Knit in Comfort

by Isabel Sharpe

  Aileen, a pretty girl of nearly twenty with dark hair and a limp from a leg broken in childhood says Fiona can’t sit idle and watch this creature bewitch Calum out from under her nose. She says sometimes men need a push in the right direction. When her Bill started hemming and hawing over their future, she lost no time showing him how much he needed her. She made him the world’s tastiest meat pies, the lightest loaves of bread, the warmest sweaters, then ignored him for two weeks, panicking him into a proposal.

  Fiona smiles peacefully, looping her wool up and down and over and around, though her insides are raging with doubt. Calum has never been careless with his boats or fish. Did Gillian inspire this new distracted state? Can he be in love with her so quickly, when he was on the brink of declaring himself to Fiona?

  The next day she’s as forgetful as Calum over her chores, switching the chicken and cow feeds, forgetting to close the garden gate against the horses or to bring in the day’s supply of peat, and she scorches the breakfast porridge. Maybe Granny and Kenna are right, and evil spirits are wreaking havoc all over town.

  She throws up her hands and takes a walk along the sea to discuss with her late brother what to do. At the edge of a voe, she comes across Calum, halfway down the slope, obviously waiting for someone. Fiona makes herself walk to him calmly, thinking of Aileen’s words about fighting for the man she wants.

  At his side, she greets him cheerfully, comments on the fine day, then, keeping her voice light in spite of her pounding heart, asks if he’d like to escort her to the dance the next week.

  He hesitates. Gillian appears at the top of the cliff. Fiona lifts her chin and acts as if she sees nothing, as if Calum still belongs entirely to her and marriage plans are in their inevitable near future. Gillian calls out and starts toward them, hair and skirts undulating. A flock of skuas startles from the cliffside and wheels into the skies, calling loudly, diving close to Calum and Fiona, as if commanded by a green-eyed enchantress.

  The birds’ behavior bewilders Calum, but when he looks to Gillian, she smiles with deeply red lips that distract him more than the birds. She is everything his heart has yearned for. Guiltily he turns back to Fiona, a proud, strong Shetland girl deserving of a man who loves her more than he does. He asks for forgiveness with his eyes, unable to be heard over the bonxies’ screaming laughter.

  Fiona acknowledges his answer with a nod, then turns and strides away without once looking back.

  Megan pulled the pie pan of oatmeal shortbread from the oven. The cookie was plain, like her mother, Aileen, used to make, and its nutty fragrance took her straight back to their kitchen in Memphis, where the treat had been Megan’s first experience baking. Instantly she’d been hooked. The second time, she’d changed the recipe, added a touch of cinnamon, which her mother agreed was an improvement. After that triumph, the dessert became her signature experiment: cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice, clove, ginger or cardamom, alone or in combination, different every time depending on her mood.

  Tonight when the dishes were done, kids dispersed—Lolly upstairs, Deena and Jeffrey to play with the neighbor twins just back from an Orlando vacation—and Stanley off getting ready to spend the evening with one of his high-school friends, she’d lingered in the kitchen, postponing getting ready to go to Dorene’s for the next Purls Before Wine meeting. She wasn’t sure what had possessed her to dig so deeply into her mother’s old recipe file, or why she chose to honor Mom by making the shortbread without spice. As it turned out, she still had the ingredients memorized, though she hadn’t trusted she did. One cup butter, one half cup brown sugar, two and one half cups oats, one cup flour, written on a stained card in Grandma Bridget’s careful hand.

  She put the plate on a hot pad, scored the cookie with one of the knives Sally’s late mother gave her and Stanley for their wedding, and cut small, neat wedges, then left the pan on a rack to cool. At the sink she washed the knife, gazing out at the mountains beyond her garden that seemed higher tonight, starker, more confining.

  “I’m off.” Stanley strode into the kitchen, put his arms around her and pressed her against the sink, burying his face in her neck. “Will you miss me?”

  “Not a chance.” She laughed to take away the sting, burdened by his constant need for reassurance that she loved him, needed him, wanted him still.

  “I’ll miss you.” He moved back a few inches, slid exploring fingers down her hips. “I’ll miss you a lot.”

  “Stanley.” She bucked to free herself, glancing toward the hall. “Someone might come by.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t go tonight at all, since you were so upset last night.” He murmured suggestively in her ear, arms tightening to keep her in place, rocking against her. “I still owe you.”

  “Nonsense. You go have fun.” She twisted and pushed playfully against his chest, anxious now to get him out of the house, away from the memory that she hadn’t been able to climax last night, afraid he’d start asking why. What could she say? Because after fifteen years of tolerating the situation, I suddenly can’t bear that when you’re away, you’re with her?

  “I’ll come back early, how’s that?”

  “I’ve got a Purls meeting tonight.” She saw him to the door, let him kiss her good night. He wouldn’t come back early even if she was staying in. She knew him better than that.

  The minivan started, revved, drove away chirping—he still hadn’t taken it to Valyne Service to have Dick look at it—and Megan’s muscles relaxed. Usually Stanley’s being around was a relief, a break from being in charge of everything. Maybe her turmoil was from watching Elizabeth judge their marriage on appearances, admiring Stanley, eating up his admiration of her—the way he got people on his side. He was a good salesman, her husband. If all his successes came home to Comfort instead of half, they’d be doing fine.

  She climbed to the second floor, step by step, using the bannister to help haul herself up, feeling older, heavier, burdened by her own body. A hot bath with Hemingway would be a slice of heaven. But the Purls couldn’t be put off, they had the blanket to finish, and Sally would want ideas for her dress. Megan had a few, but nothing worth sharing yet.

  In her room, she balked at getting ready, even knowing she’d be late, wandered to the window. Down in the yard, her garden was enjoying the summer, plants stretching for the sun, bean vines tangling across the trellis. A breeze blew, fluttering heart-shaped leaves surrounding the delicate pink-white blossoms.

  Megan caught her breath. Into her head popped a lace design, better than any she’d tried to force, spiderwebs, diamonds, fans, some opaque, some cobwebby and indistinct. An edging of ring lace. A lace holes border.

  Her hands itched for needles, for the warm, soft slide of wool. This hadn’t happened in years, designs coming to her this way, like visions. Not in years. She turned away from the window as if in a trance. The clear picture of the lace stayed in her mind, now clean cream against the green backdrop of her garden, now flying to a mountaintop, interwoven threads fanning the firs. Beautiful lace, wafting on the wind over the treeless expanse of Shetland, fixing itself onto Sally’s plain dress, decorating the bodice and skirt, ornamenting the hem.

  And to cover her shoulders…

  Megan closed the door to her and Stanley’s room, crossed to their closet, feet directing her path. In the back of the highest shelf lay a flat box where she’d shelved it fifteen years earlier, loathing everything it stood for but unable to throw it away.

  On their bed she now sat, box balanced on her thighs, lifted the cover and pulled back the tissue paper, tears obscuring the details of the lace. A Shetland wedding shawl she’d designed herself, tree-and-diamond center, a shell border and clematis edging, gossamer weight, light and delicate enough to pass through a wedding ring. Mom had taught her the craft, Megan had inherited the art.

  Her last lace project, the shawl was supposed to have been a surprise for Stanley at their fifth-anniversary vow-renewal ceremony. A month before the event, on the eve of sending out invitatio
ns to most of Comfort, Megan had found out about Genevieve. She’d canceled the church, put the veil away and told Vera they had better things to do with their money than throw parties, that she’d lost interest in knitting, that she was a one-shawl wonder.

  Vera hadn’t believed her. Megan hadn’t expected her to. But Vera’s capacity for denial had worked in Megan’s favor. Nothing had been said; Vera had asked no questions, though Megan had spent the next fifteen years under a smog of disapproval for rejecting lace and the ceremony rebinding her to Stanley. Ironic, since Megan had spent those same fifteen years protecting her mother-in-law from the truth of her son’s life.

  Out of the box, the fine threads of the shawl caught on her work-roughened hands. She’d never been as proud of anything in her life as she was of this, except for her children. Few things had hurt more than stuffing it away to be forgotten.

  Soft shawl pressed to her cheek, she imagined Fiona knitting lace in anticipation of a wedding to Calum. Imagined her doing so with as much love and care as Megan had knitted this, before Gillian’s arrival made Fiona’s heart turn to stone, before Genevieve’s had done the same to Megan’s.

  She gave a short laugh. Ridiculous to be so caught up in her mother’s invented triangle, though the similarities were eerie. Megan had wondered about Stanley’s other wife in the early dark days when she still let herself wonder, before she found the picture in Stanley’s wallet that confirmed her fears. What kind of other woman did Stanley need? A woman with everything Megan was missing. Tall and dark with a toned, lean body, a loud contagious laugh, an overtly sexual nature. Ginger to Megan’s Mary Anne. Gillian to her Fiona. A woman so sure of herself and her place in the world that sharing a man fit right into her independent life. Who maybe had a lover of her own for the weeks Stanley was gone. Another Ella. How Stanley must have missed her once he found himself tied to Megan.

  Megan took the comforting wool away from her cheek. As divorce rates soared, as people sought more and more sophisticated forms of self-actualization, the notion of a one man-one woman family might become quaintly old-fashioned and die out, leaving a tangled civilization of beings striving to be “completed.” Maybe Stanley wasn’t a self-indulgent egoist, but a man on the cutting edge of social change.

  Maybe.

  She refolded the lace into the tissue paper, thrust the box back onto the shelf and banged the door closed with her hip to get it to latch. Useless to torture herself like this. She changed into a light green cotton sweater, frowning at the neckline, which had started to unravel and would need mending. Deep rose lipstick on, she gathered up her finished blanket squares, which she’d joined with the other four into a row a few days earlier, and put them in a plastic shopping bag.

  On her way out of the room, the phone rang. Wearily, she turned back and picked up the receiver on her night table. “Hello?”

  “Meg, it’s your father.”

  Megan closed her eyes and leaned back against the bed. “Hi Dad.”

  “You busy?”

  “Always am.”

  He cleared his throat, henh-henh-henh. Megan stiffened in Pavlovian response. Dad’s warning system for bad news: Henh-henh-henh. I hear the jobs are better in fill-in-the-blank-city…

  “I told you I was moving to New Jersey.”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s a woman involved.”

  She tried to be happy for him. He’d run her mother into the ground, ignored her worsening symptoms as isolation, depression and stress exacerbated her diabetes and sucked away her will to take care of herself. After they’d left Comfort her weight had ballooned. She’d ended up in the hospital, pieces of her regularly amputated to try and save what was left. Dad never did make the connection to the life he’d made them all live. Or maybe he couldn’t face the truth. Or maybe that was just the way the world worked—men did what they wanted and women followed along. For Victoria’s When Women Rule book to become reality, widespread social deconditioning would have to take place. “That’s great, Daddy.”

  “We’re moving into a retirement community near where her children live.”

  Megan tightened her lips. Typical Dad, dropping the news in pieces. Not just moving to New Jersey. Moving in with a woman. Moving into an independent living community. “Wow, Dad. Aren’t those places…I mean, people don’t really…leave.”

  “This is my last move, Megan.”

  She pushed herself away from the bed. He was only sixty-seven. “You’re not ill, are you?”

  “Just ready to stay put. Tricia isn’t one to move around.”

  “Neither was Mom.” The dig came out before she realized it was going to. Her father didn’t respond. She wandered to the window, gazed out at the mountains, early evening light sharpening their colors in anticipation of sunset. “Well that’ll be nice, then.”

  “Maybe you can visit sometime?”

  “Sure, Dad.”

  “It’s a smaller place, I’ll have to downsize. I’ll be going through my things here.”

  “Okay.” She didn’t understand why he was telling her this. She sensed he wanted something from her. Permission? Forgiveness? He didn’t need her permission. He didn’t deserve her forgiveness. “Did you need help?”

  “Tricia will help me.”

  “Is there…anything of Mom’s still?” She didn’t like the idea of this new woman picking through her mother’s things.

  “I doubt it. You and I went through everything after she died. If I come across anything else, I’ll send it to you.”

  “Thanks.” She turned away from the window. More should be said; she wasn’t sure what.

  “So…I’ll let you go now.”

  Megan sighed. She hated the ploy that made her out to be the one wanting to end the call. Even though she was. “Bye Dad. Good luck with the move.”

  “I’ll be in touch soon.”

  “Okay.” She hung up, experiencing as always the complicated wave of resentment and sadness that dealing with her father engendered.

  “Megan?” Vera, downstairs. “You ready? Elizabeth’s waiting.”

  “Just about.” She brushed her hair, even more tired now, tucked it behind her ears, tried to perk herself up with a rare squirt of her mother’s favorite eau de cologne, 4711.

  “Lolly, Deena, Jeffrey—Elizabeth and I are off to Dorene’s. Grandma will be here.”

  “Hey, Mom?” Jeffrey wandered out into the hall for a hug.

  “Would you be okay if you could only eat foods with the letter B in them?”

  She laughed with a mixture of enjoyment and exasperation. “I guess so, maybe. Bananas and peanut butter on bread anyway. Be good tonight, and if you can’t manage to be good, at least stay away from your sisters so you don’t drive Grandma crazy.”

  “Yes, Mom, bye Mom.”

  The girls shouted good-byes over whatever boy-band garbage they were listening to in the room they shared.

  Downstairs, Megan put the still-warm shortbread into a waiting tin. Dorene hated cooking, baking in particular, so Megan always offered to bring something. Yes, she was being nice, but she also loathed the store-brand boxed cookies Dorene adored and served every time.

  “I’m ready. Bye Vera.”

  “Have fun.” Vera handed over her finished blanket squares.

  “I’ve joined these already, Megan.”

  “Why don’t you come with us, Vera?”

  Megan stiffened. Could Elizabeth leave nothing the way it was?

  “Go on, go on.” Vera waved her away. “You don’t want some old woman intruding on your fun.”

  “No, we don’t. But we do want you.”

  Vera’s offended look barely had time to get started before she laughed in delight, cheeks coloring pink. “You are something else, Elizabeth.”

  “Megan, make her come with us. Lolly’s old enough to watch the others and we won’t stay long. I’m sure Dorene wouldn’t mind one more, and Vera can help sew up the blanket.”

  If people only had the muscle to suppo
rt a certain number of faked smiles in their lives, Megan must be nearing the end of her ration. “The kids will be fine. Feel like it, Vera?”

  “Well.” Vera hauled herself out of her rocker. “I guess I’ll go. A nice change to the evening. Thank you, Elizabeth. You two go on ahead, I’ll freshen up and be right there.”

  “We’ll wait.” Megan stood, feeling like her parents had just volunteered to chaperone her senior dance.

  “Don’t wait. Go. I’ll catch up. Go, go, go.”

  “We’ll take your row.” Megan led Elizabeth down the steps and they started out on Wiggins, past David’s house.

  “Here, let me carry that.” Elizabeth took the blanket squares, leaving Megan with the shortbread.

  They turned the corner onto Snowden. Hot tonight, probably rain on the way. Perspiration dampened Megan’s skin. She imagined herself in Shetland, walking the cliffs like Great-Grandma Fiona in the stories. The air there must always be cool and fresh, alive with grassy, salty-ocean scents. Next time Stanley was away Megan should pack up the kids for a trip to the Carolina coast so she could see the ocean again. If Elizabeth stayed and paid rent next month, and if Megan saved carefully, it might be possible.

  “Have you had any ideas for Sally’s dress?”

  “A few.” She wiped the sweat from around her hairline where it always started, enjoying the familiar simmer of creative excitement beginning again. “I’m thinking of a panel, neck to floor, wide at the top, tapering to her waist, then widening again to the floor, and a border of lace around the hem.”