by Nina Solomon
Taking the envelope, along with the bag containing her crocheting in case she had time to stop in for more yarn on her way to class, she went to visit her grandmother.
GRACE RODE THE bus up Riverside Drive just past Columbia Presbyterian Hospital to the nursing home. Grace’s grandmother had lived in Washington Heights in a redbrick apartment house on the cliffs of the Hudson, overlooking the river for nearly forty years.
When Grace was a teenager, Dolly used to take her aside and tell her that when she died, the apartment would belong to Grace. “I know you’ll take care of it—it’s my museum. You understand.” Grace had always thought she would move there, keeping it intact, as her grandmother had wished, but Laz wanted something “in the city.” To him, Washington Heights was like another country, even though it was within the city limits. When Dolly had moved into the nursing home six years ago, the apartment had been given up, her possessions appraised and then sold.
After Dolly’s first stroke, Grace had brought Laz to the hospital to meet her. Dolly had squinted her eyes and pointed at him. “I know you,” she said, with seeming certainty.
Dolly had come to the United States from Lithuania with her older brother when she was nineteen. The rest of her family perished during the war a few years after that, at which point Dolly had begun collecting. While her children and husband were off at school and work, Dolly went scavenging in antique shops. “Junk shops,” she called them. She would return with heavy pendulum clocks, porcelain teacups, carved wooden chairs, hiding her treasures in the closet until one day they’d suddenly appear, blending in among the other household items, as if always having been there.
The bus continued up Riverside Drive, past Grant’s Tomb and the mansion where she and Laz had met. It was now abandoned, the property surrounded by a barbed-wire fence. The windows had been replaced with plywood, the doors boarded up. Grace looked back, hoping to glimpse some signs of restoration, until the bus turned and the mansion was no longer in sight.
GRACE GOT OFF the bus and walked up the stone steps of the nursing home, where she found Dolly propped up in bed, gazing out over the Hudson River.
“Grace,” she said, slurring slightly. “When will this plane land?” Dolly’s room was bare, except for an embroidered bedspread with silk tassels and an antique porcelain clock—one of dozens that she’d collected—that ticked loudly.
When Grace was in college, she had visited her grandmother weekly. Grace remembered the details of one particular visit as if it were yesterday. Dolly had come to the door wearing an ankle-length peasant skirt and a purple shawl around her shoulders. On her head she wore a flowered kerchief, her white hair braided and twisted into a tight bun, which was held in place with a tortoiseshell comb.
“Grace, you’re here! I have spinach pie all ready for you. Come have a little something.”
“Dolly, I told you I would bring lunch this time.”
“What? You’d rather eat from a store?” she asked, putting her arm around Grace’s waist.
“I have that cake you like.”
“Well, with Zabar’s, I can’t compete. Come, let’s sit.”
Grace followed Dolly into her living room. The room was large but so crammed full of furniture that it was difficult to walk through without bumping into something. The door to the terrace was open and there was a breeze. Grace sat in the courtship chair. It had two worn mahogany seats, which faced in opposite directions. The carved center arms were linked together, as if in an embrace. Dolly took in the scene, smiling and nodding her head.
“You look perfect there. Just perfect.”
Then Grace noticed a broken spinning wheel next to the fireplace. She’d never seen it before and went to touch it. “Is this new, Dolly?” she asked.
“Oh, no, Grace. It’s been here all along.”
GRACE NOW LOOKED at the outline of her grandmother’s small frame under the bedspread, and at the bare, uncluttered room.
“Will this plane land soon?” Dolly asked again. Grace wondered which way her grandmother thought she was traveling—to America, or back to the girlhood home in Lithuania she’d spent her life trying to recapture.
“Soon, Dolly,” Grace said. “I promise.”
THE YARN STORE was crowded, and at first Grace didn’t see Penelope. Then from out of a basement storeroom, Penelope emerged, huffing and puffing from the climb. She was carrying an armful of yarn, which she set down, and she nodded to Grace. One of the balls of yarn rolled off the counter and disappeared behind a basket like a frightened mouse. Grace bent to pick it up.
“Thanks,” Penelope said. “It’s Grace, right?”
“Yes,” Grace answered. Another customer, a petite woman in a shearling coat and a black beret, was waiting to be rung up. Grace felt she was in good company. If only she’d discovered the meditative qualities of crocheting sooner.
“So, how’s it going. Are you hooked yet?” Penelope asked, deadpan. She had clearly used the pun before and had no reason to punctuate it with a laugh. Grace smiled.
Grace placed her yarn bag on the counter and reached inside. “I’d like to buy more yarn.”
“You’re finished already?” Penelope asked, her eyes widening as Grace pulled out the seemingly never-ending stretch of crochet from the bag. Even Grace was surprised at its proportions, which seemed, like a yeast dough, to have more than doubled in size since the previous night.
“Once I started, it was hard to stop,” Grace answered.
“I like the pattern. What book did you use?”
“I didn’t,” she admitted. “I sort of improvised as I went along.”
By this time, a small group had gathered around the counter, hands outstretched to examine the length of Grace’s crochet.
A tall woman wearing a long black coat that was covered with cat hair came over to the counter. “Interesting pattern,” she said discerningly, as she inspected the edging. “But what are you making?”
“I’m not sure,” Grace said. The idea that this would eventually have an end didn’t appeal to her. Part of her believed she could just keep crocheting ad infinitum.
“It’s a process,” Penelope said with authority.
“Nice bobbles,” another woman commented. Grace thanked her, even though she didn’t have any idea what bobbles were, and in any other context she might have been duly insulted. A heavyset man, not more than thirty, with shiny brown hair approached the counter. Grace noticed that he was wearing a hand-knit sweater of a bright blue wool tucked into a pair of too-tight jeans.
“My grandmother taught me how to crochet when I was eight,” he told Grace with a faraway look in his eyes. “Whenever anything was bothering me, we’d sit down to crochet, and it would all just go away. And that was before they knew about serotonin levels.” Grace couldn’t help but nod. “My name’s Scott,” he said, extending his hand. “I started a men’s group called Crocheting Through. We meet in the basement of the Presbyterian Church every Thursday night. In homage to my grandmother.” He sighed. Grace was afraid that he might start crying. “I really miss her a lot.” She’d had no idea that people could bond over a few simple stitches.
“You’ve got the knack,” Penelope said. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve been crocheting all your life. I started repairing that afghan you brought in, but I think you can handle it from here. Don’t be afraid to rip. You have to be ruthless, otherwise you’re wasting your time. If you don’t do it right, it’ll just fall apart in other places,” she explained. Grace felt her cheeks grow warm. Somehow, after seeing Dolly in her bare room, the holes seemed preferable to the idea of undoing her grandmother’s stitches.
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather you did it,” she said. Grace walked over to a basket and pulled out a ball of soft yarn.
“Those are nice if you’re going to make a throw,” Penelope told her. Grace liked the sound of that. It seemed less daunting than making a sweater or something else that required precise dimensions. A throw. Casual and
homey.
“How many will I need?” she asked. “It depends on how big you want it to be. One skein will work up to be about a ten-by-ten-inch square.”
“Well, I guess I’ll need about twenty, then,” she decided.
“I should just give you some straw and see what you come up with,” Penelope said with a laugh. Grace smiled but didn’t get it. Noticing Grace’s perplexed expression, she added, “You know, like Rumpelstiltskin.”
“Oh, of course,” Grace said.
Penelope put the yarn in a bag. “By the way, I’ve been looking for someone to work part-time. I don’t know if you’d be interested.”
“My days are pretty full,” Grace answered. “Can I think about it?”
“Of course. Take your time.” Grace was struck by the camaraderie and support among the patrons in the tiny, cramped shop. She pictured them all gathered around the long oak table, comparing stitches and giving advice on projects. If ever there were an actual Friends of the Friendless, this place was it.
CHIMERA BOOKS WAS moderately crowded for a Wednesday evening. Grace walked to the back of the bookstore, greeting the salespeople with a newfound openness. It was as though she were seeing the place for the first time, embracing every idiosyncratic detail of the store—from the worn wooden Escheresque steps to the warped bookshelves and the smell of cloves from the holiday wreaths. One of the clerks had brought in a bûche de Noël, and Grace decided she would not pass on a slice. She took out her supplies, placing the hand drills and metal burnishers on the long worktable alongside the three-inch-square sheets of gold leaf she’d bought at Lee’s Art Shop.
The room didn’t have adequate lighting—the antique brass billiard lamp that hung from the ceiling gave off barely enough light to read by. Yet the dimness didn’t deter Grace’s students in the least as they fashioned folios out of rag paper. Grace had brought in a few hurricane candles, which were useful not just for the added light they provided but also the added warmth, needed because of the draftiness from the large, warped windows. Some of her students actually preferred the dim lights, saying that it hearkened back to a simpler time. Grace agreed. In the low lighting, the gold leaf fluttered like butterfly wings. With a little ingenuity and a light dusting of gold, Grace thought she might even be able to fool Bert with a paper rendition of his beloved Painted Lady.
She heard laughter and the popping of corks from the front of the store, so she finished up her class preparations and decided to join the festivities. As she walked through the stacks, passing-people as they browsed, she noticed an edition of Kafka’s Metamorphosis and pulled it from the shelf to see if it was a first edition. Her father had taught her how to identify rare books, and she was about to turn to the title page when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned around to see the young man from the other day, who was not only standing before her but wearing the leather jacket that she’d seen in Laz’s apartment. The next thing she was aware of was a sharp pain in her lower abdomen and then the hard thud as she fell to the floor.
Grace had never fainted before, and even though she was lying down, she wasn’t really sure what had happened. The concerned faces above her were a clear indication that something was wrong, so she immediately tried to get up. As she braced herself on a low shelf, she saw a book entitled Your Natural Childbirth, with a graphic photograph of a baby still attached to the placenta on the cover. Grace immediately felt herself growing woozy again. Maybe she should have put more faith in the 8-Ball and not the pregnancy test. She closed her eyes, then felt herself being lifted to her feet by a strong set of arms, which led her to the front of the store and eased her into a large leather club chair by a window. When she was seated, she looked up at the young man standing in front of her.
“Sorry I startled you. You were really out over there,” he said, sounding a little impressed. “I’m Griffin.”
“I just got a little dizzy, that’s all,” she told him. “I’ll be fine, thanks. I have a class to teach.”
Someone brought a glass of water, which Grace sipped slowly. Griffin pulled a chair beside her and sat down. Grace looked at his jacket. She knew there were things he could explain, but something held her back from asking. She pulled her hair into a ponytail and looked at him. He was sweet looking, and, close up at least, his resemblance to Laz was less noticeable. The jacket, however, was another story.
“Your jacket—” she started to say, and then stopped.
“Oh, yeah. It was my dad’s.”
“Your father gave it to you?” she asked. “When?” Once she started asking questions, she knew she’d be unable to stop.
“Well, he didn’t exactly give it to me,” he said. “I mean, I’ve never actually met him. My mom kept it for me. He wore it in college. It’s not very warm, though, or maybe I’m just not used to the cold.” It occurred to her that Griffin might be Laz’s son. All the crocheting in the world would not make this go away.
“Why? Where are you from?” she asked.
“From Atlanta. But I go to college in Maryland. I’m a sophomore at Johns Hopkins. Premed.”
As he spoke, all the strange occurrences of the last few weeks began to fit together like a puzzle—from the edition of Twain to the couple at the restaurant and the concierge’s reference to the young Mr. Brookman. It had been Griffin all along.
“How did you know where to find me?” she asked.
“From an article my mother saw in a magazine. She wrote a letter to my father. Didn’t you get it?” Grace shook her head, and then vaguely remembered the folded piece of paper stuck in the pages of Oblomov.
“So you came looking for him?” she asked. Griffin looked at his fingernails, which were chewed down to the cuticles, and then shoved his hands into his pockets. Laz bit his nails, too.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you,” he said, his voice melting into a more Southern tone. “I wasn’t all that sure how I’d be received.” His cheeks flushed all the way behind his ears. Grace could see he’d cut himself shaving.
“So,” Grace started to say tentatively, “am I a stepmom?” It was a totally alien concept, especially considering that Laz couldn’t have been more than Griffin’s age when the boy was conceived. He smiled.
“I was hoping you could help me get in contact with my father, but I know this may be a bad time with the controversy and all.”
Even if she did know where Laz was, she couldn’t imagine that this would be a happy reunion. “He gave you the keys to his apartment, didn’t he?” Grace asked, trying to change the subject.
“He left them for me with the concierge, but he never showed up. My mother says that’s typical.” He paused. “She didn’t want me to get my hopes up, but I told her that I had nothing to lose.” Grace nodded, but she knew he was wrong. Either way, he had something to lose. And more so if he ever met Laz.
“He’s away now,” Grace told him, trying not to meet his eyes. “At a conference.”
“When will he be back?”
“He wasn’t sure,” she answered. “Sometime next week. I think.” Grace felt perspiration trickling down her back. The store suddenly felt stiflingly hot, and Grace knew that she had to get outside.
“You’re looking pale again,” Griffin said. “Can I get you something?”
“Is it hot in here?” she asked. Not waiting for a response, she bolted for the door.
Once outside, Grace braced herself against a mailbox. It had begun to snow and big wet flakes stuck to her suede skirt. Griffin followed behind.
“Are you okay?” he asked, putting his jacket over her shoulders.
“I’m sorry. I just needed some air,” she explained.
“I know the feeling,” he said, reaching into his army-green knapsack. He rummaged through a zippered compartment and took out a box of Altoids, opened it, and held it out to her. Laz always had a box of Altoids in his pocket, too. Grace took one, marveling that a father and son who never knew each other could have the same small things in common. Maybe th
e gene for a predilection for peppermint was passed down like eye color or left-handedness. There was no need for genetic testing.
“My mother says peppermint lifts your spirits,” he told her. It would have been preferable had Griffin appeared out of thin air. Having a mother implied a relationship with the father, and that was something Grace was not prepared to confront. “And ginger is good for motion sickness.” He pulled out a bag of crystallized ginger. “You should try some for your stomach.”
“My stomach?” Grace asked, perplexed.
“You’re holding it. I thought it might be bothering you.” Grace hadn’t been conscious that she was clutching her stomach. She put her hands to her side, suddenly aware of a nagging pain. She wondered if it might be some kind of psychosomatic wishful thinking for a baby. Maybe Griffin’s appearance triggered something, shining a light on possibilities she’d never allowed herself to dream of. Surprisingly, the mint did revive her.
“Thanks,” she said. “I feel much better.” She looked at Griffin and found herself trying to dissect his features, deciding which ones to embrace, which to disown—the squared-off angle of his chin, his long fingers, and even the way his hair fell over his forehead were all clearly from Laz. But his sad yet still trusting eyes, she knew, had to have come from someone else.
She looked at her watch. “I need to get back inside now.” Griffin looked expectantly at her. She knew he was waiting for her to take some initiative, to invite him for dinner or suggest they meet sometime. “Will you be in town long?” she asked, finally.
“Until after the New Year,” he said. “Then the next semester starts.”
She hesitated. It wasn’t enough that Laz had left her. His leaving now took on greater nonmarital dimensions—it was parental, as well. And, worst of all, he’d left her to clean up messes related to his leaving someone other than her.
He’d clearly been unable to confront his wife and his son. Laz’s departure was perhaps beginning to make sense. After all, the deshrouding of his book and the return of his paternity-seeking son was a bit much for someone already predisposed as a marital flight risk.
