The Giving Quilt (30 page)

“I can't believe it,” said Karen.

“I can believe it, considering the parties involved,” said Mona. “Let me guess: The entire spectacle will be broadcast live over the radio?”

“You're almost right,” said Linnea. “This time he's taking that three-ring circus he calls a news program to television. I guess book burnings are more entertaining in a visual medium.”

Astonishment and dismay struck Karen speechless. Book burnings conjured up memories of black-and-white, grainy film images from far-off nations in the early throes of emerging fascism, a frenetic precursor of far worse violence yet to come. They were relics from an ugly, violent past, not elements of rational debate in a healthy, modern democracy. It seemed impossible to believe that anyone would consider the destruction of property to be a reasonable means of peaceful protest, or that it could contribute productively to a thoughtful discussion of contentious issues. Then again, the players involved didn't seem particularly interested in peaceful demonstrations or civil debate.

“Why would someone like Ezra McNulty want to get involved in a local millage vote that will have absolutely no impact whatsoever on his life?” Karen wondered aloud. “Never mind. I know the reason. Publicity. Higher ratings. Both of which translate into more money and attention for him and his show.”

“I'm sure you're right,” said Mona. “Call me cynical, but I bet he doesn't even care whether the millage passes. He'll wring as much publicity out of the situation as he can and then move on to something else the day after the vote, once the damage is done.”

“If he can,” said Linnea darkly. “He has a history of stirring up more trouble than he can control. Remember what happened in Indianapolis before the last presidential election?”

“Oh, my goodness, that's right,” said Karen, recalling the notorious event of a few years past. One of the vice presidential candidates, a senator and longtime proponent of strict gun-control legislation, had been scheduled to make a campaign appearance at a community college a few days after voting in favor of a Senate bill requiring more extensive background checks before firearms could be purchased. In the interim between the passage of the measure and the campus appearance, Ezra McNulty had repeatedly denounced the candidate's vote. The day before the campaign stop, McNulty mentioned a gun show taking place at the Indiana State Fairgrounds at the same time and dared the senator to show up there to explain himself. “He won't do it,” McNulty predicted scathingly. “He won't do it because he's a coward. He won't do it because he knows he can't justify taking away the rights of the American people. He won't do it because he knows he'll get what he's got coming. It's just too bad we can't take the gun show to him.”

Later McNulty insisted he never could have imagined that hundreds of his loyal listeners would attempt to do exactly that. Within an hour of the doors opening, attendance at the gun show swelled beyond capacity, with firearm sales—and thefts by people too impatient or incensed to wait in line to pay—soaring past all previous records. Armed, angry protestors marched from the show to the campus, where forewarned security forces blocked their way. Only a handful of marchers made it to the auditorium, where they were promptly apprehended by the Secret Service, but clashes between campus security, demonstrators, and students supporting the candidate led to several arrests, a few minor injuries, and thousands of dollars' worth of damage to college property. When the ensuing investigation shone a spotlight on McNulty's role in the melee, he repeatedly denied any responsibility and emphasized that he had specifically stated that his listeners
couldn't
take the gun show to the senator. His longtime fans rallied to support him, but his show's corporate sponsors were more mindful of sudden shifts in public opinion. When it was leaked that several wary sponsors intended to cancel their advertising, McNulty first urged his listeners to boycott them, but then, in a surprising reversal that hinted at contentious behind-the-scenes discussions with teams of lawyers, he began one morning's broadcast by praising his sponsors for their staunch loyalty and announcing that he would personally pay for the damage done to the college campus. After that, he refused to discuss the matter publicly, and the furor eventually subsided.

Either McNulty had forgotten the incident entirely or he had learned nothing from it, because he seemed oblivious to the potential disaster in the making. A bonfire—a terrible idea no matter what the instigators were burning, given Southern California's arid conditions—could easily spread from the park beside the library to the library itself, the real target of their fury.

From the worry and outrage in Linnea's eyes, Karen knew that she too was imagining the swarming crowds, the lighting of torches, the library and all its precious books engulfed.

“Has anyone thought to appeal to McNulty?” asked Karen. “Maybe if someone pointed out the possible consequences, he'd withdraw his support. Or maybe it would be worthwhile to appeal to Close the Book and ask them not to burn books, or at least to move their protest to another location.”

“Vote Yes for Libraries has already tried that,” said Linnea. “Close the Book flatly refused and McNulty hasn't responded at all.”

“What about the city council?” asked Mona. “Surely they'd consider it prudent to revoke their bonfire permit.”

“They're on that too, but so far the only official response has been a few feeble arguments about protecting citizens' rights to free speech and so forth.”

“What about citizens' rights to avoid unnecessary wildfires?” countered Karen. “Close the Book could protest all they want without burning books.”

“Not according to them. They insist the book burning is a crucial part of their statement. But we're not giving up. At this very moment, Kevin and Alicia—she's the president of the Friends of the Library—are drafting an emergency request to the county fire marshal to step in and revoke the bonfire permit. They don't usually intervene when an event is held on city rather than county property, but it's not unheard of.”

“You're absolutely right to go over the city council's heads,” declared Mona. “They were incredibly stupid to issue the permit in the first place, just as Close the Book was stupid to request one. Yes, a book burning will get them a lot of attention—”

“The announcement alone already has,” Linnea broke in.

“Yes, but as a means of protest it's shortsighted and probably ineffective,” said Karen. “As you told your husband, the sight of books going up in flames is just as likely to rally their opponents as it is to encourage their supporters.”

“That's true.” Linnea sank into a chair with a sigh. “But what good will it do us to win the millage vote if the library burns down before election day?”

Karen and Mona exchanged a look, dismayed and helpless. Linnea was absolutely right, and nothing would change that.

“It'll be okay, Linnea,” said Karen. “You'll think of something. They'll see reason and cancel the book burning, or the county will force them to, or the fire department will make sure the flames don't spread beyond the bonfire. The library won't be harmed. You'll see.”

Linnea thanked her with a wan smile, but to Karen, the words of encouragement sounded empty and flat. She wished she had something more to offer.

Later, before they reunited with their other friends in the banquet hall for supper, Linnea told Mona and Karen that she had checked in with Kevin, who had reported some new developments. The county supervisor and the fire marshal were considering their request to revoke the bonfire permit, and they promised to respond within a few days. An acquaintance within the supervisor's office had confided to Kevin that the supervisor was reluctant to engender more controversy by overruling the official decision of a city council, so he intended to proceed with utmost caution and diplomacy. With their own elections approaching, officials throughout the city and county were wary of taking action that could appear politically motivated. Unless the fire marshal concluded beyond question that the book burning posed a threat to the surrounding community, it would go on as planned. Meanwhile, Close the Book, California had been informed of the challenge to their permit, and they were at that moment feverishly composing a “fire containment safety plan” to explain how they would conduct their protest safely.

“What are they going to do,” Mona asked, “pass out fire extinguishers to their members?”

“Sure, why not?” said Linnea wearily. “That would work great, until someone gets the bright idea to bash a counter-protestor over the head with a fire extinguisher.”

“So you think there'll be a counter-protest?” asked Karen.

“I'm certain of it,” said Linnea, “even if it's only me, my husband, and my coworkers carrying signs and chanting slogans.”

Linnea seemed eager to abandon the subject and join in the more cheerful conversation going on around the table, so Karen kept the rest of her questions to herself. If Kevin called with any new developments, she hoped Linnea would pass them on.

For dessert the campers were offered warm gingerbread with pear–vanilla bean sauce, and as they savored every spicy morsel, Karen and her new friends chatted about how they had spent the day. Linnea, Mona, and Michaela embarrassed Karen with excessive praise for her help with the longarm machine. “I didn't do much,” she protested. “Gretchen showed us everything we needed to know in class this morning.”

“Maybe, but it's so much easier to learn working one-on-one,” said Michaela. “The Elm Creek Quilters totally should have hired you.”

Karen felt a pang of regret, but she hid it behind a smile. “I find myself utterly unable to disagree.”

“So,” mused Jocelyn, “what are your plans for after supper?”

This time Karen's smile was genuine. “If I'm not mistaken, I think I'm going to be helping you with the longarm.”

“Oh, okay,” said Jocelyn, all innocence. “If you insist.”

“I do,” said Karen, laughing.

Later, as they worked together, Karen learned the tragic story of how Jocelyn had lost her husband, and how Jocelyn and her daughters had grieved and struggled to cope without him in the months since. Karen's heart went out to her new friend. The thought of losing Nate to some terrible, senseless accident, of their sons growing up without the father they adored, was too unbearable to contemplate.

“I don't know how you do it,” Karen told her frankly. “In your place, I don't think I'd manage.”

“You'd find a way,” said Jocelyn somberly. “You have to. What's the alternative, especially when you have children relying on you?”

The longarm machine had fallen silent, and Jocelyn stood with her hands loosely grasping the handles, staring into space. “It's been more than a year and a half, and most of the time, I think I'm holding it together pretty well.” She inhaled deeply, shakily. “And then something will happen and I'll feel the loss and heartbreak as sharply as if it happened only yesterday.”

“I'm so sorry.” Karen didn't know what else to say.

“It comes out of nowhere too, so unexpectedly that I can't take any measures to protect myself.” Jocelyn gestured to her Giving Quilt top and then around the room as if to indicate the whole manor, perhaps the entire week of quilt camp. “Even here, a place Noah never visited, a place that holds no memories of him. The simple act of learning to quilt reminds me of the night he died.”

“But—why would it?” asked Karen gently. The manor had surely witnessed its share of sorrows, but it should have been a welcoming, comforting, safe place for its guests. Why would Jocelyn find pain rather than solace there?

“I was supposed to take my first quilting lesson the day after the track meet. I had signed up for a special program about traditional handicrafts for teachers at Greenfield Village—it's a historical museum complex in Michigan—” Jocelyn gestured impatiently as if to wave off the digression. “Anyway. My suitcase was packed, the car had a full tank of gas—I was all ready to go. And then Noah—” Her voice faltered. She paused, pressed her lips together, cleared her throat, and continued. “So now, as I'm finally learning to quilt, I can't help thinking of how I was supposed to learn back then, and why I didn't.”

“Oh, Jocelyn.”

“I know I probably seem ridiculous—”

“Not at all.”

Jocelyn uttered a small, bleak laugh. “To make matters worse, I feel guilty for not enjoying Quiltsgiving more, considering that the kids and their parents went to so much trouble to arrange this week for me . . .”

Karen's bewilderment must have been evident, because Jocelyn went on to explain how her visit to Elm Creek Manor had come to be. As she recounted her adventures with her daughters' Imagination Quest team, the distress gradually left her face and her voice became warmer, more animated, even when she described the rival team's undeserved win.

“They cheated,” Karen said, astonished. “Or rather, their parents cheated. How could the officials let them get away with it?”

Jocelyn shook her head as she guided the longarm needle over her last unquilted Resolution Square block. “I guess they decided that confronting the other team wouldn't be worth the trouble.”

“Since when is it appropriate to do what's easy instead of what's right?”

“Since never.” Jocelyn sighed, but then she lifted her chin—in pride or perhaps defiance. “I have to say, though, I was very impressed by my team's response. They were enormously disappointed, but instead of crying or whining about the unfairness of it all, they wrote that letter recommending changes—not to benefit themselves, because it was too late for that, but to help future teams, to improve the entire program.”