janesse had said. “He’s just… special. All you have to do is sell him his charcoals and, uh, no eye contact, okay?”

  “Special,” snorts Allegra now as we sit outside the café at the mosaic tables. “That’s Bilby-ese for off his nut. How’s that peppermint macchiato?”

  “Nice,” I say, taking a sip. I’m beginning to enjoy her concoctions, for the most part, although I do miss my Viennese lattes. But tomorrow is Friday, and she’s promised me that on Fridays I can have whatever I want.

  “So, tell me,” she says, leaning her elbows over the small table. “You used to live in New York. What’s it like?”

  “Well, I lived in Syracuse. It’s nice, I liked it, but it’s no
t like New York City or anything. And I was only there for a year.”

  “Who cares? You lived there. That’s so exciting.” Allegra sits back, leaning her head back and staring at the sky. “I want to go there so bad. I’ve never been. I’ve only been out of Arizona three times in my life.” She sits up, glances around, then looks at me and whispers as though there are microphones over our heads. “I’ve applied to go to NYU.”

  I lean forward, whispering as well. I’ve found that my when-in-Rome approach to Bilby life has been, generally, working for me. “That’s great. Why are we whispering?”

  She jerks her head toward the café. “Sebastian wants me to stay here and run this place.”

  I stare at her for a minute. Sebastian owns the place, and told me on my second visit to the café that I should grow my hair long and stop worrying about the kink. I still haven’t figured out his relationship with Allegra. He calls her “sweetheart” and ruffles her hair. He’s obviously more than a boss, but definitely not a boyfriend. Uncle?

  “Sebastian’s my dad,” she says, as though reading my mind. Which, I guess, she did.

  “Why do you call him Sebastian?” I ask. “I mean, is he not your real dad?”

  Allegra shakes her head. “No. James is my real dad.”

  I blink. Hmmm. I haven’t met James yet, but it appears Allegra has two daddies. Welcome to Bilby.

  Allegra shrugs. “But I call him by his first name, too. It’s an equality thing. They want to raise me without authoritarian blah blah blah. And for a couple of gay guys, they’re so overprotective. They didn’t even let me go to regular high school. I had to be home-schooled. That’s why I graduated early and everything, but it would have been nice to have a graduating class bigger than one.” She sighs. “There’s no way they’re going to find zen with NYU.”

  “And your… do you have a mom? I mean, you… you have to have a mom, r-right?”

  I’m very unsure of myself in this conversation, and I’m a little embarrassed by it. I don’t want it to seem like I’m not open-minded, because I am. But at the same time, I grew up Irish-Catholic and have been given very strict rules about what’s “normal” and what’s not; even though I don’t necessarily agree, some of it’s just hardwired in my head. Hell, I think having premarital sex is fine if you’re responsible about it, but I still feel guilty whenever I have sex or even think about having sex, which, as I’m twenty-nine and unmarried, accounts for a fair amount of guilt. If you’re gonna throw two daddies at a girl like me, you have to allow some latitude for culture shock, right?

  Allegra plays absently with her empty coffee cup. “My bio-mom is some surrogate named Safflower. I think she runs a crystal shop up in Sedona. But it was really just a business transaction for her, as far as I can tell.” She sighs and stares up at the sky. “I know you didn’t live there, but you’ve been to New York City, right?”

  I take a sip of my macchiato. “Yeah. It’s nice. Crowded. But everything’s there. Plays, shopping—”

  “Do you think a person could be spiritually fulfilled being a stockbroker?” she asks suddenly.

  “Um,” I say. “Sure. I guess. Why?”

  She takes a deep breath, and for the first time since I’ve known her, she actually looks like a kid, her face all hopeful and not bitter. “I was watching this movie on TV and they had this guy and he was a stockbroker and he was in the pit on Wall Street and shouting things like ‘Buy!’ and ‘Sell!’ and the numbers were flying by on the ticker and…” She exhales, puts her hand to her chest and nibbles her lips. “I got wet.”

  My eyebrows shoot up before I can stop them. It takes me a second, but I gain control over my face and casually sip my coffee.

  I’m beginning to think I don’t really belong in Bilby.

  “Hmm? Really? Hmm,” I murmur into my cup.

  Allegra laughs. “Oh, you’re not hung up about sex, are you?”

  “Who? Me? No.” Another sip. “It’s just… Um, how old are you again?”

  Allegra laughs. I know she’s seventeen, but she’s so… comfortable with herself. I’ve never been that comfortable with myself, ever. And she’s only seventeen…

  With a sudden surge of panic, I remember that Five is seventeen. Is she talking like this? Is she getting sexually aroused by stockbrokers? Is she doing it with Botox in the back of his mom’s SUV?

  And then I realize that it’s not my concern anymore if she is. That’s for Dad and Mary to worry about. The thought leaves me feeling cold and angry, so I take another sip of my coffee to wash it away.

  “It just looked like so much fun,” Allegra is saying, her voice wistful. “All the activity, all the men running around. Imagine being the only woman on that floor with a bunch of alpha-males in thousand-dollar-suits acting like primates.” She released a breath and crinkled her nose at me. “Doesn’t it get you hot?”

  “Um. Well. Not-not-not exactly, but…” I’m blushing. I’m blushing. I’m the adult, and I’m the one blushing. This is just sad. “That’s not really my thing, though.”

  Allegra gives me a knowing look. “I didn’t think so. You’re beta-male all the way.”

  “Beta-male?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” She sips her coffee, and one tight, beaded black braid, formed from the only lock of hair that’s not pink, smacks into her latte mug with a plastic clink. “You know. The sensitive type with glasses and a tender soul.”

  “Um…” I stammer, and start to get annoyed with myself. I’m an adult and a journalist, for Christ’s sake. I can talk about sex. I sit back and try to look casual. “I don’t know. My ex-fiancé, Seth, used to have glasses, but then he had that Lasik surgery—”

  “Oh, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Those types are great in bed.” Allegra’s face gets more serious. “But, what I was saying was, you don’t have to be broke to be happy, right? Rich people can be fulfilled, too, right?”

  I think on this for a moment, relieved to be on less sexual, if not firmer, ground. I feel that since I am older, I should have something of value to tell her, some wise words steeped from my experience which will shed light for her. I want to be one of those people, the right person at the right time whose sage words make all the difference.

  Unfortunately, I got nothing.

  I glance at my watch. “Wow,” I say. “Break’s over.”

  Six

  At Brandy’s suggestion, I have taken up knitting. She told me that the ritualistic nature of knitting helps align the chakras. I have no idea what that means, but Bilby’s at a higher elevation than Tucson, and it’s a bit cooler here at night; I could use a warm scarf. Besides, it’s either knit with Brandy or spend my evenings alone in my cabin, drinking wine and staring at She Might Be Crying, which is what I did last night. Instead, I am sitting in Brandy’s house, drinking tea and staring at my scarf.

  Which doesn’t look quite right. It’s a little lumpy on one side, and while I only cast on forty stitches, I have just counted forty-seven. Brandy suggested I use a brighter color to start with because it’s easier to see what you’re doing, but I insisted I wanted the brown. Once again, my stubbornness is not paying off.

  “Oh,” Brandy says, checking out my progress. “It’s happening when you purl. You see, here?” She points to one edge of my scarf. “You have to pull it between the needles, not over.”

  “Okay.” I start pulling out my stitches. Again. I’ve started this scarf four times, and have never gotten past seven rows.

  “So, um…” Brandy pauses and I look up at her. Her face is pensive, her smile seems a little forced, and her hands are white-knuckled around her needles. “How’s it going, you know, working at Janesse’s?”

  “Good.” I feel slightly uncomfortable, and start to knit again. “I like her. She’s really fun.”

  “Yeah,” Brandy says, picking up her own project. “And she’s… she’s doing okay? I mean, she seems happy?”

  “Yeah,” I say. Janesse is one of the happiest women I’ve ever known. The woman
hums to herself while doing the books. But Brandy’s expression is oddly tight, and I’m not sure if this is the right answer. There’s obviously some kind of history between them—lesbians, maybe? Estranged best friends?—and I decide it’s best to tread carefully.

  “She seems happy,” I say, then look down at my knitting and realize this row was supposed to be purl, not knit. “Shit.” I start to pull out the stitches again.

  There’s a knock at the door and Brandy gets up.

  “You don’t always have to pull mistakes out,” she says as she crosses the room. “Sometimes the best work comes out of mistakes.”

  I don’t know whether to take this literally or as a life lesson. With Brandy, you can never be too sure. I choose literally, but still pull the stitches free anyway, as the brown yarn with the lumpy mistakes looks to me like a big piece of knit turd.

  Brandy pulls the door open, and Will steps into the room. I glance up at him, trying to look casual, as though the last time he saw me I hadn’t been in the throes of a complete nervous breakdown.

  “Here’s the rent check for next month,” Will says to Brandy. “I’ve got a job next week, so I wanted to make sure you got it now.”

  “A job? On Thanksgiving?”

  “It’s in Canada.” There’s a slight pause, then I hear, “Hey, Carly.”

  I look up, super-casual. “Hey, Will. How ya doing?”

  “Good. You?”

  “Good.” I hold up the big pile of yarn in my hand and pull on a deliberately dorky smile. “I’m aligning my chakras.”

  A smile quirks on his lips and it makes me abnormally happy inside. I turn my attention to my knitting. Brandy picks up a pile of quilts off a chair and motions for Will to sit down. “Well, we’ll miss you at Thanksgiving. Won’t we, Carly?”

  “Hmm?”

  Brandy’s face falls. “Oh, you’re not going away for Thanksgiving, too, are you?”

  “I wasn’t…” I hadn’t thought about it, really. Was it Thanksgiving week? Already? “Why?”