The Giving Quilt (29 page)

“Ah.” The woman conveyed so much in that single syllable that Jocelyn knew she was not the first to broach the subject.

When the representative said nothing more, Jocelyn prompted, “What's going to be done about it?”

“We're aware of the controversy, but I'm afraid the judges' decision is final.”

“But that's not right. What message does that send to the kids—not just my team, but every team that competed last Saturday? What does that tell the kids who were awarded first place?”

The woman sighed, regretful. “Much of what we do is on the honor system. The team members and their parents or guardians all signed a pledge stating that the work was the students' own. The judges are instructed to take them at their word. We can't ask them to police what is or isn't truly the team's work. They really have no way of knowing that. I'm sorry, but with respect, neither do you, not unless you witnessed a parent or coach doing some of the work.”

Jocelyn hated to admit it, but the woman was right. “What about the budget issue?” she persisted. “I'm not sure if you've seen pictures of the session—”

“I saw some video.”

“Then you can understand why I don't see how they stayed within the budget. That leaf blower, all that lumber, the PVC pipe—one of our parents works construction, and he estimates that they spent well over five hundred dollars.”

“The team submitted receipts, as required.” Jocelyn heard the shuffling of paper in the background. “They indicated that most of their equipment was purchased used or was donated.”

“We were supposed to list a fair market value for anything that was donated or lent.” Jocelyn had been obliged to do so for the lab coats they had borrowed from the chemistry department.

“They did that, and again, it's on the honor system.” The woman sounded genuinely sorry. “We can't put our judges in the position of auditing the budgets submitted by the coaches. The judges are volunteers, typically local educators or scientists. We can't ask them to confront coaches when something doesn't look like the students' work. What if they're wrong? I'm sure you know that there are exceptional young people out there creating exceptional work. We want children to excel. We don't want to create a precedent for encouraging them to dumb down their solutions so we won't accuse them of cheating.”

Jocelyn understood that, and yet it all felt very wrong.

She ended the call better informed but still entirely unsatisfied. The question she had posed to the representative nagged at her: What message did it send when a team could cheat, take home first prize, and move on to nationals while everyone with the authority to ensure fairness insisted there was nothing they could do?

Her heart sank when she realized that this was surely the end of the WMS Imagination Quest team. They had worked so hard and had done their best. They had followed the rules—but children who had broken them had been rewarded. They wouldn't ever want to put themselves through such disappointment again.

She couldn't blame them.

Two weeks later, she was pleasantly surprised to receive an invitation from Isaiah for an end-of-season team party and barbecue at his family's apartment complex. Isaiah grilled ribs and chicken and burgers, all the other families brought dishes to pass, and the children laughed and played as if they had entirely forgotten their disappointment in the outcome of the tournament. The resilience of youth, Jocelyn thought wistfully, wondering when she had lost it.

She had already passed along the information from the IQ representative, so she was less surprised than relieved that the subject didn't come up at the party. Why spoil a beautiful, sunny afternoon with bitterness and disappointment better left in the past? Jocelyn had come to terms with her own outrage and disappointment, but one regret lingered—that it was all over. Despite the way the season had ended, she had loved coaching the team. She had hoped to lead the WMS Wildcats for years to come, until her own daughters had moved on to high school and college, until she had accumulated an entire quilt's worth of colorful IQ T-shirts. But it was not to be.

Life wasn't fair, as the children had learned, and as Noah's untimely death had taught her all too well. Life wasn't fair, and sometimes goodness wasn't rewarded, and sometimes the wrong people won. It was a hard lesson to learn, but Jocelyn found hope in thinking of all that her daughters and their teammates had gained over the course of the year. They had learned how to bring individuals together as a team and how to find creative solutions to difficult problems. They had faced down stage fright and deadlines. They had made friends and had fun. By those criteria, that year's Imagination Quest had been an overwhelming success. By those criteria, which were far and away more important than a trophy, the Wildcats had won and the red-and-gold team had fallen short. What pride of accomplishment could those other children take in work that their parents had completed? What problem-solving skills had they nurtured that would serve them later in life? What would happen to them the next time they cheated—in school or on the playing field or on their taxes or on the job? Not all judges would be so tolerant and forgiving.

The more she considered what all of the children had truly won and lost, Jocelyn actually, remarkably, felt sorry for the red-and-gold team—and tremendously proud of the young people gathered around her, seated at picnic tables and on blankets, eating burgers and chips and celebrating a job well done.

They had won much more than they had lost, and so had she.

At the end of the day, Anisa and Niko, the team's cocaptains, called everyone together for a few parting words. They thanked their families for their support and patience throughout the year—and in one rare allusion to the tournament, they added that they were glad the adults in their lives trusted them and believed in them enough to let them do their own work. Then they presented Jocelyn with a framed team photograph, she and the children on the front steps of Grosse Pointe South High School clad in their IQ T-shirts. The children had signed the mat with messages of thanks and appreciation that touched her heart and made her laugh. Jocelyn told them it was one of the finest gifts she had ever received and that she intended to hang it in her classroom by her desk as an inspiration to other WMS students. And to their teacher, she added silently. She would never forget the lessons she too had learned that year.

The families and students applauded Jocelyn's brief speech, but when Anisa held up her hands, everyone else promptly quieted as if, unlike Jocelyn, they had known Anisa had more to say. “I think we all wish the state tournament had turned out different,” she said, evoking a chorus of affirmation. “And, Mama, we know you wanted to make things right for us.”

There were no words for how much Jocelyn regretted that she had been unable to fix everything.

“We thought about asking all you guys to make a petition or something and complain,” Niko said, “but if there's anything we've learned this year, it's that we can solve problems ourselves.”

“Or at least we can try.” Anisa beckoned to her sister, and Rahma promptly darted to her side carrying a few sheets of white paper. “We've been working on a letter to send to the IQ national office. We're not just, like, complaining. We described what happened at the state tournament, and how it made us feel, and what we think they should do different next year.”

“We've been passing around a rough draft for a while and now it's ready to send,” said Niko. “We're all going to sign it—”

“But we want you to hear it first,” Anisa finished for him.

As her daughter read the letter aloud, Jocelyn's heart swelled with pride and amazement. Their summary of the tournament fiasco was rational, objective, and accurate, but it still made their disappointment and unhappiness clear. Their solutions were reasonable, and although Jocelyn knew they were not quite the panacea the children believed them to be, they did offer the judges steps to take to help ensure that the children on each team had done the work themselves. One of their proposals—that immediately following a presentation, the judges should interview the team and have them describe how they had come up with their ideas, how they had built their equipment, and how exactly everything worked—was so simple and brilliant it was remarkable that the Imagination Quest administrators hadn't thought of it first.

When they finished, the parents applauded. Jocelyn too praised the team, but not without some misgivings. “Kids,” she said hesitantly, “you do realize that this won't change anything regarding nationals, right?”

“Not for this year,” said Niko. “But next year, maybe.”

“Next year?”

“Well, sure,” said Anisa, puzzled. “I mean, Niko, Tashia, and I won't get to participate, but maybe this'll help the younger kids. Remember what Daddy used to say about paving the way for the people who follow after us?”

Tears sprang into Jocelyn's eyes. “Yes, I remember.” She took a deep breath and looked around the circle at the younger children and then their parents. “Does this mean you'll want to continue on next year?”

“Of course,” exclaimed Rahma.

“If you'll coach us,” said one seventh-grade boy, studying her worriedly. “You will, won't you?”

Before Jocelyn could assure him that she most definitely would, Anisa broke in. “We know you're worn out, but before you decide—well, we're going to make sure you get a vacation before the next tournament so you can rest up for it.”

Tashia's aunt rose and joined the three children at the head of the circle. “We wanted to thank you for all you've done for our children, so we asked your girls what you would especially like.”

“Anisa told us that you've always wanted to learn to quilt,” said Niko's mother. “We found a wonderful place for you to take lessons.”

They went on to describe a beautiful retreat in rural central Pennsylvania where Jocelyn could attend a weeklong quilt camp led by some of the most respected and admired teachers in the quilting community. Since she would be making quilts for children in need—something they knew she would appreciate—tuition, room, and board were complimentary, and they had all pitched in for her airfare. When they had told her fellow WMS teachers about the plan, several of her colleagues had volunteered to sub for her classes so she would not have to sacrifice her vacation days or a week's pay.

“And Grandma and Grandpa are coming to stay with us while you're gone,” said Rahma, fairly bouncing up and down with excitement as she had when she was a much younger child. “We already asked them and they said yes. Do you like your present, Mama? Isn't it the best present you ever got?”

“It is,” Jocelyn assured her, laughing as she embraced her daughters and smiled for everyone else. “Thank you all so very much. You don't know what this means to me.”

In truth, the week at Elm Creek Quilt Camp was only the second-best present she had received that day. Knowing that the team wanted to continue despite their disappointment and that they wanted her to stay on as their coach—that was the best gift of all.

* * *

As Jocelyn quilted her Giving Quilt on the longarm machine in the ballroom of Elm Creek Manor, she thought of the generous, thoughtful people who had made her Quiltsgiving week possible and her heart overflowed with love and gratitude. Thanks to them, she was learning to quilt at last.

Soon she would be able to share what she had learned about the traditions and art of quilting with her students, shedding light upon the hard business of ordinary life woven into the fabric of their common American history.

And someday, years from now, she would make herself an Imagination Quest T-shirt quilt as a tribute to the students who had taught her so much that difficult year—invaluable, unforgettable lessons about determination, integrity, and overcoming loss with grace.

CHAPTER SIX

Karen

S
ince Gretchen had chosen Karen to demonstrate how to use the longarm machine, she was the first to finish quilting her Giving Quilt top. With Gretchen's help, she removed the quilted top from the rollers and carried it back to the classroom to trim the excess batting and backing even with the pieced top. If she had been at home working upon one of her own quilts or at the String Theory Quilt Shop whipping up a store sample, she would have spent the rest of the afternoon preparing the bias binding and sewing it in place to cover the raw edges of the quilt. But since Gretchen intended to cover that topic the next morning, Karen decided to wait and keep pace with her classmates. She was confident she could finish her quilt in time for the Farewell Breakfast even without a head start, and she didn't want to look like a show-off. Instead she spent an hour or so cutting pieces for a second Giving Quilt to complete at home and donate to her local chapter of Project Linus, and then she passed the rest of the day helping classmates with the longarm. Her husband would be amused—and her coworkers, who thought she worked too hard and had practically insisted she take a vacation, would be exasperated—to see her falling into the familiar role of teacher rather than relaxing with a good book by the fire or working in solitude on a quilt for herself. “You're a natural quilt teacher,” Nate would say as he had before, placing his hands on her shoulders and drawing her close for a kiss. “I'm sorry it took me so long to understand.”

It was true that Nate had needed some time to learn how important quilting was to her and how sharing her love and knowledge of the art was as meaningful and fulfilling as teaching undergraduate business courses and working in the university's Department of Development had once been. It was fair to say that Nate had learned the hard way. But once he had learned, he had never forgotten the lesson, and he had become her most ardent supporter. It was Nate who had surprised her with a gift of a week at Elm Creek Quilt Camp when she was expecting their first child, and it was Nate who had encouraged her to quash her nervousness, jettison any lingering embarrassment, and return to the manor for Quiltsgiving. “You have no reason to be shy,” he insisted. “So they didn't hire you. That's nothing to be ashamed of. I've been turned down for lots of jobs. It happens. You shouldn't take it personally and you shouldn't let it keep you from attending an event you know you'd enjoy.”

Karen knew he was right, but her rejection from the faculty of Elm Creek Quilts still pained her from time to time—the pangs becoming sharper and more frequent since her return to the beautiful estate—and it still felt very personal.

It didn't help that since her arrival, she had discovered that out of the five finalists, she was the only one who had not eventually found a place within the circle of quilters at Elm Creek Manor.

In the winter following her ill-fated interview, she had learned that Gretchen Hartley and Maggie Flynn had joined the faculty when their photos and biographies appeared on the Elm Creek Quilts website. Reading the lengthy lists of their credentials, Karen had ruefully admitted to herself that Sylvia, Sarah, and the others had made the reasonable choice. It was not until the first day of Quiltsgiving, however, that she had learned that Anna, the Cookie Lady, had been hired as their chef. Even that wasn't too hard to accept; Anna had been so friendly and helpful with the boys as they waited in the hallway outside the parlor for their interviews that Karen couldn't begrudge her any good fortune. But to discover in a casual conversation with Maggie at the Welcome Banquet that the last remaining finalist, renowned art quilter Russell McIntyre, was frequently invited back as a visiting instructor—that was too much. That meant that the Elm Creek Quilters had found all of the finalists worthy of inclusion in their celebrated circle of quilters—all except Karen.

It was a humbling realization at a time when she didn't think she could feel any worse about her precarious position in the quilting world.

But what could she do? Leave early? Hide out in her suite, sew in solitude, and hasten away home as soon as she donated her finished Giving Quilt to Project Linus at the Farewell Breakfast?

She couldn't imagine Sylvia, Sarah, or any of the Elm Creek Quilters resorting to such cowardly measures.

Thus on her first full day of Quiltsgiving, upon waking in her cozy suite in Elm Creek Manor, she set her injured feelings aside; fixed her thoughts upon all she stood to gain from spending an entire inspiring week among such talented, giving quilters; and resolved to do more than merely make the best of the situation.

Before long, she was very happy that she had. In a week that was passing all too swiftly, she had learned a charming new quilt pattern, she'd had an enlightening conversation with Gretchen about establishing a chapter of Project Linus through the quilt shop, and she had made some wonderful new friends. There was nothing, really, to regret. Any experience that sparked even a single new friendship was inherently good, and Quiltsgiving had blessed Karen with five—six if she counted Gretchen, and why shouldn't she? After all, they were no longer rivals. Gretchen had won the coveted post, and rightly so, and Karen had followed another path.

Helping her classmates master the longarm machine granted Karen time to get to know her new friends even better. Quilters had always shared conversation and confidences around the quilting frame, and regardless of the changes in tools and technology, the desire to share, to be heard, and to listen endured.

Michaela had signed up for the quilting session immediately after lunch, so Karen offered to help her carry her quilt top and backing from the classroom to the longarm machine nook, since lugging them even the short distance across the ballroom would be difficult on crutches. Once there, the usually eager young woman studied the machine dubiously until Karen offered to help her master the controls. Before long Michaela was cheerfully quilting away unassisted, but Karen lingered just in case she needed help removing the quilted top from the rollers, and also to keep her company.

It couldn't have been easy or comfortable for Michaela to steer the handles of the longarm while supporting her weight on the crutches, but she didn't complain, nor did the quality of her stitches suffer. “You manage quite well on those things,” remarked Karen over the clatter of the machine.

“That's because I've had lots of practice,” said Michaela. “Too much. This is the second time I've had a cast on my leg this year.”

“You injured yourself twice?”

“Not exactly. My first time in a cast was for the injury. This time is for surgery to repair the injury.”

“How exactly did you hurt your ankle?” asked Karen. “You've been a little . . . vague. We're not sure if you injured yourself or if someone hurt you.”

Michaela's eyebrows rose. “‘We'? You mean everyone's been talking about me?”

“I don't know about everyone, but our circle has been, a bit. Forgive us. You haven't let many details slip, and we're curious.”

Michaela laughed. “I guess I would be too in your place.” Her smile faded. “The truth is, I got hurt trying out for mascot at school last spring, and if I've been unclear, it's because I'm not really sure whether it was an accident.”

Karen hung on every word of the story of Michaela's ill-fated tryouts for cheerleader and mascot. The young woman's focus and determination in the pursuit of her goal impressed her, even though things hadn't worked out as Michaela had planned. If Karen had analyzed the Elm Creek Quilters as thoroughly as Michaela had studied the St. Andrew's College cheerleading squad, she might have sailed through the interview and won a place on the faculty despite her inexperience. Michaela's disappointment after being cut in the first round and her inspired decision to try out for mascot reminded Karen of her own failed attempt to join the circle of quilters at Elm Creek Manor and subsequent employment at the String Theory Quilt Shop. But Michaela had shown far more grace and courage than had Karen, who had not faced ridicule and hostility from an entire campus, just a little bemused resistance from a well-meaning husband.

“So what do you think?” Michaela asked. “You've heard everything. You know everything I know. Did they drop me on purpose or was it just a stupid, freak accident?”

“I don't know.” Karen mulled it over. “Not knowing the guys involved, not witnessing it myself—any conclusion I could make would be nothing more than a guess. I'd hate to believe that they'd intentionally drop you, but even if they had, they might not have meant to hurt you. Maybe they just wanted you to lose points on the stunt so you wouldn't win.”

“I thought of that too,” said Michaela, and she sighed. “I know that ultimately it doesn't matter. The damage is done. I won't be mascot or cheerleader now, and without that experience on my résumé, I'll never get to be a cheerleading coach.”

“You don't know that for sure,” protested Karen. “Don't rule it out. Granted, this is a setback, but your chances can't be completely ruined. Another opportunity will come along, unless you give up. If this is your dream, you'll just have to find another path toward it.”

Karen fell silent, struck by the echoes of the encouraging speeches Nate had given her when she was stuck in the doldrums after her rejection from Elm Creek Quilts. She had listened, and she had believed him, but five years had passed and she wasn't any closer to joining the faculty. Was she wrong to give Michaela what could turn out to be false hope?

“I know. I get it,” said Michaela plaintively, oblivious to Karen's sudden uncertainty. “I don't want this to be the end of my dream. I don't want to give up, but I don't know what to do next. What am I supposed to do—wander around aimlessly until I trip over this other path?”

“Not aimlessly, but otherwise, yes,” said Karen. “That's essentially what you have to do.”

Michaela looked dubious, but when she declared that she intended to give it her best try, Karen didn't have the heart to caution her that she might stumble around lost for a while before a new path appeared. Nor did she warn her that sometimes even a clear route led to an unanticipated destination rather than to the threshold of a long-cherished dream.

Karen and Michaela parted ways after Michaela finished quilting her top and trimming off the excess batting and backing. Karen remained in the classroom to cut more pieces for her second Giving Quilt, and she had just finished crosscutting the last of her square pairs when Linnea and Mona appeared in the doorway. “Michaela said we might find you here,” said Linnea. “She said you helped her ‘huge tons' with the longarm, and we were hoping you might do the same for us.”

“I'd be happy to,” said Karen, setting her work aside and following them back to the longarm nook. They found Gretchen tidying up after the previous camper's session, but she gratefully accepted their offer to take a much-needed break, since Karen would be there to assist the sisters. Mindful of their limited time, they promptly set themselves to work, with Linnea evoking an elder sister's privilege to go first, something to which the less experienced Mona was more than willing to accede.

While they worked, the conversation flowed as easily with the sisters as it had with Michaela. While Linnea quilted her top, she told Karen about Mona's struggles with her precarious employment situation and her governor's crackdown on unions, and while Mona worked on hers, she described Linnea's valiant battle to keep her town's public library open. Each sister seemed to consider the other's struggle more challenging and her efforts more impressive, revealing a mutual bond of admiration and support that made Karen, an only child, wish for a sister of her own.

Mona had nearly finished quilting her top when Linnea's cell phone rang—her husband, Kevin, calling from California with apologies for interrupting her vacation. Linnea cheerfully assured him she didn't mind, but her sunny expression swiftly darkened as Kevin apparently delivered unexpected news. Mona let the longarm machine clatter to a stop, and she threw Karen an anxious look as they listened in on Linnea's end of the conversation.

“You're kidding,” Linnea said after listening in shocked silence for a long moment. “They can't be serious,” she said a bit later. Another lengthy silence, and then, “Do you think anyone will come? I mean, anyone other than those crackpots from Close the Book, California?” Another pause, a sharp frown, and then, “Oh, no. No. A live broadcast? If I ever had any doubts that he was a ratings whore—” She listened, nodding vigorously. “I think Alicia's right. The sight of flames and smoke rising in the air will probably harm their cause more than it will help.” A short, helpless laugh. “Okay, I'll try. You have a good day too.” She told him she loved him, hung up, and threw her companions a bleak, stricken, angry look.

“What's wrong?” asked Karen, alarmed.

“Did you say flames and smoke?” asked Mona. “Is the library on fire?”

Linnea shook her head grimly. “Not yet.”

“Not yet?” echoed Karen. “You mean it might be later?”

“If they thought they could get away with it, I wouldn't be surprised if they tried.” Linnea closed her eyes, raised her palms, and inhaled deeply to calm herself. “Sorry, but I'm just so upset about this I can't think straight. Our delightful local chapter of Close the Book, California has decided to host a get-out-the-vote book-burning party in the park by the library on the evening before the millage goes to the polls.”

“A book-burning party?” said Karen, incredulous. “Is that even legal?”

“Oh, sure. They've already obtained a permit for a bonfire, and they're planning to burn their own books—not books they love and cherish, mind you, but copies of the so-called ‘bad books' they'll buy especially for the occasion.” Linnea shook her head. “And they have a sponsor with deep pockets. Ezra McNulty promised to match listener contributions up to fifty thousand dollars to purchase fuel for the fire. He's been on the air for days crowing about how together they'll clear out every used book store in Los Angeles County of every last copy of the books on the ALA's ‘One Hundred Most Frequently Challenged' list.”