Kate Jacobs (2 page)

* * *

"You can go home, Anita," Georgia
would say over her shoulder to the trusted friend who worked in the shop
alongside her. Anita always stayed until closing time, peeking in on Dakota's
studies as Georgia wondered about keeping the older woman out too late.
But-even though she had the opportunity to leave, Anita, who still looked as
fresh in her Chanel pantsuit as when she'd come in for her shift at three P.M.,
just smiled and shook her head, her silver bob falling neatly into place.
Then Georgia would step out of the door frame to let in the straggler, a
resigned smile revealing the beginnings of tiny crinkles around her calm green
eyes. Here we go again, her face seemed to say. But she was grateful for every
person who walked through the door and took the time to make sure they had what
they needed.
"Every sale is also a future sale—if you please the customer."
Georgia often bored Dakota with her various theories on business. "Word of
mouth is the best advertising."
And her biggest booster was Anita, who sensed when the day had been too long
for Georgia and leaped in to assist. "I'd be delighted to help you,"
Anita often said, coming up to Georgia's side and reaching out to the
last-minute shopper, ushering her inside. Anita knew and loved the
nubbly
textures and patterns as well as Georgia did; both
had been introduced to the craft by grandmothers eager to share their secrets.
Talking about knitting with the customers at Walker and Daughter was Anita's
passion—second only to working with the needles herself.
Anita was captivated by the craft from the moment her
Bubbe
asked her, as a chubby-cheeked youngster, to hold a skein of thick, warm yarn.
She watched her grandmother work the needles quickly, fashioning the
hunter-green string into a small, smooth cardigan. With thick buttons for
little fingers to grasp. And when that same grandmother presented the finished
sweater to Anita…well, a knitter was born. Soon she was placing her hands over
her grandmother's as she learned how it felt to work the wool, then mastered
tying her first slipknot and relished the excitement of casting on for the
first time. As a young woman, Anita kept up knitting to make herself the angora
twinsets her parents couldn't afford, then to cuddle up her babies in thick
blankets and booties while her husband worked on building his business. She
just kept at it—long after she needed to make clothes for her family, long
after her husband's hard work had built a life that was more than
comfortable—and then, when she was well into middle age, she threw out the
pattern books and began experimenting with patterns and color to create unique
designs. A mother of three grown sons and grandmother to seven (handsome and
brilliant) youngsters, Anita was surprised to add up the years and realize that
she had been working with yarn for most of her seventy-two years. "Anita
is an artist, and knitting is her medium" was what her husband, Stan,
always told people who admired the colorful vests he insisted on wearing to the
office. Stan. He had been so proud of her, encouraging her to work with Georgia
all those years ago; she began going to the shop one day a week to test it out.
Anita had had no need for the money and she worried that she seemed silly to
work at her age.
"Does it make you happy?" Stan had asked her after her first day, and
she admitted that yes, yes, it did, as she rolled into his arms. Then keep at
it, he murmured, keep at it.
Over time, young Dakota began to seem like another grandchild—especially
precious because Anita could see her whenever she wanted, unlike her own
children and grandchildren, who had all moved away to Israel, Zurich, Atlanta.
There were cards and phone calls, of course, but it wasn't the same; Anita had
long harbored a fear of planes, and all the psychologists and Valium in the
world couldn't fix it. Her grandchildren grew so much between each visit that
it was like getting to know a new person all over again.

* * *

And then one day Stan was gone, too. A quick
peck as she sat at the breakfast table with toast crumbs still on her lip, a
sudden heart attack riding in the elevator to his top-floor office, a phone
call telling her to take a cab to Beth Israel right now, then hearing there was
nothing more anyone could do. And so it went.
Stan had taken care of the details as always, so she had no reason to worry
about the bills. But financial security just wasn't enough. Anita was alone.
Really and truly on her own. She cried as she lay in bed, sleeping or with
magazines piled all around her. And then, one month after the funeral, she got
up, put on her lipstick and pearls, and made her way to see Georgia.
"There are more and more customers each day and you're going to run behind
on your projects-for-hire, Georgia," she had said. "You need someone
in here full-time and I need to keep busier than to just work one day a
week." It was the truth. Dakota was two then, and Georgia had recently
expanded from creating projects on commission to selling yarn and notions. She
had worked hard to make her business float, had even worked the six-to-twelve
shift for Marty in the deli below the apartment building, toasting bagels and
pouring to-go cups of coffee. Branching out into sales meant she may soon be
able to give up the second job and spend more time with Dakota.
They agreed that Anita would come in for the afternoon shift during the week.
When Georgia tried to insist on a dollar figure, Anita was adamant she would
only work for yarn.
"When the store is a booming success, then you can pay me," she
suggested that day ten years before.
Of course, the shop—with careful planning, slow growth, and a lot of hope—had
grown into something of a hit. Over the years, it had even popped up in
mentions of local haunts in papers and such; recently an article in
New York
on
mompreneurs
had featured Walker and Daughter.
"Sure thing, it might bring your classmates and their moms into the
shop," Georgia had said when Dakota wanted to take the story to school.
She planned to drop off her little girl at the front entrance as she did every
morning, then go home to open up the shop. A quick hug and see you later; the
usual. Instead, Dakota surprised her mother as she wheeled around, her winter
coat already unzipped and revealing the bright turquoise sweater that accented
her warm, café-au-
lait
skin. It was one of Georgia's
creations. Dakota spoke, pointing to the article in triumph, then dashed into
the door before the buzzer sounded. Georgia barely remembered the walk home,
fumbled with the keys to the shop before her face became wet with heavy tears
as she let the years of fear and hard work wash out of her, Dakota's casual
"I'm proud of us, Mom" ringing in her ears.
Anita continued to work only for yarn, and when she wanted to start a personal
knitting project—she still made vest after vest even though Stan had been gone
for a decade—she simply went to the shelf and chose something exquisite. When
she wanted a hug, she wrapped her arms around Dakota. And that was that. It was
enough.
So, Anita always let out a deep breath upon seeing this last-minute customer
skate into the store, felt the ball in her stomach begin to unwind. A few more
minutes to be needed, a further delay to keep her from going home to the
apartment at the San Remo that remained too big and too empty. "Oh, come
on in," she'd say over Georgia's mild protests, walking right over to help
the client. "Tell me what you need…"
And so, the door at Walker and Daughter was open a little bit late and
eventually a little bit later than that. Soon enough, at the end of the long
workweek, a few regular customers took to popping in with their
knitting—sweaters and scarves and cell-phone socks—and asking questions about
all the mistakes they'd made while commuting on the subway.
"I just can't get the buttonhole right!"
"Why do I keep dropping stitches?"
"Do you think I can finish it by Christmas?"
Without ever putting up one sign or announcing the creation of a knitting club,
these women began regularly appearing in the evenings and, well, loitering.
Chatting with one another, talking to Anita, gathering around the large round
table in the center of the room, picking up where they had left things the week
before. And then, one Friday last fall, it became official. Well, sort of.
Lucie, a striking woman with short sandy-colored hair, who favored
tortoiseshell glasses over her big blue eyes and colorful, funky outfits, was
an occasional shopper at Walker and Daughter. She came in every few months and
was always working on the same piece, a thick cable-knit sweater—a man's
garment. There were a lot of these types who came in to the store, folks whose
knitting ambitions were out of line with either their ability or with whatever
mysterious comings and goings kept them from sitting down and getting the job
done.
But Lucie began appearing more and more often in the early evening, gazing
wistfully at the fancier yarns but typically choosing a good-quality wool that
was just this side of inexpensive. Some days she sauntered in with a leather
attaché and suit jacket slung over her arm as if she'd come from a big meeting.
At other times, she looked relaxed in slim-fitting cigarette pants and a
messenger bag draped across her body. But without fail, she had a single bag of
groceries in her hand, the makings of a simple supper, which she carefully
placed on the counter as she paid for her yarn. After talking to Lucie on
several visits, Anita understood that she was pretty fair with a set of needles
but simply couldn't find the time to get going.
"You could always knit here," Anita suggested idly, not thinking much
of it. And then, one Friday, Lucie simply pulled up a chair at the table and
began to do her knitting right then and there. And Dakota, who had been idly
milling about and rolling her eyes and making noises about being bored and
wanting to go to the movies, sat right down beside her.
"That's pretty," said Dakota, impulsively reaching out to stroke the
top of the sparkling gemstone Lucie wore on her right hand.
"Yes, I bought it for myself," said Lucie, with a smile that recalled
happy times, but offered no more explanation. Dakota shrugged, then reached out
to look at the big, thick sweater Lucie had on round needles.
"I'm pretty good, you know," she said, nodding, putting out a hand to
take a look at
Lucie's
stitches. Lucie laughed, kept
clacking away. "I'm sure you are," she said, without looking up.
And then Anita sat down, ostensibly to keep Dakota in check. Other shoppers
joined them at the table and suddenly, unexpectedly, it was a group. On a whim,
Lucie pulled out the fresh box of bakery cookies she had just picked up at
Fairway and had planned to savor over the weekend; instead, she offered them
around. The polite no, thank-
yous
echoed until Dakota
declared that she most certainly would enjoy a treat, and then the laughter
sliced through the awkwardness and they each took one cookie, and then another.
And somehow, between mouthfuls, they began to show one another what they had
been working on. Anita talked buttonholes and dropped stitches, and then she
offered to put on a fresh pot of coffee in the back. More cookies, more
conversation. It became late, too late to really stay on, and the women packed
up their bags and made motions to move but lingered, reluctant to leave. It was
Dakota who declared she'd bring muffins to the next meeting. Next meeting? I
might be busy, the women said. I don't know if I can commit. Let me check my calendar.
But the next week, Lucie did show up. Dakota brought her muffins. Georgia even
sat down with them. And so the Friday Night Knitting Club emerged.
Six months later, the club was going strong even as the winter drew to a close.
Lucie had finished her sweater and started another; Dakota was making a regular
mess in the kitchen in their apartment above, experimenting with everything
from pinwheel cookies to
blondies
to decorated
cupcakes. "Ever heard of June Cleaver?" Georgia would tease her. Big
sigh from her sweet brown-eyed little girl who kept growing bigger.
"Yeah, I've seen TV Land, Mom."
Then: "It's for the club, Mom, the ladies are hungry!" A beat.
"What do you think about selling my creations?"
Ah, she'd raised another independent businesswoman with vision. It felt good.

* * *

Dakota's bake-sale plans never came to
pass—"No, Dakota, this Walker still outranks the daughter!"—but the
group continued to grow anyway. People told their friends, and women would
stroll in after meeting up for drinks or a nosh. Coming to the Friday Night
Knitting Club became a bit of a thing to do—different enough to be fun,
refreshing in that it wasn't just another place to meet men.
One such drop-in—a woman who came once but never came back—mentioned the shop
in a casual way to her cousin, Darwin Chiu, who arrived one evening and spoke
in hushed tones with Georgia, then sat at the table with a serious expression
and a notepad. She was no ordinary customer; in fact, Darwin wasn't a knitter
at all. She was a struggling graduate student in search of a dissertation for
her doctorate in women's studies. The knitting club became her primary resource
for thesis research. A compact Asian-American woman in her late twenties,
Darwin was all business. In the beginning, she rarely smiled; she just
furiously scribbled and later moved on to interviewing the members of the club
about their "obsession with knitting."
"How do you feel knitting connects with your conceptions of
femininity?" Darwin asked of one quiet MD who had popped by at the end of
her shift. The doctor never entered the shop again.
"Does being an older knitter make you feel disconnected from the younger
trendsetters?" she asked Anita.
"No, love, it makes me feel young," Anita replied. "Every time I
cast on, I feel the potential of making something beautiful."
At first, Georgia tolerated Darwin because she was amused by her earnestness
and because she admired the seriousness with which Darwin approached her
studies. Not to mention that she felt a certain sense of pride to have someone
choose Walker and Daughter as a worthy place in which to do research. But in
short order, Georgia put her foot down.
"You can't harass everyone who comes in here, Darwin," she explained.
"You'll have to go if you can't stop interrogating everyone."
"Aren't you disturbed that the renewed popularity of knitting is an
alarming throwback? Can women who fritter away time on old-fashioned activities
such as knitting realize their full professional potential?" responded
Darwin, clearly missing the point.
"Disturbed? No, encouraged is more like it. As in, I'm encouraged I can
afford to send Dakota to Harvard." Georgia's mouth was a straight line.
Knitting had done more than provide her with a living; it had soothed her soul
through more struggles than she could count. "Sweetheart, I'm concerned
you're preventing my shop from reaching its full professional potential!"
The two women stood glaring at each other for a long time. Darwin eventually
turned on her heel and left.
And then she returned, two weeks later, watching Georgia warily as she arrived
for club. Their eyes met, the agreement unspoken: You can stay, but don't upset
the clients. Darwin nodded imperceptibly. She selected one of Dakota's
muffins—carrot spice—and gave it a try. It was a first. "Hey, this is
awesome!" She was genuinely surprised. Dakota was thrilled, told her she
could request next week's flavor.