The Christmas Boutique

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  Jack’s Chain was marvelously simple to piece and yet complex in appearance. At the center of each unit—for the term “block” did not seem to fit—was a hexagon, with a Nine-Patch attached to each of the six sides. An equilateral triangle filled the spaces between each pair of adjacent Nine-Patches, one vertex touching a corner of the hexagon. The bases of the triangles added to the remaining sides of the Nine-Patches to create a dodecagon. When several of the twelve-sided pieced segments were arranged side by side and the empty spaces filled with more triangles, the quilt seemed to spring to life with movement as the viewer’s eye followed the line of one arc of Nine-Patches and triangles to the next, traveling over the surface of the quilt.

  Eager to begin, they sketched a layout, calculated sizes, and made templates, debating whether they should assign one color to each shape or mix them up for a vibrant, unrestrained, scrappy appearance. The pattern seemed to demand the latter, and so they cut hexagons, squares, and triangles alike from the same mix of green, red, and winter-white fabrics. They sewed together every evening after supper and homework, sometimes listening to the radio in companionable quiet, but more often talking. They discussed anything and everything—school and work, movies and books, personal dramas among their neighbors and acquaintances, who liked whom at Lydia Darragh Middle School, who was collaborating with or conspiring against whom in the corridors and offices of Kuehner Hall.

  “We need to give our finished quilt a name, as any work of art has a title,” Gwen remarked one Saturday morning shortly after they had cut out their pieces and were preparing to sew. “Jack’s Chain isn’t very poetic, and it certainly doesn’t evoke the holiday spirit.”

  “We should use a girl’s name, not a boy’s, since we’re girls and it’s our design.” Summer frowned thoughtfully, then brightened. “Jill’s Chain! You know, like Jack and Jill?”

  Gwen liked the sound of it, so for a week they called their quilt Jill’s Chain. They were never entirely satisfied with the title, though, because they didn’t know anyone named Jill. Also, while a chain could evoke the ties that connected loved ones to one another or links between one brilliant idea and the next, the word also suggested restraints, a heavy burden, like the iron chains that bound Jacob Marley when he terrified Ebenezer Scrooge on Christmas Eve. That was not the mood they were going for.

  “You know what this reminds me of, with its bright colors and circles?” Summer said one Sunday afternoon after they had placed their first few completed units on the carpet and had stood back to examine them. “Those construction paper chains we made in elementary school. We always put one on our little Christmas tree back in Ithaca, remember?”

  “I do.” Gwen slipped an arm around her daughter’s shoulders and pulled her close for a side hug. “Christmas Garland would be a nice name for our quilt, don’t you think?”

  Nodding emphatically, Summer agreed.

  One evening a week before Thanksgiving, they were working on segments of the Christmas Garland quilt while sleet pelted the windows. After an animated discussion of their plans to travel to Kentucky to spend the four-day weekend with Grandma and Grandpa Sullivan, Summer fell silent, a pensive frown on her lovely face.

  “What’s up, kiddo?” Gwen asked, glancing up from her work. “Are you going to miss school? I could ask your teacher for extra math worksheets if it would make you feel better.”

  “Don’t you dare,” said Summer, wincing. “I’m going to miss my friends, but not school.”

  “Sure, I believe you, Miss Straight-A Class Vice President. You loathe that place.”

  Summer allowed a smile. “Fine, school isn’t that bad. That doesn’t mean I want to do worksheets on vacation.”

  “Fair point.” Gwen studied her daughter as she lowered her gaze to pin a triangle to a Nine-Patch, her long auburn hair veiling her expression. “So . . . what’s with the frown?”

  “It’s no big deal.” Summer kept her eyes fixed on her sewing. “It’s just . . . there’s this dance at school in January. For the eighth grade. It’s supposed to be this revered tradition or something.” She looked up, flipped her hair out of the way, and rolled her eyes.

  The show of indifference did not fool Gwen. “Sounds like fun. We’ll get you a great dress—”

  “I’m not going.”

  “Why not? You love to dance.”

  “Because it’s the Eighth Grade Father-Daughter Dance.”

  Summer had enunciated each word precisely for maximum impact, and the meaning struck Gwen like a punch to the stomach. “I see,” she said carefully. “Well, they must make exceptions. There must be other girls in your class who don’t have a father around.”

  “There aren’t. Even the girls whose parents are divorced still see their dads, or they have a stepdad. Lisa even has two dads.”

  “Maybe you can borrow one of hers.”

  “Mom—”

  “Sorry. Not funny.” Gwen sighed, thinking. “Okay, kiddo. I’ll speak with your principal. I’m sure they’d let me take you instead. I know it won’t be the same—”

  “It’ll be even better,” said Summer, dropping her sewing and hurrying over to hug her. “I know it’s just a stupid dance, but all of my best friends are going and I really want to too.”

  “It’s not stupid,” said Gwen, stroking her hair, although as soon as she said the words, she wanted them back. What was an archaic, sexist throwback like a father-daughter dance doing in a public school anyway? Not only did it exclude girls whose fathers weren’t in the picture, but also every eighth grade boy, as well as their mothers. How hard could it be to host an Eighth Grade Student-Parent Dance instead?

  First thing in the morning, Gwen called and made an appointment with the principal. The following afternoon, their conversation began cordially enough, with Mrs. Braun praising Summer as one of their most gifted pupils. According to her teachers, she was not only bright, hardworking, and intellectually curious, but kind and inclusive, the type of young woman who led by example, and an utter joy to have in class. Gwen had heard similar reports before, but her heart still swelled with pride.

  “So, what brings you here today?” Mrs. Braun asked. “Are you thinking of having Summer skip a grade?”

  “No, I wasn’t,” said Gwen. “Childhood is too short already. Why rush her through it? Actually, I wanted to speak to you about the eighth grade dance. As you may know, I’m a single mother, so despite the dance’s official title, Summer and I decided that I would escort her. I assume that you must make exceptions for girls in her situation, because it would be terribly unfair to exclude a child due to circumstances beyond her control.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Braun said, and she sounded like she meant it, “but the only exception we could make would be for another male relative to take her father’s place.”

  Gwen waited for the principal to break into a smile and explain that she was only joking. When that did not happen, she said, evenly, “To be clear, a stepfather, elder brother, uncle, or grandfather would be fine, but not a mother?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why not?”

  “At the beginning of the third quarter, the eighth graders will be learning basic partner dances in phys ed class. The dance in January is an opportunity to perform their new skills. Therefore, the girls need a male partner.”

  “Why?”

  Mrs. Braun spread her hands. “How would it look if we had girls dancing with girls?”

  “How would it look to see girls dancing with their mothers?” Gwen paraphrased, every word distinct. “Charming and heartwarming, I would think. I hope you’re not suggesting the sort of intolerance it sounds like you’re suggesting.”

  “I’m not suggesting anything.” Mrs. Braun shifted in her seat. “Have you considered that you might embarrass your daughter if you escorted her? All of the other girls will have a male dance partner. Summer will stand out.”

  Gwen inhaled deeply, determined to control her temper. “Surely we can come up with a reaso
nable solution. What have other girls done in the past, girls who don’t have a father around or an acceptable male proxy?”

  “Usually those young ladies stay home.”

  “They stay home from a dance that all the other eighth grade girls will attend and will talk about at school for weeks.” Gwen shook her head, incredulous. “That would embarrass my daughter. That would make her stand out. You see that, don’t you?”

  Mrs. Braun interlaced her fingers and rested her arms on the desk. “It’s not my policy, but the school board’s. You can take it up with them.”

  “We both know that won’t resolve anything in time for this year’s dance.”

  “Probably not.” Mrs. Braun sighed. “Perhaps Summer would like to invite her grandfather.”

  “Summer already invited me.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not an option.” Mrs. Braun offered a sympathetic frown and rose from her chair. “I’ll mention your concerns at the next school board meeting.”

  “You do that,” said Gwen, rising, her tone brittle. She left the office before the principal could reach across the desk to shake her hand, or wish her a good day, or offer any other perfunctory niceties that might incite her to explode with rage.

  Aggrieved and indignant, she returned to her office in Kuehner Hall and tried to settle down to work, but to no avail. The principal’s refusal to make a reasonable exception for an excellent student like Summer utterly astonished her. She saw little good that could come of such punitive inflexibility, and a great deal of potential harm—not just for Summer, but for all children whose fathers played no active role in their lives.

  Gwen had resolved long ago that Summer would never suffer unhappiness or shame because of her father’s voluntary absence, and for more than thirteen years she had made sure of it, even when teachers assigned essay topics like “My Daddy’s Job” or had the students make Father’s Day art projects. Summer’s grandfather had been a loving, nurturing presence in her life from the day she was born, and although from time to time Summer expressed curiosity about the father she had never met, she had never seemed to miss him, or to feel she had been abandoned. What if this unwittingly cruel eighth grade dance overturned all that?

  Conflicted, Gwen considered keeping Summer home from the dance as a matter of principle, striking a blow for other single mothers and same-sex couples and their children, but Summer wanted to go to the dance, and she deserved that chance. Rather than plant her flag on a hill she could not hold, Gwen reluctantly conceded defeat and called her father.

  Later, as she and Summer were enjoying supper at home—their favorite vegetable lasagna from the Italian deli near campus and ciabatta fresh from the bakery—Gwen explained that she could not take Summer to the dance. “But I called your grandpa and he’d be happy to escort you,” she added. “He’s a great dancer, so you’re in luck.”

  “That’s weird that they won’t let you take me,” said Summer, puzzled. “But I’m glad Grandpa wants to go. That’ll be fun. Will Grandma come too?”

  “She’ll drive up with Grandpa and stay with us, but it will be just you and Grandpa at the dance.”

  “Oh, okay.” Summer finished her lasagna and dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “If I finish my homework before eight, can we work on the quilt?”

  “Sure thing,” said Gwen, marveling at her daughter’s resilience. Her own anger and indignation still smoldered, but if Summer was content, that was good enough for her.

  But in the days that followed, she realized that Summer was not as content as she seemed.

  “Mom?” she asked on Saturday morning as they were settling down in their quilt studio with triangles and octagons for Christmas Garland. “Who is my father, anyway?”

  Gwen’s heart thumped. “Kiddo, you know who your father is. His name is Dennis McAlary, and he was born in Topeka, Kansas, and he’s about three years older than I am. He was a student at UC Berkeley when we met.”

  “But you weren’t a student there.”

  “No, I was living in a commune nearby and . . . studying independently.”

  “And protesting and doing flower child stuff.”

  “Yes, exactly,” said Gwen dryly.

  “Do you have a picture of him?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”

  Summer gave a little shrug as if it didn’t matter and held a spool of thread up to a triangle of fabric to see how well they blended. “Do I look like him?”

  “Obviously you got your auburn hair from me,” Gwen replied. “As well as your brains and extraordinary beauty.”

  Summer glanced up, allowing a smile.

  “But Dennis was tall and slender, like you, and he played the guitar well and sang, so you probably got your musical abilities from him too.”

  “Grandma has a beautiful singing voice.”

  “That’s true.” Her gift had evidently skipped a generation. “Then you must have inherited talent from both sides, lucky girl.”

  “Cool.” Summer held out two spools. “Should I use the darker thread or the lighter for this triangle?”

  “I’d go with the one in your left hand.” Gwen braced herself for more questions about Dennis, but Summer threaded the sewing machine needle and turned the subject to a book report she had due before Thanksgiving.

  Gwen’s relief was short-lived.

  “So, I have two more grandparents, right?” Summer asked abruptly at breakfast the next morning.

  “Yes, you do,” Gwen replied, rising to pour herself a second cup of coffee, then returning to the table. “I’ve never met them, and Dennis rarely spoke of them, but as far as I know, they lived their entire lives in Topeka. He owned a shoe store and she was a homemaker.”

  “‘Lived their entire lives’?” Summer echoed, wide-eyed. “You mean they’re dead now?”

  “Sorry. Poor choice of words. I honestly don’t know.” Gwen hesitated, unsure whether she wanted to prolong the conversation, not knowing where it might lead. “Your father had—has—a younger sister too.”

  Summer absorbed this. “So I have an aunt—and maybe cousins too?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Wow. That’s crazy.” Summer toyed with her fork, her whole-wheat waffles growing cold on her plate. “If I ever go to Kansas, I could walk past them on the sidewalk, and we wouldn’t even know we were related.”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  “Does my father live in Kansas?”

  “I wouldn’t think so. He loved California. I’d be surprised if he left.”

  “But you don’t know for sure.”

  Gwen shook her head. Summer nodded, broke off a piece of waffle with her fork, but only held it, her gaze fixed on the window over the sink. Eventually she excused herself and cleared away her dishes, and she said nothing more about her father for the rest of the day.

  The following evening, as Summer was loading her books and her completed book report into her backpack in preparation for school the next morning, she blurted, “Does he even know I’m alive?”

  “Of course he does,” said Gwen. “I’ve sent him pictures of you. I’ve given him our change of address every time we’ve moved.”

  “So you do know where he lives.”

  “I have an address. I wrote to him there to tell him we had moved to Waterford, and my letter wasn’t returned, so I assume—”

  Summer’s cheeks flushed with anger. “He’s never written back? He’s never even asked about me? He never sent you any child support?”

  Gwen shook her head.

  “What a total jerk.”

  “Oh, kiddo.” Gwen rose and embraced her, and Summer rested her cheek on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault,” said Summer, her voice muffled.

  Perhaps not, but Gwen still felt wretched.

  She saw Summer off to bed, kissed her good night, and returned to the kitchen to fix herself some chamomile tea. Carrying her cup into the living room, she curled up in
a chair beneath a quilt and began reviewing her next day’s lesson plans, but soon her notes lay forgotten on her lap. She had never regretted leaving Dennis, and she had never wanted a dime of his money, but should she have done more through the years than send him change-of-address postcards? Should she have insisted that he play some role in Summer’s life, if only from hundreds of miles away, even though he consistently demonstrated no interest whatsoever?

  A lifetime before, when she was just starting out as a freshman at the University of Kentucky, she told new friends she was from Louisville rather than admit that she actually hailed from Brown Deer, population 1,200, west of Lovely and about halfway between Kermit and Pilgrim, home to six churches and no movie theaters. Since kindergarten, Gwen had stood out as the class brain, and in high school she had earned a reputation as a troublemaking nonconformist by refusing to join the Future Homemakers of America and by being the only girl to enroll in auto shop instead of home ec. For as long as she could remember, Gwen had longed to escape that dull, stifling, provincial backwater, and pretending that she was from a city on the opposite side of the state was the first step in putting it behind her.

  Enthralled by her new freedom, she threw herself into college life. Passionate professors shook her slumbering social conscience awake, fellow students taught her about fighting for justice and making her voice heard, and more worldly friends invited her to expand her consciousness in ways that she never would have imagined back in Brown Deer, where sneaking nips from parents’ liquor cabinets was the dizzying height of audacity.

  At first, Gwen worked feverishly to make up for the unexpected deficiencies in her education. Although back home she was considered the most brilliant student Brown Deer High School had ever matriculated, within her first few days on campus she had made the jarring observation that she trailed behind her peers from better school districts. Her sharp intellect, quick wit, and competitive streak soon helped her to gain an equal footing, and once securely there, she was eager to cast off her reputation as a grind interested in nothing more than top grades. Classes became a drag, visits home to Brown Deer, unbearable.