Elm Creek Quilts [12] The Winding Ways Quilt

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  Summer thought she would burst with delight. She could use the coveted sewing machine openly, and her mother had set before her the possibility that rules could be negotiated.

  Her enthusiasm for the quilt had always been high, but it positively skyrocketed once she was able to share her work-in-progress with her mom and seek her advice. But when her quilt top was nearly complete, she overheard one of her mom’s quilting friends admonish Gwen that no good would come of rewarding Summer’s bad behavior. Gwen brushed off the woman’s warnings and said that she knew her daughter would never give her reason to regret her decision, never give her cause to mistrust.

  Buoyed by her mother’s trust, Summer hadn’t—until she decided not to enroll in the PhD program at Penn and told her mother only after turning down their very generous fellowship. Even that seemed minor in comparison to the lies she had spewed a few months earlier as she tried to conceal that she had moved in with Jeremy. Her mother forgave her, would forgive her anything, but for the first time in her life, Summer detected a flicker of doubt in her mother’s eyes when they spoke of important matters. Until then, Summer had known that she could tell her mother anything, anything, and be believed. She had not realized how much she valued that assumption of truth until it was gone.

  Summer had hand-quilted the Rail Fence top in a lap hoop, thimble on her right forefinger, left hand beneath the three layers to push the needle tip back up to the top. The needle pricks stung until a callus formed, after which she could quilt for hours without tiring. All summer long she stitched, perfecting the rocking motion of the needle, adjusting the hoop when she completed a section. Sometimes she would spread the quilt out on the living room floor and stand back to admire it, delighting in the evident improvement of the size and uniformity of her stitches with practice. Her mother praised her efforts and assured her that she was a fine quilter—and not merely a fine quilter for her age, which every ten-year-old knew was the consolation prize of compliments.

  August waned and the start of a new school year loomed. Summer spent the last few days of her summer vacation sewing the binding on her quilt, and on the Saturday before Labor Day, she spread it proudly over her bed, gloriously complete. She was eager to begin a new project, but before she could choose a pattern, schoolwork and friends and clubs drew her away from her mother’s sewing table. Worried that she might lose the skills she had worked so hard to master, Summer occasionally helped her mother finish one of her quilts or sewed a block for a Tompkins County Quilters Guild charity project. She intended her next quilt to be a gift for her grandparents, and although she doubted she would be able to begin until summer vacation, she resolved to be prepared.

  Then, in January, her fifth-grade class began a unit on pioneer life. They read the Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder, built model Conestoga wagons, and took a field trip to the Bement-Billings Farmstead in the Newark Valley to observe demonstrations of hearth cooking, spinning, weaving, soap making, and blacksmithing. At the end of the unit, the students in Summer’s class wrote five-page “diaries” of what their lives would have been like if they had set out from Ithaca for the West in the mid-nineteenth century. For their final project, they were also instructed to create a special project illustrating some aspect of pioneer life. Handicrafts, food products, and dioramas were acceptable choices, and since their finished work would be displayed in the classroom during the Spring Open House, their absolute best effort was expected.

  For Summer, there was no question but that she would make a patchwork quilt. Since their teacher had emphasized that they were not permitted to have any parental assistance aside from the absolute necessities of driving and shopping for supplies, Summer didn’t consult her mother about possible pattern selections and shushed her when she hovered nearby, suggestions on the tip of her tongue. After leafing through her mother’s collection of pattern books, Summer decided upon the Dove in the Window block, since a quilt by that name appeared in Laura Ingalls Wilder’s novelThese Happy Golden Years. Library books advised her which tools, fabrics, and colors would be most appropriate for a pioneer quilt, although she did have to make an occasional compromise, such as using stainless-steel pins and needles instead of tin-plated brass. Since Laura had sewed by hand, Summer did, too, although she would have gladly attempted a seam or two on a treadle sewing machine just to see how it compared to her mother’s electric version.

  With only a month to complete her quilt, Summer reluctantly settled upon a six-block crib quilt rather than a full-size quilt that would have been more authentic. Knowing that all of her classmates and their parents would be inspecting her handiwork—and that the quilt counted for half of her unit grade—Summer stitched with meticulous care. She put the last stitch in the binding at breakfast the morning the quilt was due and barely had time to admire it or look it over for stray pins or mistakes before she had to tuck it carefully into a pillowcase, snatch up her backpack, and hurry off to school.

  After the last recess, Mrs. Shepley asked each student to present an oral report on his or her project. Summer’s best friend had made tomato preserves; her other best friend had braided an oval rug from wool scraps. Four students had made dioramas depicting scenes from pioneer life, while one girl showed photographs of a garden she had planted of vegetables common to the frontier diet. A Popsicle-stick log cabin received mixed reviews from the class; it was well constructed and made to scale, but the builder should have used twigs since everyone knew pioneers didn’t have Popsicles. Summer’s Dove in the Window quilt received a smattering of applause even before she began her report. Mrs. Shepley listened, expressionless, as Summer explained why she had chosen that particular pattern and how she had sewn the quilt. Afterward, the girls crowded around her for a closer look and her two best friends begged her to give them lessons until Mrs. Shepley clapped her hands for attention and sent everyone scurrying back to their desks. She praised the class for their efforts without singling out anyone, and for the last few minutes before the dismissal bell rang, the students tidied up the room and arranged their projects on bookshelves and tables lining the walls for their parents to admire later.

  At seven o’clock, Summer and her mother walked to school. Summer was so excited that she hardly took a breath between describing the other students’ projects. Privately she thought hers was the best, but she knew better than to say so to anyone but her mother. After the principal’s assembly in the gym, they made their way down the hall to Mrs. Shepley’s classroom, where the students chattered excitedly with one another, thrilled with the novelty of seeing their friends dressed up in the evening when they would usually be at home in pajamas. Their parents wandered the room, reading class assignments posted on the bulletin board and inspecting the Pioneer Life projects. Summer almost burst with pride listening in on the admiring compliments paid to her quilt. Later, over punch and cookies in the cafeteria, Summer repeated the best remarks to her mother and wondered aloud whether she ought to enter a quilt in the next Tompkins County Quilters Guild show.

  At that, her mother’s cheerful demeanor clouded. “Oh, kiddo,” she said tentatively, reaching for Summer’s hand. “You know we might not be here then. I have my dissertation defense in June, and if I get that job at Waterford College, we’ll move to Pennsylvania before autumn.”

  Summer’s stomach flip-flopped. She had known forever that it was unlikely they would remain at Cornell University after her mother finished school, but it seemed so weird to think about living somewhere else and starting the sixth grade in another school while she sat in the familiar cafeteria of the only elementary school she had ever attended on Spring Open House night.

  “Can we not talk about that right now?” she said faintly. Her mother nodded and quickly shifted the subject back to Summer’s quilt and the possibility that she might enter it in a quilt show. They probably had quilt shows in Pennsylvania, Summer reminded herself, and it was possible that her mother wouldn’t get that job after all.

  Her oral report and
the Spring Open House display had been such exciting successes that Summer almost forgot that their Pioneer Life projects would be graded. A week after the quilt’s lauded unveiling, Summer received her quilt back with a slip of paper listing the criteria used to evaluate the students’ projects. Most of the boxes next to phrases such as “Quality of Work” and “Period Authenticity of Work” were checked, but the box beside “Originality” was conspicuously empty. Summer barely noticed because her eye was immediately drawn to the notation written in blue marker at the bottom of the page: C.

  A grade of C. Summer swallowed a lump in her throat and quickly blinked away tears. She glanced at Mrs. Shepley, who was writing the day’s homework assignment on the blackboard. Summer had never received such a low mark, not even for the book reports dashed off at breakfast, not even on the grammar tests she didn’t bother to study for because the material came so easily. But to receive a C on a project she had worked so hard on for so long—it was unthinkable.

  What would her mother say?

  The hours between the end of the school day and her mother’s return home dragged on endlessly. Numbly Summer put water on to boil for spaghetti and emptied a jar of pasta sauce into a saucepan. Then she flung herself onto the sofa and stared up at the ceiling, unable to muster up interest in any of her library books. She had supper nearly finished when her mother rushed in, breathless, book bag slung over her shoulder. “Smells wonderful, kiddo,” she sang out, but she knit her brows and shut the apartment door softly at the sight of her daughter’s mournful expression. “What’s up? Are you okay?”

  Without a word, Summer dug the grading sheet from her backpack and handed it over. Eyes on the paper, Gwen slowly pulled out a chair at the dinette table and sat down. Summer remembered dinner and although she had no appetite, drained the spaghetti in the colander and set the pasta and sauce on the table before her bewildered mother.

  “I don’t get it,” her mother said as Summer seated herself, planted her elbows on the table, and rested her chin in her hands. “Is your teacher insane, or merely stupid?”

  In spite of how awful she felt, Summer managed a wisp of a smile. “Maybe a little bit of both?”

  “This doesn’t make any sense.” Gwen brought the page closer to her eyes and then held it out again as if perspective would change the handwritten markings. “Quality, period authenticity, neatness, promptness, oral repot, and so on and so forth—it looks like you’ve met every requirement. She didn’t check ‘Originality.’ Did she mark you down because you used a traditional block instead of inventing a design of your own? But you were supposed to re-create something from the pioneer era. Did you tell your teacher why you chose the Dove in the Window block?”

  “It was in my oral report,” Summer said. “Maybe she missed that part.”

  “She definitely missed something.” Gwen stretched out to set the grading sheet on the counter, dusted her hands of its distasteful residue, and forked long threads of spaghetti onto Summer’s plate. “We’ll get to the bottom of this,” she promised, spooning red sauce onto the pasta. “Mrs. Shepley obviously made some sort of mistake. Don’t worry about it.”

  Summer tried not to, but her stomach had a knot in it, leaving no room for supper. Her friends had received A’s and “Well done!” for their tomato preserves and braided wool rug. Even the Popsicle-stick log cabin had earned a B–. She honestly thought that her quilt was as good as their projects, but maybe she was wrong. Maybe she had sewed a block in upside down, or maybe she had left a pin in the binding and Mrs. Shepley had pricked her finger. It couldn’t be because she had made a crib quilt instead of something larger, since projects even smaller than hers had earned top grades. She was too heartsick to ask Mrs. Shepley herself, so she was relieved when her mother promised to call in the morning and arrange for a conference after school.

  If Mrs. Shepley was as apprehensive about the upcoming conference as Summer, she gave no sign of it throughout the long school day. Summer had never felt herself at odds with a teacher before, and she wanted to shrink back into her seat and become invisible. She didn’t raise her hand even when she knew the answers, but Mrs. Shepley called on her from time to time anyway, mostly when no one else volunteered. Teachers knew they could count on Summer for the right answer—at least that was how it had always been until the Pioneer Life project.

  At three o’clock, as her classmates raced for the door, Summer packed up her folders and books and waited at her desk for her mother to appear. Gwen showed up right on time, knocking on the open door and smiling with perfect, confident cordiality. “Mrs. Shepley?” she said, striding to the teacher’s desk and offering her hand. “Thank you for meeting with us on such short notice.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” Mrs. Shepley responded, gesturing to the only other adult-size chair in the room. She folded her hands on the desktop, unfolded them, and gave Gwen a tight smile.

  Gwen nodded graciously and sat down. “I’m sure you’ve guessed why I requested this conference. As you know, Summer sets very high standards for herself, so she was troubled by the grade she received for her Pioneer Life project. Frankly, I am, too. After reading over your criteria, it’s not clear to me exactly where Summer’s quilt fell short. I was hoping you could give us more insight into your evaluation so that Summer knows what she needs to work on to do better next time.”

  Summer shot her mother a curious look.That’s what this conference was about? She’d assumed her mother had come to demand a higher grade! It wasn’t a question of what Summer had done wrong. Her mother knew she had done her very best.

  “I’ll tell you what she can do better next time,” said Mrs. Shepley crisply. “She can do her own work.”

  Gwen blinked at her. “Excuse me?”

  Mrs. Shepley’s expression was a conflicted blend of condemnation and understanding. “Miss Sullivan, I’m a parent, too. I understand the temptation to offer our children all the help we can. In your circumstances, with no father at home, I’m sure the urge to ease your child’s way is even more compelling. However, in the long run, you aren’t helping Summer by doing her work for her. Although she might earn a better grade on a particular assignment, that’s a short-term gain leading to long-term trouble.”

  “Hold on just a second.” Gwen held up a hand, brow furrowed. “You believe I made that quilt?”

  “It’s rather obvious, Miss Sullivan. I’m well aware that you’re a quilter yourself. My mother quilts, also, and I know with absolute certainty that no child of eleven is capable of such painstaking work. They simply don’t have the fine motor skills at that age.”

  Summer recognized the stormy expression clouding her mother’s features and almost wanted to warn Mrs. Shepley to back off. “So,” said Gwen, drawing the word out, “you think my daughter cheated.”

  “The evidence is in the quilt itself, but I don’t place all the blame on Summer. I’ve been teaching a long time, and I know how difficult it can be for a child to discourage an overbearing parent from taking over a project.”

  Gwen choked out a laugh. “Oh, now I get it. She’s not only dishonest, she’s also spineless.” Suddenly she stood. “You don’t know my daughter at all. Summer, kiddo, stay put. I’ll be right back.”

  Mortified, Summer clutched the seat of her chair and watched her mother storm away, longing to race after her. “My mom didn’t make the quilt for me,” Summer told Mrs. Shepley, her voice barely above a whisper. “She drove me to the fabric store, but that’s all. I did everything else myself.”

  “Oh, Summer.” Mrs. Shepley regarded her with the same knowing, judgmental look she had turned on Gwen. “You’re such a good student. You didn’t need to resort to this. If you needed more time, you could have come to me. We could have worked something out.”

  “She didn’t help me,” Summer repeated, just as her mother stormed back into the classroom carrying the tote bag of hand-piecing projects she kept in the car for those occasions when she found herself stuck in a waiting room at the
doctor’s office or DMV.

  “Let’s conduct an experiment, shall we?” Gwen emptied the contents of the tote bag on Mrs. Shepley’s desk and beckoned Summer forward. “Kiddo, show us what you can do with this.”

  Summer took a deep breath and approached the desk.

  Mrs. Shepley shook her head. “This really isn’t necessary—”

  “On the contrary, it is.” A hard glint lit Gwen’s eyes. “You’ve accused my daughter of cheating, and she’s entitled to an opportunity to defend herself.”

  As Mrs. Shepley sighed and sat back in her chair, Summer chose two diamonds and a square from her mother’s scraps. Threading a needle, she estimated the quarter-inch seam allowances and joined the two diamonds along one side, doing her best to make small, even stitches with trembling hands. Then she finger-pressed the seam and set the square into the angle between two adjacent points of the diamond pair, sewing one side down, pivoting the pieces, and stitching the other side into place.

  “I could have done better if I had pins,” Summer said anxiously, smoothing the finished quarter-star between her hands before placing it on the desk. “And if I had marked the seam allowances.”

  “It’s fine as it is,” Gwen declared. “It lies flat, the points meet, the stitches are secure. Given the circumstances, this is excellent work.” She fixed her gaze on Mrs. Shepley, daring her to disagree. “I don’t have any batting or finished tops in my bag. Should I have Summer bring her lap hoop to school tomorrow to prove to you that she quilts as well as she pieces?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Mrs. Shepley rose, her mouth in a hard line. “Your demonstration has told me quite enough.”