Ocean Waves

by Terri Thayer

  The top tier had been taken out of the main box and laid alongside. It was a tray that was fitted with spaces for sewing tools, the shape of each one clearly outlined. Every tool had its own compartment in the velvet tray. The box was lined in red silk, tufted with ivory buttons.

  I began to see the potential in these boxes. I wondered if any were for sale. I had a few customers who might be interested.

  “This box is made of bones,” Quentin whispered. “Bones.”

  A shiver ran down my back. “Whose bones?”

  Freddy joined us. “Those are the bones of machine quilters hung in the great Singer uprising of 1888.”

  I laughed. Freddy was fun to have around. Quentin rubbed a finger along the edge of the table, clearly holding himself back from touching the tools.

  Nan Williams came up behind us. “Prisoners made them out of soup bones. Look at the workmanship. Have you ever seen anything like that?”

  I could honestly say I hadn’t. The tools were highly polished, each one seated in its own place.

  “I don’t know what half of this stuff is used for,” I admitted. “But I am intrigued.”

  Nan pointed to a small squat spool, half the size of a normal thread. “Those are bobbins. The ladies would take the thread off the spool and wind it on those. Those are made of ivory.” She pointed to another utensil. “That’s a tweezers.”

  That one I did recognize. I stepped away from the bone box, and pointed to another that looked like tiny inlaid tiles. “What about this one?”

  “From India,” she said. “They liked to do that intricate tile work.”

  The next exhibit was a wooden marquetry box. The sign said it was made from mahogany and zebrawood. The finish on the wood shone and caught the light from the sconces overhead. It looked like it would feel hot to the touch.

  Nan said, “A woman’s sewing box was her treasure. A status symbol. Historically, sewing was becoming a choice and not a chore, and these boxes became popular. The lady of the house always had mending to do.”

  “What about servants? Wouldn’t women like that have servants?”

  Quentin’s face clouded over. “They used the boxes, but didn’t own them. It always belonged to the lady of the house.”

  I guessed poor Quentin had relatives who’d been exploited. “Are they valuable?” I asked.

  Nan had moved on to answer a question, so it was Quentin who responded. “Can be. There’s been a resurgence in interest since eBay has made it easier to collect them. If the kit has good provenance it could be extremely valuable.”

  “Are you a collector?” I asked.

  Freddy wedged himself between the two of us. “Quentin is a first-class dabbler. He has a button collection, a cigar-band collection, and the most silk ties of any man on either side of the Mississippi.”

  Quentin didn’t hear his teasing. He’d stopped in front of a sewing box made of rosewood, the grain of the wood visible. The blue velvet tray was clearly missing one of the tools, but that didn’t stop Quentin from staring.

  The aisle was getting crowded. I felt someone jostle my back. I was ready to sit down. The number of people brushing against me was getting uncomfortable.

  Freddy read the card on the box Quentin had stopped in front of. “The Rose Box. Thought to be from the property of the young queen of France.”

  “Too bad it’s not complete,” I said.

  “The sewing bird,” Quentin said. He pointed to a space in the top tray. The shape of the tool was clearly visible. It looked like a bird on a stick with a clamp on the bottom.

  “What’s it used for?” I asked.

  “You could call it a third hand. You screwed it to the tabletop. The bird’s mouth opened and gripped the fabric you were sewing,” Quentin said.

  I tried to picture it, but couldn’t really see how it worked. My hand mending experience was nonexistent.

  “What was it made of?” I asked.

  “Most were metal. Some were fancy with filigree work. This one looks pretty straightforward.”

  He traced the shape of it.

  We caught up again to Nan, who was ahead of us, pointing out the most unique features of the tools and boxes.

  She said, “Ear wax was used to strengthen thread along with beeswax. It was more readily available, that’s for sure. The spoons were used to obtain the substance.”

  “Told you,” Freddy said.

  Ewww. I thought about the antique quilts I’d seen. How many of them had been quilted with earwax? I rubbed my hands on my jeans.

  “Why aren’t these things in a museum?” I asked. “I mean, the quilt museum in San Jose should want this stuff.”

  Nan shook her head. “Our quilt museums are woefully underfunded. They don’t have room to store everything they’re offered. The staff has to make serious choices about what they can take in. In fact, some of these kits came from the New England Quilt Museum who sold off some of their artifacts to raise funds.”

  “That’s a shame,” I said. It would be nice if more people could get a look at these pieces.

  A shout was heard from the other end of the display. Nan looked up, startled. She absently handed a heavily beaded scissor fob to Quentin, who was standing next to her. He laid it down quickly into the slotted space that was made for it. Freddy craned his neck to see what was going on.

  A crowd had gathered around one of the tables. We followed Nan.

  “This is an outrage,” I heard someone say. It sounded like Harriet, the New Yorker, who had been in my class.

  She held up a sewing box lid over her head as though she was going to dash it into the fireplace. Nan gasped. Freddy leapt forward to steady the woman’s hand. She angrily pulled away from him.

  “Look at that, people.” Harriet held the lid up higher so everyone could see. She pointed to the inlaid wood design that decorated the lid. “Just look and tell me you’re not as appalled as I am.”

  She turned the lid so everyone could see. “Right there. It’s a swastika.”

  The crowd took a step back as if we were line dancing at the Saddlerack. Nan stepped forward and gingerly took the lid from the woman’s hand. Her ample bosom was heaving.

  “Those are German crosses, Harriet,” she said. “Not swastikas. Just because Hitler used a similar motif for his evil doesn’t mean everything with that design is suspect.”

  “You shouldn’t have brought it here,” Harriet said, her face dimpling with red spots. “No one wants to see that.”

  Nan’s voice was shaking. “This is a piece that is over a hundred years old. Well before World War II was fought. There is no reason it has to hide away, shamefaced because of what the Nazis did. This has nothing to do with Nazis.”

  “People don’t know that,” Harriet said. Her eyes were shiny with tears.

  Nan’s chest was puffed out like a pigeon’s. “Then people should be educated.”

  Mercedes appeared and stepped between the two women. Harriet was not backing down. She and Nan were staring at one another. I looked to see if Mercedes was armed this time, too. Thankfully, there was no gun in sight.

  “Let’s take a breath, please,” Mercedes said. She took the lid from Harriet’s hand and placed it back on the box, moving the box away from the edge of the table, but keeping one hand on it.

  Harriet’s eyes flashed.

  Mercedes said, “This is art, Harriet. Art has no politics. Let’s take our seats.”

  Mercedes pushed people toward the rows of seats. Harriet threw up her arms and walked out.

  Freddy led the way to where he’d laid his yellow coat across three chairs in the third row back. We sat down. I looked back and saw Lucy take a seat, reluctantly, it appeared. She had not gone out with Harriet.

  Mercedes waited for the crowd to quiet. Nan took her pla
ce on the stage. I recognized the ranger who joined her.

  “Before we get started, there have been some questions about the animals you might encounter. This is Ranger Tony Pellicano,” Mercedes said. “He’ll fill us in.”

  Freddy turned to me, eyebrow cocked in question.

  Quentin said, “A relation?”

  I beamed. “My brother.”

  Tony stepped up to the podium, nodding at Mercedes. He held his hat in his hand, turning it as he talked, the only sign that he was even a little bit nervous.

  “You may have noticed some fawns in the park.”

  He was interrupted by oohs and aahs from the crowd. They were ready to leave Harriet’s hysteria behind.

  “Yes, they’re adorable,” Tony said. The word adorable didn’t seem right coming out of my brother’s mouth. I stifled a giggle.

  “Talk about adorable,” the quilter in front of me whispered. “He can lay his hat on my bed any ole time.”

  “I bet he’s really good with his hands,” her friend whispered back. “Gentle.”

  “But firm,” her friend countered. The two had their heads together.

  Freddy elbowed me, laughing. I shushed him, and the quilters, too, I hoped, by proxy. I was getting embarrassed for Tony.

  “I know you’ve heard about our mountain lion.” Tony continued. “She has been known to frequent the area this time of year. You’ll need to take precautions, especially at dawn and dusk. The lion is nocturnal, so chances are you won’t see her. But I hear you quilters like to be up rather late …” He waited for a laugh but none came.

  Tony’s joke fell flat, and I winced for him. He didn’t have our father’s natural way with women. Too many years in the woods.

  A quilter raised her hand and Tony acknowledged her question.

  “Isn’t it true that mountain lions only attack if they’re sick or in pain?” she asked.

  “Some people believe that,” he said, his eyes returning to his notes. It was obvious that he did not concur. “Just in case, don’t walk quietly. Talk loudly,” Tony continued.

  “That explains why no quilters have ever been attacked,” Freddy stage-whispered. “They never shut up long enough for the lion to get near.”

  “If you see a mountain lion, do this,” Tony said, raising his arms over his head. “Don’t run away: make yourself as large as you can. Do not, I repeat, do not bend over.”

  “Most of these people haven’t bent over since Clinton was president,” Freddy said. He was on a roll.

  “And never turn your back on the lion.”

  “Just like most of my boyfriends,” Quentin snarked.

  Tony finished up. “Call a ranger if you have any questions. There are house phones on all of the buildings. Just dial the number on the card. If you follow these steps, I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time here at Asilomar.”

  Polite clapping followed Tony as he left the stage.

  Nan gave her lecture about the history of sewing boxes. Her passion, that had been so evident earlier, didn’t come across in her talk—she’d obviously been shaken by Harriet’s outburst.

  After dinner, I tried to get Vangie, but she’d gone home. The pay phone was in use. I couldn’t reach Buster and I missed him. I could have gone back to the sewing room with my class, but I was tired of sewing. I found a paperback on the communal shelf in the Administration building and went to my room.

  Finally, I went to bed, dreaming about Nazis and mountain lions.

  Tuesday morning, I woke up early. I felt an unease I couldn’t explain. Maybe it was the tail end of a dream. I knew part of it was not being home in my own bed, being cut off from Vangie and the store, and part of it was missing Buster. And Tony’s talk about mountain lions had not helped. I did not want to run into one of those cats.

  I wondered if I’d been awakened by a noise. I listened again. The fog was softening sounds. I glanced at the plastic alarm clock on the bedside table. Tony’s nature walk was scheduled in a few minutes. If I hurried, I’d make it. I took a quick shower and pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt.

  I wanted to find out where he’d been yesterday. He’d missed our coffee date, and then disappeared before Nan’s lecture was over. I couldn’t imagine that a lot of quilters would be up at this hour.

  Darn. I was wrong. At least a dozen women were scattered on the steps of the social hall. Tony was on the top step, looking crisp and wide awake in his two-tone ranger uniform. He’d begun his talk already.

  “Your sewing seminar is in the tradition of Asilomar’s role as a women’s retreat. Architect Julia Morgan designed sixteen buildings, thirteen of which still remain. The buildings are in the Arts and Crafts style, which emphasizes raw materials and utilizes the site’s natural attributes.”

  He’d done his homework since yesterday. I gave him a quick smile.

  Tony pointed out the features of the building behind him and the dining hall. Both featured stone pillars and redwood siding. Being an Arts and Crafts geek, I’d read everything I could about the architecture before I came down, so I tuned out. I saw no familiar faces in the crowd of quilters. No one to buddy up with.

  The group moved slowly through the circle that Julia Morgan had designed as the axis for all the buildings.

  I took another look at the buildings behind us. In the center, the administration building, to the right, the dining hall, and over to the left, the chapel. Perfection.

  Asilomar looked so different without the bright sunshine that had prevailed yesterday. Fog had settled in today, not too thick, just enough to give me a feeling like my eyes were draped in gauze. I couldn’t see beyond the first line of dunes. The trees looked austere.

  “Let’s head to the beach,” Tony said.

  Tony herded the group of women toward the boardwalk, talking all the while. The quilters were uncharacteristically quiet.

  “The planking material is a recycled plastic and the boardwalk travels through the most delicate ecosystem in the park. These dunes are ever changing. Plants are getting a foothold again. You’ll see the endangered Tidestrom’s Lupine. The beach sage has become one of our anchor plants.”

  I caught up to the group midway up the boardwalk. The ocean was visible, looking cold, a mist gathering on the surface. All the paths around Asilomar were designed for maximum surprises. They twisted and turned so that the pedestrian was always challenged by the view.

  Since I couldn’t talk to him, I decided to give Tony a tough time. He was being adored by the middle-aged woman surrounding him, and I couldn’t let him rest on his laurels. Good-natured razzing was a long-standing Pellicano tradition.

  “Is it true that the YWCA girls used the dunes as their sports arena?” I asked.

  Tony caught sight of me. He frowned, and only the presence of his hat stopped him from scratching his head. “Perhaps,” he said carefully. “But Asilomar is doing all it can to preserve the natural habitat. The dunes are home to many small species of insects.”

  Tony droned on about worms. I listened, waiting for my next opportunity to heckle him.

  We reached the road. It was crosshatched with a pedestrian walkway, but drivers could be distracted by the great expanse of beautiful blue ocean out their windows. Or the antics of surfers in the crashing waves. Tony looked carefully both ways, then led us across.

  The berm was crowded with parked cars. Surfers sat on the side of the road, talking quietly, waiting for the sky to illuminate the surf enough to make it safe to get out there. Right now the waves looked gentle. Only two souls could be seen paddling out.

  To the south, the beach curved gracefully, forming a protective cove before going out to Point Joe. The waves lowered there, making it a good place to catch a wave.

  Tony waited for an older woman in bright pink pants to catch up. He pointed to the white-sand beach und
er our feet. “We like to call the sand squeaky clean. Try it. Scrape your feet along the sand and see if you can make it sing.”

  The half-dozen women obliged. Tony shot me a look that made me rub my feet, too. I grinned at him. It was fun to watch him in charge but this was an easy audience. Most of these women were just excited to be around a man. A good-looking guy like Tony in a uniform with a loaded gun was almost too much for some of them to bear.

  Tony continued, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of the ocean, “The sand consists only of broken-up quartz which accounts for its pristine, white appearance.”

  I dutifully raised my hand. In my most concerned voice, I said, “Have you ever seen a mountain lion?”

  Tony frowned. Several of the quilters nudged each other. “No, I have not.”

  “How do you know there’s one around here?” I asked.

  “We can tell she’s in the area because of the signs she leaves behind. She scratches on trees to mark her territory. She leaves behind scat.”

  “Scat?” The woman next to me said.

  “Poop,” I filled in.

  Tony gave me another glare. “Let’s move on to the tidal pools. They’re fascinating. Many, many animals live just below the surface of the water.”

  He moved the group back onto the road. We walked slowly north, then veered onto a path that ran parallel to the ocean. We were well back from the water’s edge. The path meandered through the sand and high dunes. Rock croppings came in and out, forming tide pools. The tide was still coming in, so many rocks were visible.

  I grew impatient—the group was not going fast enough for me. I took off down the path. I was working up a sweat, despite the cool air, when I saw a pile of dog crap on the side of the path. I looked back to see where Tony and his group were. The path had curved in a way that I could see golfers a half-mile away on Spanish Bay Golf Course, but I couldn’t see Tony, who was much closer.

  I toyed with the idea of yelling that I’d found mountain lion scat.

  I decided not to. I was enjoying my alone time. I continued to move quickly and put some distance between myself and the group. Tony’s voice came and then faded. I jogged a little.