The Knitting Circle (3 page)

THAT SAD SUMMER, time passed indifferently. Mary would lie in bed and think of what she should be doing—putting on Stella’s socks for her, cutting the crust off her sandwiches, gushing over a new art project, hustling her off to ballet class. Instead, she was home not knowing what to do with all of the endless hours in each day.

Mary was a writer for the local alternative newspaper,
Eight Days a Week
, affectionately referred to as
Eight Days
. She reviewed movies and restaurants and books. Every week since Stella had died, her boss Eddie called and offered her a small assignment. “Just one hundred words,” he’d say. “One hundred words about anything at all.” Holly, the office manager, came by with gooey cakes she had baked. Mary would glimpse her getting out of her vintage baby blue Bug, with her pale blond hair and big round blue eyes, unfolding her extralong legs and looking teary-eyed at the house, and she would pretend she wasn’t home. Holly would ring the doorbell a dozen times or more before giving up and leaving the sugary red velvet cake or the sweet white one with canned pineapple and maraschino cherries and too-sweet coconut on the front steps.

Mary used to go out several times a week, with her husband Dylan or her girlfriends, or even with Stella, to try a new Thai restaurant or see the latest French film. Her hours were crammed with things to do, to see, to think about. Books, for example. She was always reading two or three at a time. One would be open on the coffee table and another by her bed, and a third, poetry or short stories, was tucked in her bag to read while Stella ran with her friends around the neighborhood playground.

And Mary used to have ideas about all of these things. She used to believe firmly that Providence needed a good Mexican restaurant. She could pontificate on this for hours. She worried over the demise of the romantic comedy. She had started to prefer nonfiction to fiction. Why was this? she would wonder out loud frequently.

How had she been so passionate about all of these senseless things? Now her brain could no longer organize material. She didn’t understand what she had read or watched or heard. Food tasted like nothing, like air. When she ate, she thought of Stella’s
Goodnight Moon
book, and of how Stella would say the words before Mary could read them out loud:
Goodnight mush. Goodnight nothing.
It was as if she could almost hear her daughter’s voice, but not quite, and she would strain to find it in the silent house.

She imagined learning Italian. She imagined writing poetry about her grief. She imagined writing a novel, a novel in which a child is heroically saved. But words, the very things that had always rescued her, failed her.

“HOW’S THE KNITTING?” her mother asked her several weeks after suggesting Mary learn.

It was July by then.

“Haven’t gotten around to it yet,” Mary had mumbled.

“Mary, you need a distraction,” her mother said. In the background Mary heard voices speaking in Spanish. Maybe she should learn Spanish instead of Italian.

“Don’t tell me what I need,” she said. “Okay?”

“Okay,” her mother said.

IN AUGUST, DYLAN surprised her with a trip to Italy.

He had gone back to work right away. The fact that he had a law firm and clients who depended on him made Mary envious. Her office at home, once a walk-in closet off the master bedroom, had slowly returned to its former closet self. Sympathy cards, CDs, copies of books and poems and inspirational plaques, all the things friends had sent them, got stacked up in her office. There was a whole box in there of porcelain angels, brown-haired angels that were supposed to represent Stella but looked fake and trivial to Mary. Stella’s kindergarten teacher had shown up with a shoe box of Stella’s work. Carefully written numbers and words, drawings and workbooks, all of it now in a box in her office.

“I figured,” Dylan had said, clutching the plane tickets in his hands like his life depended on them, “if we’re going to sit and cry all the time, we might as well sit and cry in Italy. Plus, you said something about learning Italian?”

His eyes were red-rimmed and he had lost weight, enough to show more lines in his face. He had one of those faces that wore lines well, and ever since she’d met him Mary had loved those creases. But now they made him look weary. His own eyes were changeable—brown with flecks of gold and green that could take on more color in certain weather or when he wore particular colors. But lately they had stayed flat brown, the bright green and gold almost gone completely.

She couldn’t disappoint him by telling him that even English was hard to manage, that memorizing verb conjugations and vocabulary words would be impossible. The only language she could speak was grief. How could he not know that?

Instead, she said, “I love you.” She did. She loved him. But even that didn’t feel like anything anymore.

THEY SPENT A very peaceful two weeks in a large rented farmhouse, with a cook who came each morning with fresh rolls, who made them fresh espresso and greeted them with a sumptuous dinner when they returned at dusk. The time passed peacefully, though mournfully. The change of scene and change of routine was healing, however, and Mary hoped that they might return with a somewhat changed attitude. But, of course, home only brought back the reality of their loss, their sadness returning powerfully.

That first night, as Mary stood unpacking olive oil and long strands of sun-dried tomatoes, the answering machine messages played into the kitchen.

“My name is Alice. I own Big Alice’s Sit and Knit—”

“The what?” Dylan said.

“Ssshhh,” Mary said.

“—if you come in early Tuesday morning I can teach you to knit myself. Any Tuesday really. Before eleven. See you then.”

“Knitting?” Dylan said. “You can’t even sew on a button.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “My mother.”

THE SECOND TIME Mary showed up at the Sit and Knit, she had her week’s work in a shopping bag. After Alice had sent her on her way the week before, Mary had taken to carrying her knitting everywhere. She was reluctant to admit her mother had been right; knitting quieted her brain. As soon as Stella’s face appeared in front of her, Mary dropped a stitch or tied a knot. Once she even dropped an entire needle and watched in horror as the chain of stitches fell from it to the floor.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to think of Stella. She just didn’t want to lose her mind from that thinking. The hospital scenes played over and over, making her want to scream; sometimes she did scream. That was the kind of calming the knitting brought. Yesterday she walked into the supermarket and saw the season’s first Seckel pears, tiny and amber. Stella’s favorites. Mary used to pack two in her lunch every day in the fall. Seeing them, Mary felt the panic rising in her and she turned and walked out quickly, leaving her basket with the bananas and grated Parmesan behind. In the car, after she had cried good and hard, she picked up her knitting and did one full row right there in the parking lot before she drove home.

Standing on the steps of the knitting shop that second morning, waiting for Alice to open for the day, Mary examined her work. She could tell that what she had worked on all week was a mess. In the middle a huge hole gaped at her, and the neat twenty-two stitches Alice had cast on for her had grown into at least twice that. One needle was clogged with yarn, wound so tight she could hardly fit the other needle into one of the loops.

“That’s a mess,” Alice said from behind her. Mary noticed she had on the same outfit, but with a different sweater, this one a sage green. It made Mary aware of how she must look to Alice. She had gained weight since Stella died, a good ten pounds, and wore the same black pants every day because they had an elastic waist. And she was still wearing flip-flops despite the fall chill. But the idea of searching for other shoes exhausted her.

She wiggled her naked toes and held out her knitting.

Alice didn’t even unlock the door. She just took Mary’s knitting and in one firm yank pulled the entire thing apart.

Mary gasped. “In my line of work, you fix things, make them better. You never press the delete button like that.”

Alice unlocked the door and held it open for Mary. “It’s liberating. You’ll see.”

“I worked on that all week,” Mary said.

Alice dropped the yarn into her hands and smiled. “It’s not about finishing, it’s about the knitting. The texture. The needles clacking. The way the rows unfold.”

Already the bell announcing the arrival of customers was ringing, and women began to fill the store. They all seemed to carry half-finished sweaters and socks and scarves. Mary watched them fondle yarn, feeling its weight, holding it up to the light to better appreciate the gradations of color.

Alice took Mary’s arm and gently led her to the same seat where she’d spent most of last Tuesday morning.

“That yarn’s a little too tricky, I think,” Alice said. She handed Mary a needle with twenty-two new stitches already cast on. “This yarn is fun. It self-stripes so you won’t get bored.”

Mary hesitated.

“Go ahead,” Alice said.

Mary knit two perfect rows.

“Keep doing it, just like that,” Alice said. Then she went to help another customer.

Mary sat, knitting, the sounds of the other customers’ voices softly buzzing around her. The bell kept tinkling, marking the comings and goings of people. A purple stripe appeared, and then a violet one, and then a deep blue.

She was surprised when she felt someone standing over her.

“You’ve got it,” Alice said. “Now go home and knit.”

Mary frowned. “But what if I mess it up that way again?”

“You won’t,” Alice said.

Mary stood, feeling both elated and terrified.

“Alice?” a woman called from across the room. “How many do I cast on for the eyelash scarf?”

“Fifteen,” Alice said. “Remember, fifteen stitches on number fifteen needles.”

It’s like another language, Mary thought, remembering her idea to learn Italian. The yarn in her hand was soft and lovely. Better than complicated rules of grammar.

“Thank you,” Mary said. “I’ll come next week, if that’s all right.”

A customer handed Alice a scarf made of big loopy yarn.

“I dropped a stitch somewhere,” the woman said, her fingers burrowing through the thick yarn.

“I’ll fix that for you,” Alice said.

Mary turned to go. But Alice’s hand on her arm stopped her.

“Wednesday nights,” Alice said, “I have a knitting circle here. I think you’d like it.”

“A knitting circle?” Mary laughed. “But I can’t knit yet.”

Alice pointed at her morning’s work. “What do you call that?”

“I know, but—”

“These are women you should meet. All levels, they are. Each with something to offer. You’ll see.”

“I’ll think about it,” Mary said.

“Seven o’clock,” Alice said. “Right here.”

“Thank you,” Mary said, certain she would never join a knitting circle.

THE NEXT TUESDAY night, when she finished her second skein of yarn and, Mary realized, an entire scarf, she thought about what she would make next. The scarf’s stripes moved from that original purple all the way through blues and greens and browns and reds, ending in perfect pink. Excited, Mary wrapped it around her neck and went to show it off to Dylan.

He sat in bed, watching CNN. He was addicted to CNN, Mary decided.

“Ta-da!” she said, twirling for him.

“Look at you,” he said, grinning.

She came closer to show off the neat rows.

“Do you wear the needle in it like that?” he asked.

“Until I learn to cast off, I do.” She sat beside him, close.

“How will you learn such a thing?” Dylan whispered, stroking her arm.

Mary closed her eyes.

“I joined a knitting circle,” she said. “It starts tomorrow night.”

Dylan pulled her into his arms. It was dark out, the television their only source of light.

THE KNITTING SHOP looked different at night. The parking lot was very dark and the store seemed smaller against the sky and trees. Tiny white lights hung in each window, like bright stars. Mary could clearly see the women inside, sitting in a circle, needles in hand. She considered driving away, going home to Dylan, who would be in bed already watching the news, as if he might hear something that would change everything.

Sighing, Mary opened the door, her scarf with the needle dangling wrapped proudly around her neck. If Alice was surprised to see her, she didn’t act it.

“Find a spot and sit down,” Alice said. “Beth brought some real nice lemon cake.”

Mary sat on the worn sofa beside a woman around her own age, with long red hair and dramatic high cheekbones.

“You finished!” Alice said. “Hey, everybody, this is Mary’s first project.”

The women—there were five, plus Alice and Mary—all stopped knitting to admire her handiwork. They commented on what a natural she was, how even her gauge, the depth of the color, and the length of the scarf. Mary realized that in this world, she could talk about these simple things and keep her grief to herself. She was anonymous here. She was safe.

“What size needles did you use?” the woman across from her asked.

“Elevens,” Mary said, pleased with her certainty after so many months of uncertainty.

The woman nodded. “Elevens,” she said, and returned her attention to her own knitting.

“That looks complicated,” Mary said as the woman maneuvered four small needles like a puppeteer.

“Socks,” she said. “The heel is tricky. But otherwise it’s just knitting.”

“What size are those needles?” Mary asked. “They’re so tiny.”

“Ones,” the woman said, blushing slightly.

“Ones!” Mary said.

“You’ll be making those in no time. But first let me show you how to cast off,” Alice said to Mary. “Then we’ll get you started on something else. Maybe another scarf, but you can learn to purl.”

Mary unwound her scarf and handed it to Alice. “No purling yet. I need to bask in my success for a bit.”

“I hear you,” the woman beside her said. Even though Mary felt uncomfortable among strangers, she liked her immediately.