But now that I’m set with a monthly budget and there’s some distance between us and the initial grief, Abigail has been coming home less and less. Why should she? We have little to say to each other. All we seem to have in common is Thomas, who somehow is still managing to run my life for me from beyond the grave.
I slam the chair I’m carrying onto the floor with unnecessary force, taking pleasure in the clatter and crash. My soul rises up in rebellion at the idea of working on a blanket that looks exactly like the last blanket, and the one before that. I’ve come to believe that the road to hell is paved with boring baby blankets, all worked in stocking stitch either in baby blue or pink, never both. Maybe I’ll be a total rebel and insist on knitting in variegated yarn.
A tap at the door, and Val breezes in, carrying an essence of a wider world with her.
Val is the one thing in my world that has changed. She drops by for coffee. She drags me out for lunch dates, even whisked me off to a movie one night. Now she skids to a halt, taking in the circle of chairs. “Oh dear Lord. Again? Which thing this time?”
“Knitting circle.”
“Tonight?”
“It’s Thursday, Val.”
“And?”
“Thursday is knitting circle. Every Thursday, since Eve ate the apple. Maybe before that.”
“Not tonight.” Val clasps her hands and assumes a pleading expression. “I need you. Tell them you had to cancel on account of a soul in peril.”
I adjust the chair to be more in line with the others. Earlene likes to come over early and fine-tune my chair arrangement. If she does that today, given the level of pressure built up inside of me, I might snap and wrap my knitting around her throat.
An idea for an irreverent screenplay pops into my head.
Strangled by a Baby Blanket, a one-woman play in a single act, written and performed by Elizabeth Lightsey.
These bits of ideas have been dropping by with increasing frequency lately. I’ve thought about writing them down but never do. It all seems so pointless. Writing was something the younger me, Liz, aspired to do. It’s too late now. I opted for Thomas.
“What’s up?” I ask, trying to shake off my mood. “You don’t look in peril.” She looks like she’s dressed for a date. Her hair is curled, her makeup piled on even thicker than usual, which is saying something. She’s wearing a low-cut blouse that reveals plenty of cleavage and jeans that leave not a single curve of her butt or hips to the imagination.
“Oh, but I am. I’m going to audition for a play. I’m frightened half to death, and I need a wingwoman. You. I need you.”
I catch a tantalizing whiff of freedom. In high school, I lived and breathed theater. Onstage, I could be somebody else, a girl with an interesting life. A girl who mattered. The other drama kids felt more like family than anybody waiting at home.
But that’s all part of my pre-Thomas life. I sigh.
“I can’t, Val. Not on such short notice.”
“Of course you can. You can do whatever you want.”
I snort at that. Right. That’s me. Free and easy and charting my own course. “Earlene will be here any minute. I can’t just leave.”
“I beseech thee,” Val intones, dropping to her knees and clasping her hands in an exaggerated stage gesture.
Earlene enters, right on cue, as if she’s been waiting in the wings for her line. As always, she is perfectly, but primly, put together. A neat blouse and skirt, modestly falling just below her knees. Black flats. No makeup or jewelry or anything about her that speaks of a concession to vanity. Except her hair. No woman who has been around as long as Earlene has hair that is perfectly raven black.
“What are you two doing?”
Val, still on her knees, collapses onto the floor in a fit of irrepressible laughter. The corners of my own lips twitch at Earlene’s scandalized expression.
“One of those things,” I say, trying to find a safe place to look. Not at Val. Not at Earlene. “You would have had to be here.”
“Good thing I came over when I did.” Her eyebrows, sparse and decidedly more gray than raven, draw together. “You’re a chair short. You’ve forgotten that Amy’s daughter is joining us.”
Right. The new bride, about to be initiated into the joys of charitable needlework. I had forgotten, but the oversight is an opportunity I seize before the second thoughts have time to catch up with me.
“Actually, it’s the perfect number of chairs.”
“No,” Earlene corrects me patiently. “There are seven of us. You’ve only set up for six.”
“I’m not going to be able to make it this evening.”
“I don’t understand.”
Val gets to her feet and smooths her hair. “I’m afraid I’m dragging Liz off tonight on a mission of mercy that is much more pressing than the knitting. She said the circle couldn’t run without her, but I told her, ‘Liz, Earlene can totally manage without you for one evening. She’s so good at managing, and you’re needed elsewhere.’ So it’s all my fault, but you can manage, can’t you?”
The play of emotions over the old woman’s face would make the perfect study for a portrait painter. Val’s shameless manipulation does the trick.
“Well, of course, I can manage,” Earlene says. “But what in heaven’s name do you need Elizabeth for?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” Val says. “It’s private.”
I cringe a little. Earlene is likely imagining everything from a court date to an abortion. She has frequently admonished me to cut off all ties with Val, referencing her as “no better than she should be” on a good day and “that shameless hussy” when her gossiping tongue is at its sharpest.
“Thank you, Earlene,” I say. “I’m so sorry for the short notice. But if anybody can manage, it’s you.”
Val grabs my hand and tows me toward the door. I follow, giving Earlene breathless instructions while I put on my shoes and coat. “There’s a vegetable tray in the fridge. The cheese is in there, too, already cut up. Crackers on the island. You know where to find the tea and sugar.”
As soon as the front door closes behind us, Val bounces up and down like a child. “You did it! I’m so proud of you!” She throws her arms around my neck and hugs me like I’ve won a medal or done something heroic. She smells of perfume and smoke and hairspray, all melded together to make a Val fragrance of which I’m growing increasingly fond.
“Come over to my house for a minute. Let’s fix you up.”
“Wait. Val! I’m going to watch, I don’t . . .”
She’s already crossed the yard and is holding the door for me. I glance over my shoulder and see Earlene peering out the living room window. I can either backtrack and endure a knitting circle made even more odious by her iron-fisted control, or seek refuge in the forbidden territory of Val’s house.
I choose Val’s, feeling like a teenager sneaking out for a night of underage partying.
Every house has a smell. Val smokes outside, so tobacco is only an undertone to coffee and fried food and a light lemon air freshener. There’s clutter everywhere. Books and mail on the kitchen counter. Magazines on the coffee table in the living room. Her shoes by the door are not lined up precisely. It smells and feels like the home I never had, and I always feel more relaxed over here.