Wool Over Your Eyes

by Violet Patton

  I took the short way around, instead of passing by the swimming pool. If the water aerobics ladies were early for class, skipping class for the memorial as a valid excuse.

  I’m a terrible swimmer, less so a floater and a big-time whiner. Bet they don’t care if I don’t come back to class. I have developed a stigma of being within proximity of death. Might make them think twice before inviting me to their too numerous group activities.

  In passing, I nodded at the woodworking guys who gathered at picnic tables near the woodworking shop to chew the fat and drink coffee until noon.

  No wonder they take all year to get ready for the Santa’s Christmas House they host every year. I suggested Philly join the woodworkers, but he grumbled about finishing the Arizona room before he took on anymore extracurricular activities. No doubt, pickleball and dominos occupied his time and pea brain ninety percent of the time. He spent the rest of his time seeing a man about a horse or sleeping with his head propped against the park model wall.

  Before I knew it, I’m standing outside the community center. When we arrived at the Oasis, I was dreading the rest of my life. Little did I know I’d spend it knitting. Who knows, maybe knitting will be my forte? Not gonna happen. I adjusted the bag on my shoulder before it pulled me over and scooted up to the gaggle of crows standing in the doorway, chatting and smiling.

  “What d’ya know? It’s Hunny Bunny.”

  “Hey y’all.” I know none of these women, but they knew me. Saying I was a spiritual advisor was nothing compared to being taken to the police station and almost accused of murder. I’ll never fit with the Others. We need more new neighbors. Another newbie who’d trump my stupidity and everyone would gossip about them, including me.

  No point avoiding the inevitable. I slid to a stop next to the darkly dressed women. They stood stiffly in uncomfortable funeral attire.

  “I am Hunny Bunny.” Smiling, I mustered my best smile. “I’m so sorry about Sissy.”

  They group-raised their haughty eyebrows. They’re surprised to see me.

  One nodded, “Mary Shackleford.”

  “Karen Lawson.” I shook her offered hand. The ice was thawing, maybe they won’t burn me at the stake.

  The third, squinted over the rim of her glasses. “I’m Teresa Downy. Sissy’s best friend.” She stressed her retort with a fake sniffle. I backpedaled. Hooking up with the woodworkers sounded more inviting than this trio.

  “Madonna told me about the memorial.” I hitched the bag around prepared for the silent treatment to enter the ceremonial hut—the community room—but someone put their hand on my shoulder. “Mornin’. Glad you made it.”

  “Oh, hey. Barbie.” Alas, a friendly face and I hugged her like she was my sister. “I can’t wait. Knitting will be great.” She held out a covered plastic tray. “Brownies with our coffee.”

  Brownies broke me and I spurted. “Coffee?” Pray it isn’t Folgers.

  Karen said, “Always. We can’t knit without caffeine.”

  “I’ll say.” I’d be a big fumble-finger with or without caffeine.

  “Over there.” Barbie said pointing with the covered dish at a buffet table already loaded with goodies.

  The community room reminded me of grade school and how I felt confined to a desk all day.

  My classroom had windows, which were more glass wall than anything. The stuffy room smelled of boiling hot dogs and canned cream corn coming from the school cafeteria. To this day, I can’t stomach creamed corn or hot dogs, and especially if they are served together.

  When the teacher couldn’t take the stench in the room any longer, she’d crank out the screen-less windows, letting fresh air and biting flies into the room. A door opened out to the playground, from my seat I had a good view of the jungle gym and slide, and all day I longed for recess.

  The knitting memorial attendees gathered and chatter clattered filling the room.

  I clung to Barbie, not quite up into her tushie but close enough, so I wouldn’t lose her. Her face was the only friendly face in the gaggling group.

  We poured ourselves java from the 55-gallon coffeemaker. I was grateful Sissy’s knitting memorial wasn’t held in the smaller nondenominational church on the other side of the Oasis. The community room wasn’t overcrowded, and I put plenty of space between me and my fellow grief-stricken hens.

  How I longed to drink from my quart jar of sweet iced tea, but decorum kept me from making another mistake.

  Timidly, I sipped the coffee. “Not bad!” Slipped from my lips. “Could use some real cream.” I nodded at the canister of industrial sized powdered creamer.

  Barbie chuckled softly so we wouldn’t get shamed for talking too loudly. “Yes well, with as many funerals as we have real cream is too pricy and doesn’t keep for an eternity.”

  “Eternity.” I dogged Barbie, dodging the sparking smirks and barbs the knitters were casting in my direction. If I glared straight on into their laser-like glare, I’m sure I’d melt.

  “Every month we donate coffee to the kitty,” Barbie said. “Otherwise we’d have to reuse the coffee grounds.” She giggled adding, “Sit with me. I’ll help you along.”

  The community room chairs sat in a semi-circle. At the open end, several knitted projects lay draped and a lovely vase of flowers graced the table.

  Barbie settled in a chair and nodded at the chair behind me. “Did you bring a project?”

  I squatted on the edge of the chair. I held my paper coffee mug with both hands, covering the shakes which had suddenly beset me. Picking a square of tile on the floor, I focused on it so I wouldn’t make eye contact with anymore of the coven’s members.

  “I did. It’s a simple thing, really.”

  Barbie glanced at the wall clock. “Get your stuff out. At ten, we’ll go silent and begin our projects.”

  I grimaced. “Okeydokey.”

  My feeble gray matter went back to the quilt show me, Mama and Maddie had gone to in Amarillo, other than the severe cold wind, nothing remarkable happened. All quilters had a good time and not once did I feel like they were preparing to sacrifice me.

  Sitting here, scared out of my wits, surrounded by witches, I regret not being more cliquish and clubbier. In San Fran, I should’ve joined a women’s group, a book or gardening club and displayed my fabulous orchids. My orchids were fabulous because when one stopped blooming or kicked the bucket, I’d replace it with a brand-new blooming plant, spending countless dollars on orchids. If I had joined a San Fran gardening group, my orchids would’ve been the envy of the club.

  I cheated with orchids and not once had I admitted the sad fact.

  In a way, I can relate to Trudi’s troubles. She wanted the grand prize ribbon for knitting. I didn’t have the know-how to get my orchids to bloom again, once I brought them home. But, I believed replacing a dead flower with a beautiful living flower was okay, and it wasn’t cheating because nobody cared, but me.

  The Oasis knitters care. Creating a prize-winning afghan was a lot harder than putting a blooming orchid in your grocery shopping cart.

  Around us, the silence grew heavy, pushing on my soul and the pressure of remaining silent for an entire hour weighed on me mightily. I’m known for my deluxe fidgeting. Sitting quiet and still among this black draped murder of old crows would be an impossible task.

  Barbie whispered. “Get your piece out. It’s inappropriate to rustle your bags after we start.”

  I sat back, puffing my cheeks with air before I released the breath I had been holding. “What about the clacking knitting needles?”

  “You can’t clack.” Barbie pretend zipped her mouth closed. On the wall, the clock grew bigger as I watched the second-hand tick toward ten a.m. sharp.

  Women filled the chairs and under duress, I fished the bag holding my potholder loom from the shopping bag. I fiddled with the mishmash of tangled loops until the loom came untangled and clattered across the floor.

  A gnat could’ve heard a flea hop it was so dadgum quiet in
the room. Barbs and shards of distaste passed across the circle, and I got off my chair to grab the loom. Knitting needles flew creepily without making a single click or clack.

  Barbie huffed a little too loudly as I scooted back into my seat. She cast several daring wide-eyed blinking stares at the potholder loom, but I couldn’t figure out what she meant and I dang sure would not ask.

  Deftly, I stretched the loops across the loom, but my case of fumble fingers stepped up its game. It’s one thing for eight-year-old fingers to ready a potholder loom, it’s entirely another thing for my stiff, arthritis embattled joints to loop the loops. The first one popped off and landed silently three feet in front of me.

  The knitting needles swished noiselessly moving fast. I noticed all eyes focused on my potholder loom. The coven should be grateful I brought the loom, I’d be clacking knitting needles together loudly if I moved that fast.

  I caught Minette’s stare. Her slight head movement stated a flat-out no. Why she was shaking her head no?

  If only I had brought my crochet hook instead, I could go around the semi-circle popping one yellowed eyeball from each of their eye sockets. I’d let them keep their sight, since I’m not so cruel as to leave a mourner blind and helpless. Even Philly would hate the Oasis if this many old blind, black, grieving crows squawked and flapped their wings.

  Wiggling my tushie in the hard chair, I began anew, successfully stretching two loops in the same direction over the loom. It was a good start even if the faded loops had lost most of their elasticity.

  Determined to make a potholder in an hour, I focused intently on my work. The clock ticked loudly, and I prayed it would explode. A bomb would’ve cleared the air nicely and maybe even struck of a chord of humor. It’d be funny to see these women clear the community room in silence reverence while the fire department extinguished their uppity gall.

  Carefully, I wove the crossing loops through the filled loom. After a few minutes, I got the knack of it and didn’t fumble so much. I did not waste the hour. Silently grieving over Sissy’s demise—I am grateful to be here under duress instead of in jail—and I would have a potholder to show for my effort. Staying silent, sitting as still and weaving a potholder was a feat worthy of recognition. They won’t award a grand prize ribbon for weaving a new potholder.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  After the Funeral

  As soon as the clock ticked eleven a.m. the knitting needles stopped swishing and my heart bounced.

  What now? I grimaced at Barbie, bagging the loom and my unfinished potholder. It wasn’t my best work, so I didn’t brag. A memorial was no place for bragging, especially not when the whole room has passed judgement, condemned me and dug a big hole for my dead body with their knitting needles.

  First, they must catch me.

  “See you later,” I said into Barbie’s ear.

  “Oh yes, most definitely. Soon.” She narrowed her eyelids after saying soon. I couldn’t judge her thoughts. Either she was coming to give me a thorough tapping up for weaving instead of knitting in honor of Sissy, or I’d never see her again.

  I know why Daddy feared goatsuckers so much. Goatsuckers don’t just drain your blood, they took your soul. Maybe Daddy made up the goatsucker story because what he really meant was people drain you dry with their vicious and silent incriminations.

  These old goatsuckers silent mourners vicariously sucked out my soul and knitted it into knots without making a single mark on my body. Daddy was a cankerous ol’ bastard, but he knew people and he didn’t trust them as far as he could throw one. Dogs he adored, he married a goatsucker and never got to keep a dog.

  Chattering happily, the knitters headed for the goodies.

  “Sure.” I nodded at Barbie and hitched up my too-big britches, slung my trusty shopping bag over my shoulder and hightailed for the escape hatch.

  I punched through the community room doors like I was running to the playground from my first-grade class. Philly stood with one foot propped behind him on a pole, waiting with Poochy in his arms. The hot fresh air felt great, and I sucked in deep breaths.

  “Hey y’all.” Was I ever glad to see my Sweetie Bastard? Poochy wagged her tail without judgment.

  “I finished pickleball. Thought I’d treat my lady to lunch.”

  Finally, my Knight Sweetie Bastard rescued his damsel in distress. “I’ll let you do that. Better hurry, though, the witches are mounting their brooms.”

  Philly took the bag from my shoulder and passed Poochy over. “You carry the wiener for a while.”

  “Don’t call her that!” Funny how two seconds with Philly made me forget and relax. All my angst and trepidation melted as he wrapped his arm over my shoulders.

  “She’s our wiener. I’ve got… ah hum… news.” Hesitating, he guided me toward the burger bar.

  “It better be good.” I didn’t need another grain of bad news. “What is it?”

  “The electrical guy will be here tomorrow. Everything is stubbed in... plumbing, water and wires. All he has to do is hook everything in.”

  “I should order the tile?” Hope bloomed! We’d have a parade bringing my Sleep Number home on the asphalt furrows.

  He chuckled. “Not yet, but we’re much closer.”

  “Whatever you say.” As we neared Bob’s, whiffs of French fries floated in the air. “I’m kinda sick of burgers. We need a used car.” While he was in an agreeable mood, I’d twist Philly until he agreed to buy a used car.

  His brows knit together. “Now don’t start that again. We need to agree to disagree.”

  “Shut up. We did that once before. This time it’s different. Don’t make me put my foot down.” I pointed at him, coming close to poking his ribs but he dashed away a step, giggling like a teenager. He’s always terrified of my falling foot, the one threat I reserve for my last resort.

  “In a few more days, we’ll go car shopping. I’ve been shopping online again.” He nodded toward the picnic tables and I left him to stand in line at Bob’s order window.

  I found a semi-clean table and settled in to wait. Poochy stretched to the end of her leash, not wanting to be confined. Philly plopped two soda cans on the table and sat beside me. “They’re slow today. Won’t be long.”

  “It’s not lunchtime yet.” What I wanted to say was after the mourning knitters finished throwing me under the bus and wringing me out, they’d crowd Bob’s.

  Philly’s eyes sparkled. “Lemme see what you knitted.”

  My brows knitted. “It’s a sweater for you, your grace.”

  “Right. I wanna know what you’ve been doing.”

  “Nun ya!” He inched his fingers across the table. “What are you back in fifth-grade wanting to look at a girl’s thing? Get back.”

  “I’d like to see your thing.”

  “No, you don’t!” I chuckled. He sure has a way of cheering up a big downer.

  Connie yelled out a number and Philly got up to get our lunch. Two gals from the knitting memorial twitched past our table flaring their nostrils and steam billowed from their ears.

  Poochy whined hunkering under my legs. She’s passing all the right tests, picking up the evil vibes from those two judgmental hussies.

  “You’re a great guard dog.” I held tight to the leash, so she couldn’t escape and rip their haughty ankles to shreds.

  Philly set our baskets on the table, and I asked, “Did Poochy get a rabies vaccination?”

  “Yep. She got the works. Cost an arm and a leg.” He picked up his still sizzling burger and took a big bite. With his mouth full, he couldn’t harp on how much her vet bill cost.

  Smacking, he scarfed the burger. I picked at my fries and took a bite of burger, but I wasn’t interested. Poochy sniffed at my feet, and I pinched pieces of hamburger off and let her nibble them.

  Philly wiped his mouth, took a drink and a deep breath. “Mack Riggs stopped by today.”

  My eyeballs bulged with fear and loathing. “You don’t say. What does that nosy peck
erwood want?”

  “He acted nice. Said the police had new leads on Sissy’s death.”

  “It’s about time. Whole dang park thinks I killed her.” More grieved mourners passed heading for their golf carts or stopped to chat with Others who weren’t killers, standing in line to order lunch at Bob’s order window.

  Philly watched me watch the women pass. “What’s up? Why aren’t you being friendly?”

  “Hush ol’ man. Those women don’t like me.”

  “And that’s new news?” He chuckled, making light of the rude gossiping women.

  I twinged. “Seriously, I’ve got big problems. It’s time we move to Scottsdale.”

  He glared, snorting, and I spotted the sparkle of glitter clinging to his extra-long nose hair escaping his nostril. Pursing, I contained a chuckle and narrowed my eyelids mentally searching the bathroom vanity for my tweezers. I’ll have to chase him, wrap him in the bedsheets and duct tape him to the bed so I can pick a single speck of glitter from his nose.

  I wiped my nose and pointed at his. “You got a danglin’ hair.”

  He sniffed trying to wrangle the dangling hair in and blew out. I stared at his nostrils wishing I hadn’t said anything, now two specks of glitter dangled from his nose hairs.

  Telling him about the glitter won’t help matters, so I kept quiet.

  “Remember those ambulances at the junk store?” He shoved fries into his mouth, chewing and waiting on my answer.

  At this juncture, discussing Huey and his junk store wasn’t ideal; I’m apt to squawk about the crystal ball incident. Philly’s warning about witchcraft resonates, since I’ve already brought the orb and other unexplainable things inside.

  “Yeah?” Inquisitive, I asked even though I should shut this conversation down.

  Another group of knitters passed and one of them spoke up. “The nerve of her bringing a potholder loom to the ceremony!” Others harrumphed and huffed in agreement as the group hustled out of spitting distance. Like pointing, Mama told me spitting was rude. She wouldn’t have to worry now, I’m withered, I don’t have enough spit to slick my cowlick.