The Sisterhood of the Dropped Stitches

by Janet Tronstad

  “You’re here,” Uncle Lou says, sounding happy to see me. “I was just telling Randy you could give him a tour of the place—get him reacquainted.”

  The day is nice and bright, and sun is shining in through the diner’s open blinds.

  I can see the grill guy, and he is looking friendly. Becca is right. The guy has a nice smile, and he doesn’t seem to be aware that he’s at the top of the list when it comes to looks.

  “I’d be happy to show you around, but I can’t right now.” I look at Randy. My timing just isn’t good with this guy. “A good friend of mine is coming here any minute, and I need to talk to her first.” That doesn’t sound adequate. I don’t want to blow the grill guy off twice even if he probably doesn’t remember the last time I turned down an opportunity to be with him. “It’s Carly—she lost her cat.”

  “Oh,” Randy says sympathetically. With the sunlight shining on him, I can see where Randy’s face has filled out in the six years since he used to work here. He’s got that movie-star jaw now.

  “It’s a rare cat,” I add out of nervousness. “It cost two thousand dollars.”

  I wince. I shouldn’t mention the price tag. “Of course, Carly is very fond of her cat, so it’s not about the money.”

  Randy whistles. “Must be some cat for two thousand dollars.”

  I am saved from rattling off at the mouth any further by the sound of the door opening.

  It’s Carly. Her eyes are puffy, and her hair isn’t in its usual state of perfection. I can tell she hasn’t noticed the grill guy or Uncle Lou. All she sees is me.

  My heart sinks as I open my arms. Something is really wrong.

  “I’m an awful cat owner,” Carly wails as she lets me give her a hug.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s not her health.

  “Cats run away sometimes,” I say as I pat Carly’s shoulder. “Well, and sometimes they don’t even run away—they just get curious and walk over to that bush, and then another bush and before you know it, they can’t find their way back. Your cat probably didn’t mean to leave. And she can’t have gone far.”

  “Unless someone took her,” Randy adds.

  Carly stiffens when she realizes someone is in the diner besides her and me and Uncle Lou. She pulls back.

  “I’m sorry,” Carly wipes her eyes and stands a little farther away from me. “I didn’t know you had company.”

  “This is Randy—you remember, he’s going to fill in for Uncle Lou on the grill,” I say, even though I know very well that Carly knows who Randy is. I wouldn’t want him to think that all of my friends know who he is, though—well, you know.

  “And don’t be sorry,” Randy says as he takes a step closer to Carly. “I know what it’s like to lose a pet.”

  I can’t imagine the grill guy crying over anything, but he sounds as if he knows how Carly feels.

  “Do you really think someone could have stolen Marie? That’s my cat’s name.” Carly explains to the grill guy as she sits down at one of the tables. “I never thought of that. Maybe someone’s holding her for ransom.”

  I’m glad I told Randy how valuable the cat is, so he won’t think Carly is crazy. I’ve never heard of anyone holding a cat for ransom before, but if the cat is worth two thousand dollars, it might happen.

  Randy sits down at the table with Carly and takes her hand and pats it. “If someone is holding it for ransom, they’ll let you know soon.”

  “I can’t stand the waiting.”

  I don’t think Carly knows I’m here any longer. She’s just looking at my grill guy as though he has all the answers in the world. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I mean, I never actually had a date with the grill guy, but I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t somebody in my life—well, maybe not the actual person Randy Parker, but my remembered, longed-for grill guy is somebody.

  You know, it’s strange. There are four of us in the Sisterhood—five, if you count Rose—but we have never had a problem before with any two of us being interested in the same man. We even go for different movie stars. Becca goes for the crazy action guys like Tom Cruise. Carly goes for the old movie stars like Rock Hudson. Lizabett goes for musicians—especially classical musicians. She likes the easy flowing nature of classical music, and that’s probably why she likes ballet, too.

  Me—I go more for the costars than the stars. Don’t ask me why. I’ll find some obscure guy in a movie and dream about him, even though, when I mention him to other people, no one remembers him in the movie.

  I look over at Randy and Carly. He’s still patting her hand, but she’s stopped looking as though she’s going to cry. I can’t see Randy taking an obscure role in any movie. Maybe he is more Carly’s type.

  “We could ask,” I hear Carly say because she’s lifted her head and is looking at Uncle Lou.

  I think I’ve lost a little bit of the conversation.

  “Carly mentioned that her cat seemed to like the smell of bacon in the morning,” Randy says to Uncle Lou. “So, I thought maybe if we put some bacon on the sidewalk around her house, we could draw the cat out from where it’s hiding.”

  “That’s a great idea,” I say. I do a check on my emotions the way Rose taught us all to do and, to be honest, I don’t find that—once I give it a minute to settle—I’m really troubled about what is happening here between Carly and Randy.

  Is that good or bad? I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the shock of it all—you know how they say you can’t feel a gunshot wound right away because your body is in shock. Maybe I’m like that. Nice and cool now, but in a few minutes or hours, I’ll be doubled-over in pain. I’ve dreamed about the grill guy for years.

  What will it be like if Carly and Randy start dating?

  Becca will be upset. That much I know. She’s counting on the grill guy to ask me out a few times so I can meet my goal.

  I give the grill guy another look. Maybe the shock is wearing off a little, because I’m starting to feel sad that I won’t have him to date. He honestly seems like a nice guy. You should see him now. He’s holding Carly’s hand, and his mind is still on bacon—and paper towels. He’s decided the bacon needs to be wrapped in paper towels so it doesn’t get the sidewalk all greasy. I don’t know many guys who could hold the hand of a beautiful blonde like Carly and be thinking about bacon grease. He seems like a real decent sort of person. Maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to give up on him.

  Chapter Six

  A camel makes an elephant feel like a jet plane.

  —Jackie Kennedy

  You would think Carly would be the one to bring this quote to the Sisterhood because Jackie O is as close to a queen as this country has every had. But it wasn’t Carly who brought it—it was Rose. We spent most of our time that night trying to figure out what the quote meant, and I think that’s why Rose brought it to us. Rose always seemed to know when we’d spent enough time sharing our troubles and needed to have something else to think about.

  “It just means everything is relative,” Becca said. She didn’t like quotes that were ambiguous.

  “I think it means it pays to fly first-class,” Carly said. The rest of us were silent a moment, trying to imagine what it would be like to do anything first-class.

  “I think Mrs. Kennedy just said it to make the elephant feel better,” Lizabett said. “Like when everyone is complaining about someone, and they all just need to take a minute to think about what the person could be doing that might even be worse than what they’re doing.”

  Some days I need to be reminded that each of us in the Sisterhood see things in our own ways. It’s hard to remember that my friends are different than I am and have as many opinions as I do. Now that I’m writing the journal for all of us, it’s important that I realize that I can’t really speak for everyone.

  I am particularly reminded of that because Carly has just asked me if she can make a few remarks in the journal while Uncle Lou fries up the bacon so we—she, Randy, and I—can go over to her house and try to coax
her cat home with the smell.

  I, of course, said yes to Carly when she asked to make some comments. As I said earlier, this is not my personal journal. It’s our journal. Carly’s entitled to give her opinion in it. I’m going to fold the journal to a new page before I give it to Carly, though. I don’t want her to read what I just wrote a few pages ago about her and Randy—at least not right now.

  I’m going to tell you something else, too. It’s strange, but Carly, even with all of her beauty, doesn’t necessarily have a lot of confidence with men. I’ve never understood that, but I know she deserves a nice guy who will see her as more than a beautiful woman. If she and Randy get together, I’ll try to be happy for them. Well, I’m folding here.

  Hi, this is Carly. I know Marilee is telling you all about what’s happening, but I think I should explain about my cat. I know better than to fall apart over a cat. My mother taught me restraint from the first day my parents and I moved in with my uncle and his wife in San Marino.

  My mother has impressed upon me that we are guests in her brother’s home and should do nothing to bring dishonor to his name or unpleasantness to his household. The unspoken message is that, with my father’s alcoholism, we have already brought enough shame with us. We owe my uncle for permitting us to move in with him and my aunt. Not many men would be so generous.

  Because of this, my mother never allowed me to have any pets, even before I developed allergies, or visits from friends while I was growing up. She only reluctantly allowed the coming and going that came with the nurse’s visits when I had cancer.

  I should say here that my mother is right. We are guests, and we shouldn’t abuse my uncle’s hospitality. My mother was injured in a car accident years ago and isn’t strong enough to work. My father’s drinking has gotten him fired from so many jobs, no one will hire him anymore. I don’t know what would have happened to us if it were not for my uncle’s willingness to support us. If I sound frustrated, it’s only because it has been a lonely life.

  Of course, I know I should be grateful, and I try to be. After all, how many young girls have their own suite of rooms—bedroom, bathroom and playroom?

  Lizabett has complained there wasn’t enough room in their house before she moved out. Even Marilee and her mother live in a small duplex. I suspect that is why both Marilee and Lizabett are fascinated with my uncle’s house. It’s the bigness of it all.

  I may as well give you the statistics so you can decide if you are impressed, too. The house was built in 1905 and completely gutted and remodeled when my uncle bought it in 1976. The place is always on the garden tour the women’s club gives to raise money. My aunt loves showing off her house. For a whole month of Sundays, we have plastic runners all over the carpet and huge floral bouquets in each room.

  Of course, my suite and my parents’ suite, plus the closet that was remodeled to be a galley kitchen for us, are never on the tour. We always try to keep to our rooms anyway, so, except for walking in at night and out in the morning, we never even see the plastic runners for the tours.

  It’s a three-floor house, not counting the attic, with forty-five hundred feet on each floor.

  The main floor has a master bedroom suite in addition to three living rooms, a huge dining room and a kitchen. The cook has a bedroom and bathroom for her use behind the kitchen.

  The second floor is mostly suites of bedrooms—there are seven total suites each with a bedroom, bathroom and second room. The suites used by my parents and me are at the opposite end of the house from the rooms used when my aunt and uncle have guests. We seldom take our meals with my uncle and aunt at any time, but we definitely do not when they have guests.

  There is an elevator that goes to the big ballroom on the third floor and stairs that go to attic bedrooms that house the servants, in addition to the cook, that my uncle employs—currently, a housekeeper and a gardener.

  I was in awe of the house when I first saw it, so I can understand how Marilee and Lizabett feel. The house is tucked back off the street with trees that, when they are fully leafed out, almost hide it from any cars that drive by. In the summer, if my aunt and uncle are gone for the day, I lie down in the trees and pretend I’m in a forest. I love days like that.

  In the back of the house there is a pool and a tennis court. On hot summer days, I used to wish my aunt and uncle would go on vacation so my mother would let me use the pool. She would only let me use the pool if they were out of town for several days, because she did not want them to come back and see me in their pool. After all, it was, she reminded me, their pool.

  Fortunately, the house is cool in the summer.

  All year round the inside of the house shines. The floors are always buffed and the crystal is always dusted and placed where it catches the light of the sun.

  It is the housekeeper, Susan, who likes the reflection from the crystal to shine on all of the walls. I swear no one but her and I even notice it. I only see the main part of the house occasionally, but Susan says I am the only one who ever comments on how pleasant she makes the house look. If my aunt notices, she never says anything.

  Anyway, being allowed to have a cat in my rooms is a big concession. My mother had to ask my uncle if it was all right—and he is not the easiest person to get an appointment with. The only reason my mother did it is because she is afraid I am thinking of moving out of my uncle’s house.

  She is right to worry. One of the reasons I wanted my cat, Marie, is so that I would have someone to be with me when I get a place of my own. Of course, to do that I also need to find a job. I have several applications out, but I am not saying anything until I hear something back.

  I know I have rambled, but I hope you can understand why Marie is so important to me. Besides, she is the only living thing who has ever depended on me, and I don’t want to let her down.

  I keep picturing what her feline ancestors must have felt like when Marie Antoinette didn’t come for them. I wonder if Marie Antoinette had left money to pay for the cats’ keep, because, if so, the money must have eventually run out. Did someone then reluctantly take care of the cats out of duty like my uncle is taking care of my parents and me? It’s not easy to always be beholden to someone. But what else would they do? They were royal cats. Would they even know how to take care of themselves in the wild?

  I know my cat, Marie, is not exactly royal, but she won’t know how to take care of herself either. Randy says I should try not to worry until we find her.

  Oh, before I end this, I want to add that Randy is a really nice guy. Marilee is a lucky girl. I’m sure the reason he came back to The Pews this morning is because he wanted to see Marilee again. I know I shouldn’t take him away from her to look for my cat, but I’m glad he’s willing to help me. Maybe he and Marilee will hunt behind some trees today. I saw Quinn holding her hand last night, and I figure if the bushes can make a practical man like Quinn turn romantic, then the trees will make Randy ask Marilee out on a date. Wouldn’t that be nice?

  It’s me again, Marilee. Carly folded her pages back, too, but she told me she wrote about her cat. She said I can read what she wrote later, but not right now. We’ve got things to do. I’m glad the cat is what’s on her mind.

  Of course, the whole diner smells like bacon now.

  My uncle and Randy have just fried up five pounds of bacon, and I’m thinking we’ll have every cat in the neighborhood at Carly’s place if we leave all those paper-wrapped packets of bacon on the streets near her house.

  I got a call from Becca, and she said she needed to make some phone calls before she could drive out to begin the search for Carly’s cat again. I also got a message from Lizabett, who said she had to go to an emergency meeting at her ballet studio and that The Old Mother Hen was taking her because he had something to do in this area and would bring her over to Carly’s place as soon as the meeting was over.

  You’ll notice my handwriting is a little squiggly here since I’m writing this in the backseat of Randy’s Jeep while he�
�s driving us over to Carly’s place. I figure that will give Carly and Randy a little privacy in the front seat. Good plan, huh?

  I was surprised at the Jeep. It’s a decent Jeep, but not the latest model. It’s white and it looks as though it rides best with the windows down and the radio cranked up—it’s the stripped-down model with no cassette or CD player. Fortunately for me it does have a backseat. Randy didn’t strike me as the Jeep kind of a guy. I had him pegged for an Acura or a small BMW. I know Carly’s definitely not the Jeep kind, so I don’t know how they’ll work that out.

  I can’t hear what they’ve been saying in the front seat, so I don’t know how it is going with them. I was ready for the wind because I had my cap on my head and my hair is short anyway, but Carly, with her long blond hair, is looking as though she’s faced down a tornado.

  Carly is too polite to complain, however. Either that or her cat really is all that is on her mind.

  Randy drives us right up to the house where Carly lives and stops the engine.

  “Maybe you should check first and be sure no one has seen your cat around before we go out looking,” Randy says to Carly as he gets out of his door and goes around to open the car door for her.

  I don’t know many guys who open a woman’s car door, but it’s the kind of gesture that seems natural in these surroundings and I don’t want to be gauche, so I decide to wait a minute before I just swing my own door open. Besides, I’m still writing.

  Of course, I have two arms and have been opening doors for myself for years, so when Carly starts to walk up the sidewalk and Randy turns to follow her, I take that as my cue to put down my journal and open the door myself.