Wool Over Your Eyes

by Violet Patton

  He jangled his pocketful of change and pulled out a handful of coins and picked through the pennies handing me a few quarters.

  “Don’t get caught driving without a license.” His eyes sparkled as he patted the cart top’s sending me on my way.

  “Thank you kindly, kind sir. Step back. I got places to go.” I tapped the battery pedal, burning rubber out of our carport.

  Chapter Twelve

  Granny Square

  On my first sojourn to the strip center, I parked the cumbersome Caddy in the parking lot. For the first time, I was glad she was dead. Losing part of the family was hard, but parking in front of the laundry was a luxury.

  Someone had propped the laundromat door open with a cigarette butt stained concrete block. No smoking inside this joint. Bad news for whoever was smoking, I’m an Oasis escapee and jumping someone over a cigarette butt just might fit my mood.

  I used my brain instead of hunting for brawn to help with the heavy bags. I got a rolling laundry cart from inside. A smart woman always has a solution to a problem bigger than she can tackle. Thank goodness for those handicap laws because I rolled the cart onto the yellow-painted ramp and pulled the heavy bags onto the cart all by my lonesome.

  The place was deserted just like I like it. I parked the laundry cart beside a row of dingy white washers and loaded five machines. Having a stack washer and dryer was a dream, but putting in five loads of laundry at once was a relief. Nothing was worse than hanging around a dirty laundromat, waiting in line for one of the two working dryers.

  I bought two packs of laundry soap from the dispenser, dashed soap into each washer to mitigate a brigade of mange mites, turned the water setting to hot—destroy the bugs—and slammed the washer lids closed. The wall clock read 1:18. I’m betting these old chuggers will take their sweet time churning our duds and sheets, so I had time to kill.

  “What should I do?” Since I’m horrible at waiting and would not hang out in the steamy laundry room. That’s why people go outside to smoke by the door, dry hot is one thing, wet hot was like living in Mississippi. Too hot for this Bunny, she wouldn’t sweat if it was avoidable.

  I adjusted my safari hat, drank some tepid water and climbed into the golf cart. Note to self: Buy a refillable water bottle.

  Two minutes later, I was scanning my photo ID, opening the gate to the community center.

  A bag of alpaca wool was a good enough excuse to go to the knitting club room. Swinging the obvious bag from my arm, I hightailed along the covered sidewalk, nodding at Others passing by without stopping to introduce myself. They probably already knew who I was, making nice would not do me any good. I barely knew my way around, but I would not ask for directions. With a smile plastered across my face so big it hurt, I walked along glancing in the window slits of the closed craft room doors.

  When I turned the last corner spotting the open classroom door someone hollered. “Hey Bunny!” I didn’t stop and acted like I didn’t hear whoever it was yelling and entered classroom door.

  “Hello? Anybody here?” Odd no one was here.

  Moody Zen music played in the empty room. Colorful skeins of yarn lined the shelves but nothing was skanky like my woolly alpaca wool. Sample crochet and knitted pieces were pinned to a cork bulletin board on one wall. A rack held well used knitting books, magazines and copies of printed instructions. Knitting needles and crochet hooks sat in mugs like pencils or pens.

  “Hello?” I peered into a short cubbyhole hallway leading to the bathrooms. Sounded like water was running somewhere so I went back into the knitting room.

  A comfortable grouping of castoff armchairs and loveseats sat in a semi-circle. Well-used crochet dollies covered the chair arms and headrests, and I sat on the edge of one chair.

  Sissy came into the room drying her hands on a paper towel. “Oh. I didn’t hear you. Hi! Can I help you?”

  The front of her smock, something like what a painter, not a knitter would wear, was wet, too wet.

  “Oh, hey you.” I hopped up and stuck out my bag of wool. “I need to get this spinning… spun. Minette said you do the spinning? Aren’t you Sissy?”

  I’m certain she was the lady who presented Betty with the grand prize ribbon.

  “Yes. I’m Sissy. You’re—?” She offered me her hand. “I was just locking up. Ready to go home, it’s been a long morning.” She gazed over my head out the classroom windows.

  “Bunny.” I shook her hand. “Winters.”

  “Oh, you’re Hunny Bunny.” She went behind a counter and placed a scale on the worktable. I grimaced hearing her use Hunny so familiarly.

  “Lemme weigh it and we’ll know how much you’ve got.”

  “Oh, okay.” My itch returned, not the mangey itch, but my I’m dying to be nosy itch. “I don’t know much about knitting.” I said the silly statement instead of talking about Trudi’s bodacious mangling of Betty’s afghan.

  “No one knows how to begin when they first start. There’s a learning curve.” She opened the bag and closed it. “Alpaca wool always stinks until it’s been washed.”

  “Sure. I signed up for knitting class with Trudi at the show this morning. Found it at a second-hand store. Guy said it’d make a nice sweater.”

  She didn’t take my blatant hints and laid the wool on the scale. “Wow. This is a good bit. Almost a pound. A lucky find. Alpaca wool is expensive in the store. It’s not enough for a sweater. Maybe a hat.”

  “Oh.” I put my hands behind my back, shifting back and forth fidgeting. She placed the wool back in its plastic bag.

  “It’s probably best if I wash it for you. We have a washer and dryer back there.” She nodded toward the cubbyhole hallway and I noticed the water was still running.

  “We use lingerie bags to wash it. Otherwise it’ll just go down the drain.”

  “Okay. How much do you charge?”

  She gave me a wonky glance. “There’s no charge. We aren’t trying to make a living here. All volunteers.”

  “Is Trudi a volunteer, too?” The words slipped out of my mouth. I wanted to get Sissy’s opinion on what happened with Trudi, but she wasn’t cooperating. “She was upset. I kinda felt sorry for her.”

  Sissy sighed. “It’s all my fault. Me and Trudi had a disagreement. It’s nothing really.”

  “About what?” I poked with a sharp goad, but I wanted to prod her for more information. Dare I say Etsy? Repeating gossip wasn’t ladylike, so I whispered the word hoping she’d catch it and blab.

  “Well.” She bit her bottom lip. “I shouldn’t say why. It’s a secret between me and Trudi. I promised I wouldn’t tell.” She shook her head and wiped her teary eyes. “Really, it’s nothing important.”

  She turned toward the wall of yarn. “C’mere. You better start with something simple. Alpaca wool is challenging to say the least. Let’s say a granny square afghan. Crochet first, it’s easier. We’ll need to work you up to knitting alpaca. It’s slippery and easily mussed.”

  She sure shoved me off my Trudi topic.

  Granny squares? Those are the ugliest afghans on the planet. Why would I want to crochet a granny square afghan? Mama had three in her linen closet and when she passed, Candy and I donated those scratchy throws to the Salvation Army, Goodwill wouldn’t take them.

  Wading through the shelves, she plucked colorful skeins of yarn. “If you donate what you make, the yarn is free. We give to St. Jude and the Arizona Children’s’ Home.”

  “Bless the poor orphan’s hearts. I’ll give back.”

  “Oh, they need blessings for sure.” She cocked her head tsking louder. “Makes my heart twitch leaving behind those cute kiddos. No mothers and fathers.”

  “Yes, I know what you mean.”

  I truly understood the orphan problem. After I learned of my deformed uterus and we would not have children, I grew an adoption wild hair. Unfortunately, Philly wasn’t keen on the plan. I had pamphlets and brochures from adoption agencies across Texas, but I never filled one out. For decade
s I couldn’t go near a daycare center or pass by a grade school seeing children greet their loving parents without bursting into tears.

  In time, the feeling faded, but I won’t volunteer to deliver my granny square afghan—if I ever finish it—to the orphaned children. I wouldn’t be able to leave any orphan behind, and now, Philly won’t be keen on multiple rug rats living in his sardine can-sized park model.

  “Let’s start with a bigger hook. Say a size ten.” She searched through a coffee mug of freebie crochet hooks until she found the one she wanted. “Here you go.”

  She licked her finger to peel off a sheet of paper from a glued sheet. “Here’s a printed sheet on how to start. If you come tomorrow for knitting class, there’ll be four or five crochet masters here who would love to help you get started.”

  She sacked the yarn I would give back as a donated afghan for orphans, and it was plain she would not talk about Trudi’s fit. “If you don’t mind, I’m rather shaken by the events at the crawl. I’d like to go home and rest.”

  “You’ve been so kind.” I took the bag and Sissy headed toward the door. “Yes, see you in class tomorrow.”

  “Read the instructions. You can handle it.” She held the doorknob as I went through the door and she snapped it closed, locking the deadbolt.

  I stood flummoxed for a moment before the lights went off in the classroom.

  “Guess she told me.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Creepy Hand

  Back at the laundromat, several Others clustered outside, smoking a cloud and eyeing me as I parked the golf cart.

  “Hey you,” I said, squeezing through the rude Others.

  Cigarette smoke blew in the slight breeze, but I held my breath passing through it.

  Last time I smoked a cigarette was the night Philly told me we were leaving San Fran. Lemme tell ‘ya, my come apart was one for the books. It wasn’t nearly as big as the one I had when he showed me the online photos of the park model he had purchased without discussing the plan with his bride. Those were tense moments between this old pair of newlyweds, akin to somebody scratching their fingernails on a blackboard or stepping on a rusty nail while wearing flip-flops. I’m experienced in both, and I’d rather have a tetanus shot than hear tooth sharpening, scratchy blackboard sounds any day.

  The cigarette made me sick, but not as much as losing my San Fran home.

  I found my laundry stacked willy-nilly on a table by the dryers. Guess I took too long trying to find out what made Trudi go ballistic. Secrets are hard to keep here in the asphalt jungle, but Trudi’s meltdown had to have trumped my silly mistake—at least I still hope —and if I had a rumor or two to spread, it would help my case.

  I loaded the laundry into two dryers, fished quarters from my cutoff pockets and primed the machines with money, making sure the dryer settings were set on furnace blast hot. Nothing I had in the wash was likely to shrink, but it might fall apart. Killing every last mange mite was more important, and I’d be glad we wouldn’t sleep a second night with those bugs. If my favorite nightie falls to shreds, so be it, I have more threadbare nighties waiting their turn somewhere in the storage unit.

  With the last of Philly’s change, I bought a Coke from the vending machine. It was frosty enough, and I rolled the can over my forehead taking a seat in front of the spinning dryers. Others milled murmuring, but I figured as long as I didn’t make eye contact, they’d leave me alone. Cracking open the soda lid, I took a big cold gulp, swallowed and waited for the burn.

  Nothing. No burn. As of recent I’ve felt disappointed in lots of things. Changing the original Coke recipe wasn’t on top of the list.

  I spent the good part of an hour folding sheets and Philly’s shorts, and by then, I would not cook supper. For some reason, clean clothes are always lighter than dirty clothes, guess washing away the grime and crimes from dirty laundry lightens your load. With three neatly stacked piles secured in the golf cart, I drove like a race cart driver to Bob’s Burgers, hoping I would get there before they closed for the day.

  Luckily Bob’s was still open, even though the usual lunchtime crowd wasn’t around. No one waited at the order window, so I walked right up.

  “Hey, Hunny Bunny? I’m glad to see you.” I’m glad someone was glad.

  “Connie.” I nodded.

  Connie was Bob’s wife, and I met her at the Texas two-step dance our first week. Since then, Philly has become a regular Bob’s burger devotee. Bob and Connie aren’t Texans, but they are small town folks who loved Texas barbecue and boot-scooting dances.

  I ordered our usual. After she passed the order to Bob; she leaned on the counter, ready to talk. I liked Connie because she loves to gossip as much as I do.

  “You telling fortunes at the Texas dance next month?” Behind her the sizzle of frozen fries going into the fryer hissed.

  “I have a gift for you.” She giggled wickedly.

  Mumbling, I muttered. “I don’t need anything else.” I’d had enough oddball and unwanted gifts as of late. I said louder. “I don’t tell fortunes.”

  Connie smiled, leaning over into the small order window. “Nonsense. Go take a seat, I’ll bring out your order. We can chat then.”

  I fished another soda from the washtub. It was much colder than the one from the vending machine, and I pressed it against my forehead.

  Why would Connie say something about telling fortunes?

  She couldn’t possibly know Huey gave me a crystal ball. I’m confounded, nobody not even Philly knew of my experience with the old geezer. Others were spying on me. I glanced over my shoulders for spies. Only one old geezer sat under a sail cloth at a picnic table and he wasn’t the spy type.

  Five minutes passed, if Philly wasn’t going to be growling hangry when I got home, I would’ve left without waiting on the burgers. Hauling laundry wore me out, and I leaned my elbows on the table and put my chin in my palms.

  Connie sat a greasy brown bag beside my elbow and climbed into the bench. “You know what? “You could dress up like a gypsy. Charge folks to get their palms read. Maybe read tarot cards.”

  Aha! She’s the prankster. I wouldn’t have thought Connie to be devious enough to sneak up on my veranda and leave a glittery bag containing antique tarot cards. She’s the kinda girl who comes right out and says here I got old cards you can have, seeing how, you got the calling and all. She’s open and jovial, I must’ve misconstrued her personality.

  My turkey neck waggled faster. “No, I don’t read cards or nothing else.”

  “Nonsense. You’re every bit as psychic as anyone else. You only need to practice.”

  No amount of practice would make me psychic.

  Grinning, she plunked a cloth bag onto the table between us. “I got it in a white elephant Christmas party at my office. I thought it was cool. It took a while to dig it out of the storage unit and I wanted to give it to you.”

  “Pfft. Girl, I’m worn out with this fortune telling bunk.”

  “Open it. You’ll get a kick out of it.” The golf cart was filled to the brim with clean laundry, and the burgers smelled delicious.

  Connie appeared anxious, and I would not hurt her feelings by walking away. How could I? She might be the last person in the Oasis who likes me.

  I pulled her gift bag over and fingered its opening. I didn’t feel of the bag trying to guess what was in it, or waste time with a guessing game. I opened the bag and pulled a—good grief—a yellowed creature thingy... an ugly carved hand. “What the? It’s… it’s––”

  “Interesting. I told you so.” Connie beamed at the horrid thing.

  “Very?” I waited for it to move, but thankfully it didn’t.

  Silently, which was hard for me, I examined the waxy yellow carved hand laying palm up. Examining it closer, etched black lines were named in miniscule script. The puffy part of the thumb was named the Mount of Venus. Its gnarled wicked four fingers were named Water, Earth, Wind and Fire. Other odd intricate details were carved in
to it, and I’d need a magnifying glass to read the finely printed words.

  “I think it’s ivory.” Connie whispered. “Folks will go nuts if it’s real. Let’s say its plastic.

  “Okay?” No one if I had my way about would know this creature existed. I should pound it with a hammer to make sure it was dead.

  She wiggled, beaming. “I’m so excited. I never knew why I kept the creepy hand, now I do. It’s for you.”

  Squinting, I bit my lip. “Believe me, it’s our secret.”

  Connie jiggled her leg. “That’s why I think it’s real ivory and old. There’s an instruction booklet with it. You don’t have to be psychic at all.”

  The little pamphlet lay under one edge of the carved hand, and I pulled it out. “Fleshman’s Oracle Palm Reading.” I couldn’t stifle the giggle bubbling up, and I imagined setting up a fortune telling booth.

  She grinned. “Good thing it comes with an instruction manual. You can read all about how it works.”

  I had to smile. This creepy object thingy fit perfectly into the plan—whatever the plan might be.

  “You got a gypsy tent in your storage building?” Philly wouldn’t love my swirling ideas. Telling fortunes at the dance would be fun even if I made the fortunes up, little white lies wouldn’t hurt a soul. Nobody would care, it’d be all part of the fun.

  “No, but I got several regular tents, but they’re probably rotten. We don’t camp anymore… not since we moved here.”

  “I know what you mean. Living in the Oasis was one step—no, it is a half-step above camping out.” I didn’t tell Connie about our last camping fiasco on the San Juan River.

  The wicked hand titillated me, and I ran a finger along one of its etchings. “These words must go along with palm reading.”

  “Guess so. I never read the pamphlet.” Connie snickered, snorting a bit. “This’s gonna be fun. Better’n than the kissing booth last year. Yuck! I knew you’d love it.”

  “I know someone who’d love the kissing booth.” Or had pudgy pound cake man thought up the kissing booth, probably so?