by Allie Drain
after, she had found herself following her companions to the shady side of town and into the pounding jazz clubs, finding what had been described to her as indecent and immoral to be delightfully exciting instead. A glass of alcohol was pressed into her hand and, forgetting the Prohibition, she took a deep swig from it, instantly feeling elated. Beaded necklaces clinked and skirts rose shockingly high up the legs as the dancers twirled and swayed to the brassy music which blared through the nightclub. She was pulled into the dancing mass by an unknown man, but she didn’t care. All she wanted to do was dance and see her skirts flapping dangerously around her legs like all the other women. She laughed as she spun out, shivering with pleasure when she twirled back in to the man whispering sweetly in her ear and caressing the silken fabric of her powder blue dress.
But she couldn’t dance anymore. Her legs had abandoned such escapades many years ago. The only dancing that Mrs. Hobbs now did was a simple jig between herself and her sewing machine. And the only music she longed to hear was that of a ringing telephone. The whirring music died down, leaving her foot still. Sighing into the still silent room, she took hold of a grey piece of fabric, running her wrinkled fingers over the coarse texture and reverting back into a rather introverted eighteen year old.
She hurried down the crowded sidewalk, her grey coat and hood pulled tightly around her thin, delicate frame. The cold November wind blew right through her, freezing her to the core. Though she wasn’t sure if the wind alone could be blamed for the chill she felt. Heels clacked against the cement, rushed and frantic. She could see the heads turning as she passed by. Stop looking at me. She could hear the buzzing whispers and see the pointed fingers. Stop talking about me. The speed of her steps increased, almost to the point of running. She supposed she should’ve seen this coming though. Trust a man in a dark alley to keep her secrets. A few small tears slipped from her eyes as she heard a very critical, acidic statement thrown caustically at her. Oh, dear God. She regretted what she had done. Regretted it more than these people could ever possibly know. Their scathing remarks only served to hammer in the guilt even more than it already was. She had to find refuge or break down before the hundreds of disapproving eyes. Please, have mercy on me. Running now, she pushed through the crowd, hoping to find a nice alley to curl up in. She tripped and fell, sprawling face first onto some building’s marble stairs. Looking up, she saw that the building she had landed on was actually a church. She was sure that she would find only cold judgment inside, but decided to take the chance. She had prayed to God, after all, maybe God had heard. Trembling legs carried her up the stairs and through the doors, slipping past the pews until she stood beside a young man who was earnestly praying at the front of the church, staring at the carved image of Jesus on a cross. His marble eyes seemed to be able to pierce right through her to her very soul, looking at everything she had done, and she was brought to her knees. And, for the first time, in her heavy grey coat, for her unborn child, or just simply for a reason to live, she prayed, the same way she would for many years to come. She didn’t know it at the time, but that day was the day she met her future husband. When she started sobbing, weeping too much to continue her prayer, the young man who had been on his knees beside her turned and started praying for her. She didn’t understand his kindness, didn’t want to understand, so she just let his compassion wash over her for hours, weeks, months, taking her through a whirlwind of growing faith and growing love. He took her pessimistic view of the world and completely erased it, showing her how to enjoy every second of life, laughing with joy from the moment they met until the moment his soul flew up to heaven. And beside his hospital bed, she stood in that old grey coat, repeating to herself his last tender words. We had a good life together. I wouldn’t change anything we’ve been through if I could. And now I’m ready to meet my blessed Maker.
Just as she finished sewing on the last square, the phone started to ring. Mrs. Hobbs stood quickly, or as quickly as her old bones would allow, from her seat and padded over to the phone that still sat beside the rocking chair, praying once more that, this time, it wouldn’t be a telemarketer. Leaning over in her blue dress, she picked up the phone and held it nervously against her ear.
“Hello. Am I speaking to Mrs. Hobbs?”
“Yes, this is she.”
“Hi. I’m Dr. Ethridge from Memorial Hospital, just down the road. We have your test results.” She let out a small sigh of relief. Her call had finally come. However, the doctor’s next words made her fall into the rocking chair. “Mrs. Hobbs, they’re not good.”
“So they came back positive?”
“Yes. However, we luckily caught it early and there’s a possibility that we can treat it with chemotherapy.” The doctor prattled on and on about different procedures and treatments available to Mrs. Hobbs, but her shock kept her from taking any of it in. To think that she would be diagnosed with the same type of cancer that had killed her husband only a few months before. She wasn’t quite sure what to think or do. Looking over at the sewing machine, she saw the quilt she had just finished sitting cheerfully on the mahogany table that she figured would soon belong to her daughter-in-law. Each square was made of the pieces of fabric she had kept from each dress or coat or shawl she had worn at some point in her life, all the way back to the yellow flowered gingham she had worn when she was five. There were so many memories sewn into that quilt. The pink lawn from her only birthday dress, the green cotton she had worn when she was baptized, the delicate white of her wedding dress, the blue striped cotton of the shawl she had swaddled her first son in. So many happy and sad memories that made up who she was. Looking at the quilt, Mrs. Hobbs realized that she agreed with her husband’s last words. Those memories, both good and bad, had made her who she was, and she regretted nothing she had been through. She had lived quite a full life. But her old bones were now tired of excitement and just wanted rest. She was ready to see the shining gates open up to streets of gold. Mrs. Hobbs interrupted the doctor’s incessant medical prattle.
“Dr. Ethridge. I appreciate your efforts, but I think I won’t treat the cancer.” The doctor spluttered a bit, utterly shocked.
“But-“
“So I thank you for your troubles, but there will be no need.”
“I see. Then I wish every good fortune on you, ma’am.” Mrs. Hobbs slowly set the phone down on the receiver, smiling softly at the fuss she had made over nothing. There was no need to be anxious about the cancer. She stood from the rocking chair and made her way across the room, tinted orange from the sunset. Wrapping the newly finished quilt around her tired frame, she sat in the rocking chair before the old mahogany table and rocked, creaking ankle and all, back and forth to the ticking of the tired clock, completely content with the company of her memories as the sun sank behind night’s curtains and darkness danced into the small office.
END
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