Read The Sabbathday River Online
Authors: Jean Hanff Korelitz
The Sabbathday River (15 page)
“Of course I'll be coming back to work,” she interrupted. More irritated than apprehensive.
“Well, I think you shouldn't,” he told her. “At least, not here.”
“I love it here,” Heather faltered. She was starting to be afraid.
“I want you to meet somebody,” Stephen said evenly. “Somebody I
think you'll like. She might have work for you, and you might enjoy it even more than you enjoy coming here. And you could take care of your baby at the same time.”
think you'll like. She might have work for you, and you might enjoy it even more than you enjoy coming here. And you could take care of your baby at the same time.”
“Pick's able to help with the baby during days,” she objected. “I can still work here.” She was sounding a little panicky now. It had never occurred to her that she might be forced from the sports center. Ashley was at the sports center.
“Yes, I know. But this isn't a good place for you, Heather. People know about you and Ashley, and they know you're both here. In a couple of hours, they're going to know what happened out there just now.” He eyed her. “Believe me when I tell you this won't be pleasant for you. Now will you
please
take some advice from me?”
please
take some advice from me?”
Heather shrugged. She wanted fervently to be rude, but she couldn't seem to muster any rudeness. “Sure. Whatever.”
“Get your coat,” Stephen said.
Heather went to the staff room and got her coat. People were hitting the wall as she walked, glaring at her. She turned them to stone and passed them. Stephen was waiting by his car.
“Her name is Naomi,” Stephen said. He drove up Elm Street and turned right out the Goddard Falls Road. “She works in the old mill.”
Heather stared at him. “I'm not working in a mill!”
“No, no.” He actually smiled. “Don't worry, you'll see what I mean.”
She could hear the river, swollen in its rush. Stephen pulled into the parking lot. The mill was painted white and looked homey, as if somebody lived there. On the porch, in a peeling Adirondack chair, a squat woman with a long frizzy ponytail was hunched over a folderful of papers. She looked up and smiled, as if they'd been expected.
“Hey.” The woman's voice was deep.
“Naomi.”
Stephen got out and went around the car to Heather's side, as if they were on a date. He helped Heather out and presented her.
“Shit,” Naomi said, getting to her feet. “What the hell happened to you?”
“She ran into a rival embroiderer,” Stephen said, with false buoyancy, and Naomi, picking it up right away, stopped staring. She wasn't really squat, Heather saw now. She was Heather's own middling height, and it was her thick sweater that added most of the bulk. Still, the woman gave an impression of density and a certain graceless power. Also kindness,
but that was because she was smiling, probably, and walking toward Heather with her hand outstretched.
but that was because she was smiling, probably, and walking toward Heather with her hand outstretched.
“I'm Naomi Roth,” she said. “So you're the artist.”
“I work for Stephen,” Heather said, shaking Naomi's hand. “At the sports center.”
“But you're thinking of taking on some other work, too?” Naomi prompted optimistically. “I've already seen some of your things.”
Heather frowned at her, then at Stephen.
“I brought Naomi those little things you made for the boys.” He shrugged. “I just thought she'd like to see them.”
“They were lovely,” Naomi gushed. “Your own designs, I take it?”
“What?” Heather said. “I didn't have a design. I mean, I didn't have a pattern or anything. I just made it up.”
“Well, you're very talented,” said Naomi. “And I'm very happy you're here, because I just lost two of my best quilters.”
Now Heather was completely lost. “Quilters?” She looked at Stephen.
“Naomi works with quilters, hookers. People who do embroidery.”
“I thought this was a mill,” Heather said suspiciously.
“It is. At least it was. Come on,” the woman said. “I'll show you inside.”
Inside, the mill wasn't a mill. The front room was a snug little office with a braided rug over most of its wooden floor, and curtains made of linen embroidered in thick bands of red cloud stitch. Clumsily embroidered, Heather noted, idly wondering who'd done them. There was a heavy wooden desk covered with a fan of computer paper. Mary Sully was sitting behind the desk. Heather knew Mary Sully. Her little sister had been in Heather's class.
“This is Heather,” Naomi said cheerily.
“I know,” Mary said. She gave Heather's right cheek an incisive glare.
“Here's the workroom,” Naomi said, oblivious. She ushered Heather and Stephen inside. The circle of women stiffened in silence. The Hodge sisters were there, a single Irish Chain quilt across their spindly laps. Ina looked at Janelle and Janelle looked at Heather.
“Heather.” Janelle nodded. “Pick well?”
“Yes,” Heather said. Janelle had given Pick a lift into town only the day before.
No one else said a word, but they favored her with a look of unified intent. The disapproval made her straighten. One of her hands found
her abdomen and stopped there, the universal symbol for Yes,
I am with child.
Somebody turned away in disgust.
her abdomen and stopped there, the universal symbol for Yes,
I am with child.
Somebody turned away in disgust.
“The room fixed up great, Naomi,” Stephen said.
“I know. And it makes such a difference. We were just enslaved by the schedule when we were in the church. You know, we had no more claim to the space than the Bible study group and the bingoâless, realtyâso all we got were two or three nights a week, and people told me that was the only time they actually worked on their projects. They looked forward to coming, but they just didn't get a chance when they were home. This way it's completely a drop in, and people come much more often and they get much more done.” She looked at Heather. “So you see, you could bring your work here, Heather. Or, if you want, you could stay home and work there. The way we're set up, it's entirely up to you. Some people like to get together and talk, and occasionally the quilters pitch in together. And some people would rather be at home so they can watch
General Hospital,
or whatever. The only rules, really, are that you have to get your orders done on time and the work has to be good. Want to go back into the office?”
General Hospital,
or whatever. The only rules, really, are that you have to get your orders done on time and the work has to be good. Want to go back into the office?”
Heather gave them a last, defiant look, and followed Naomi out.
“Here's our catalogue,” Naomi said, taking one off the stack on the desk and handing it to Heather. “This is for winter. I'm just getting the summer one together now. I do three a year.” There was a line drawing of the mill on the cover and a sepia-toned photo of the circle of women on the back. Inside were color pictures of quilts and rugs, a few crude bits of needlework.
“Most people want the quilts,” Naomi said, looking over Heather's shoulder. “And usually the one they see in the catalogue's already gone by the time they call, but by then there's something else in stock, or they custom-order by pattern and colors. Then there's restoration work âwe get sent the quilt or the coverlet or whatever, and we repair it using old textiles. Rugs, too. They send us rugs you can barely hold up, they're like Swiss cheese. See here?” She pointed to a photograph of a hooked rug, WELCOME arched over a grinning golden retriever. “I think every other family in suburban Boston owns a golden retriever.” She grinned. “It's far and away our most popular thing. Or they say, I want a welcome rug like that, but with a cocker spaniel. Or sometimes they send us a picture of their dog or their cat. But it's traditional to hook your pet into a rug, so that's fine with me.”
“Is this supposed to be a sampler?” Heather said. She knew it sounded a little rude, but the thing was crudely done in cross-stitch, and very dull.
“Is this supposed to be a sampler?” Heather said. She knew it sounded a little rude, but the thing was crudely done in cross-stitch, and very dull.
“I'd like to offer better samplers,” said Naomi diplomatically. “It's kind of virgin territory, you know. There's plenty of old linen around. That's my job, or part of it, anyway. I go around and buy fabric wherever I can. I also plan our advertising and deal with customers.” She smiled at Heather. “So tell me something. Who taught you to sew?”
“My grandmother,” Heather said. “She does everything. Quilts, rugs, sewing, needlepoint. She knit all my sweaters when I was younger. When she was a little girl, she won this contest for girls. They had to make everything in their roomsâbedspreads, pillowcases, curtains. She got to go to Washington on a bus.”
“How did she teach you?” Naomi said.
“Oh”âHeather shruggedâ“I don't really know. She just gave me something to embroider when I was little and then she told me whenever I was doing it wrong. She said I had the finger.”
“The what?” Naomi said, perplexed. Stephen was smiling.
“I guess it's silly,” said Heather. “The magic finger, she said. Like an extra finger for needlework. She said you could sew all your life, but if you didn't have the finger, then whatever you sewed would be ugly, and if that was the case, then you shouldn't be sewing at all, because there are too many ugly things in the world as it is.” Mary was scowling at her computer screen. Heather looked at Naomi, then shrugged, embarrassed. “That's what she says, anyway.”
Naomi grinned. “I'd probably agree with your grandmother. I'll tell you the truth, I've had to turn down plenty of people who wanted to work in the collective. Though they're free to come in, sit in with whoever's here and do their own work if they want. And a lot of them get better that way, watching the others. But some people don't have it. The finger.” She laughed. “Like me. I
definitely
don't have it.”
definitely
don't have it.”
“I'm sorry,” Heather said, because she was.
“Oh, it's all right,” Naomi told her, happily enough. “I have other gifts. The main thing is, I can'tâwell, I
won't
sell something unless it's beautiful.”
won't
sell something unless it's beautiful.”
“My things are beautiful,” Heather said gracelessly. “I'm embroidering a baby sheet right now. I'm expecting a baby, you know.”
“Oh.” Naomi nodded. “Congratulations!”
“Thank you,” Heather said. She glanced at Stephen.
“I can see why you might be wanting to set up a more flexible schedule than Stephen can offer you,” Naomi rolled along. “You know, we've got some baby things out in the workroom, and there's a playpen we can bring down from the attic. It's part of the collective's mission that children be absolutely welcome hereâso bringing your baby to work is definitely an option for later.”
From behind the desk Mary Sully clucked in disgust and stabbed a number on her computer keyboard. Naomi frowned.
Heather looked over at the desk. Mary Sully had always been a snob, she recalled. Her younger sister, too. Goddard girls, whose father had the snowplow contract in winter and sat on his butt the rest of the year. Carol Sully had married somebody from their class and already had a kid. Heather had seen itâa wrinkled pruny thing dressed preposterously in a sailor suit.
“May I see your baby sheet sometime?” Naomi asked.
“It's in the car.” Heather went out to get it. It surprised her how quickly this woman had become a person she wanted to impress. Naomi, Heather thought, was somebody who would understand about Ashley. She caught sight of herself in the rearview mirror as she bent for her bag. The mark had faded to pink: a four-clawed brand of pink in the middle of her cheek, and queerly beautiful. She went back inside.
The sheet, she was the first to admit, was excessive. Edged with bands of chain stitches alternating with bands of seed stitches in the palest pink, its center was busy with white and yellow flowers in satin stitch over all but a corner of the cotton fabric. “I'll write her name here.” Heather pointed to the empty place. “And her birth date. And I might overlay the chain stitches with a darker pink,” she gushed, “I haven't decided. I've made her a sampler, tooâjust an alphabet sampler, but there's an object for each letter. Like an apple for A. It's this big.” She showed with her hands. “But it's already hanging in the baby's room. I don't have it here.”
Naomi was still holding the sheet, peering at it under the desk light, then holding it up to the afternoon light through the window. She hadn't said anything.
Heather was suddenly worried. “I know how to make quilts, too,” she offered lamely, “but I'm notâ”
“Uh-uh,” said Naomi, shaking her head. “I have plenty of quilters.”
“I'd love to work here,” Heather heard herself entreat.
Naomi reached up behind her own neck, lifting the untidy ponytail to massage some invisible ache. She made a face. “I think when you finish this one you should bring it in for us to photograph. Then you'd better get started on another one as soon as possible. This is going to be a popular item.”
Stephen chuckled. Heather was frowning. “Item?”
“Oh, absolutely. I can think of six customers in Fairfield County alone who are going to want one of these. If you can bear to stick to pink and blue that would be best.” Naomi sighed. “People are such Neanderthals when it comes to gender associations. They're horrified by the idea of putting something pink on a boy or something with sailboats or baseball bats on a girl. Like an infant will suffer permanent gender confusion or instantly catch homosexuality!”
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