The Sweetgum Knit Lit Society (7 page)

She wandered into the den, saw her knitting bag by her recliner, and settled in to work for a while. She wanted to finish the scarf for the next meeting so she could get back to work on the layette. She suspected that the next few months would pass as quickly—and as slowly—as any in her life ever had.

Ruthie knew she never should have let Frank in the house that night. With a sigh, she set her book on the end table next to her chair and picked up her knitting needles again. She’d been alternating between the two all evening, too restless to settle into one thing for any length of time. And yet still the time had passed, a great deal of it actually. It must be after midnight.

She didn’t believe in television, didn’t own one, but tonight she wouldn’t have minded the company of a late-night talk show or infomercial. Anything to distract her from a lifetime of regrets.

Ruthie abandoned her favorite chair for the comforts of
warm milk in her little kitchen. Ruthie never had trouble sleeping, but since Frank’s last visit she’d been as restless as one of those lions at the zoo, wearing out a path in the dirt as it paced back and forth. Caged but not hopeless. Frustrated but not vanquished. An apt description of the last thirty years of her life.

She stirred the milk as it heated in the saucepan and tried not to remember Frank’s words of a few nights before.

“I want to leave Esther.” He’d been sitting on the sofa, she in her favorite chair. No part of them but their souls ever touched.

“You can’t do that.” She’d forced herself to deny him even as her heart thumped so loudly in her chest that she thought she, not Frank, might have a “cardiac event,” as folks their age were starting to call it.

“I can leave her. I’m going to.” He looked like a petulant little boy, scowling. She could see the fear that had etched new lines around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth.

“I won’t do that to my sister.” At that point she had leaned over to retrieve her yarn and needles from her bag. Her hands needed something to occupy them so they wouldn’t betray her feelings. She couldn’t tremble and knit at the same time.

“Our son is grown.” Frank shifted restlessly on the worn cushions. “Esther doesn’t need me. Just my money. There’s no reason for me to stay anymore.”

Now Ruthie couldn’t look at him. She’d longed to hear
these words most of her adult life. True, she could count on her fingers the number of times she’d been alone with Frank since he married Esther. They’d never actually done anything improper. Sitting in her living room late that night had been the most scandalous encounter they’d ever had, but Ruthie knew their propriety didn’t make them noble. Doing the right thing was just that—doing the right thing. You didn’t get a gold watch or a plaque or the key to the city. No, you just got worn down, year by year, as you watched the person you loved live a life without you.

“We could be together, Ruthie.” He had leaned forward when he said the words. “Maybe it’s time.”

Ruthie didn’t know if Esther loved Frank, if her sister had ever truly loved him. But Frank had made a promise to Esther long ago, taken vows right there in the Sweetgum Christian Church, and Ruthie would never be the cause for the betrayal of that promise.

“No.” One word, one simple word that cost her more than anything should ever cost a woman.

He stiffened. “Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? For us to be together?”

“No. I’ve never wanted that,” she lied.

“My heart could be bad, Ruthie. I might not have much more time. Don’t say no and then come to regret it.”

He didn’t understand, of course. He couldn’t grasp that to say yes to him would cause her more regret than saying no.

She laid aside her knitting and stood up. “You’d better go.”

Frank’s face flushed a deep, meaty red. He rose from the couch. “I thought you loved me.” He’d spun around at that point and left without saying good-bye. And the next day he called to tell her that he had blockages in three arteries but had refused to have bypass surgery. There was no point, he said. Maybe it was his time.

The milk was starting to stick. Ruthie pulled the pan from the burner and carefully poured it into her favorite ceramic mug, one she’d picked up at some long ago craft fair from some long-forgotten artisan.

Frank thought she’d sent him away because she was noble, and she’d let him believe that, had desperately wanted him to believe it. But the truth was she had turned him down because she was afraid. Afraid to face the truth. The truth that a man who really loved you didn’t wait thirty years, until he thought he might die, before he came to claim you.

All the warm milk in the world couldn’t help a woman sleep when she’d had that kind of realization.

The leaves on the sweetgum trees outside the church had transformed from green to golden red during the month since the Knit Lit Society’s last meeting. Merry hustled toward the doors of the church, late again. By the time she had climbed the stairs to the second floor and made it to the door of the Pairs and Spares Sunday school room, she was gasping for breath. She’d been in much better physical shape when she was pregnant with Sarah. The additional four years of wear and tear on her body wasn’t helping matters.

The other ladies occupied almost all the seats around the table, leaving only one chair open—the one next to Hannah. Merry held back a sigh. The teenager didn’t look any better than she had the month before. Merry couldn’t help but compare Hannah’s brittle mop of hair with Courtney’s highlighted, straight-ironed tresses. Didn’t the girl have anyone to
help her with that kind of stuff? Merry vaguely remembered Hannah’s mother. Tracy Simmons had been the kind of girl who hung out with the freaks and the heavy-metal head-bangers. Merry had been the kind of girl who stayed after school to paint posters for the pep club or wash cars to raise money for student government.

“Sorry I’m late.” She slid into the folding chair, thankful for the table that shielded her expanding midriff. She was only three months pregnant, but her body couldn’t hold things in like it used to. Fortunately most of her “mommy” wardrobe consisted of stretchy exercise pants and loose tops.

Three months. The cutoff mark. No going back now, no matter how she might feel. The thought made her hands shake, so she clenched them to disguise the tremor.

“We were just getting started,” Eugenie said with her usual cross between a smile and a frown that made Merry unsure about the woman’s true feelings. “I asked everyone which of the March sisters they most identify with in the story.”

Merry’s frown was definite, not ambiguous like Eugenie’s. She had read the book and completed the knitting project, but in truth, she couldn’t identify with any of the sisters. No, she could only dream of being like the mother—pampered and adored by her offspring. No wonder the book was fiction.

“I always wanted to be Amy,” Camille said, and with her fair skin and blond hair, it wasn’t much of a stretch to see her
as the mercurial, artistic youngest sister. “Everyone thought she was so spoiled, but in the end she did better for herself than any of them.”

“Material wealth isn’t everything,” Ruthie said. “The Bible says, ‘Man does not live on bread alone,’ and neither can a woman.”

“No, no.” Camille shook her head. “I didn’t mean it like that. Sure, it didn’t hurt that Laurie was wealthy and that when she married him, Amy didn’t have to worry about being poor anymore. What I meant was that Amy found a way out. She wasn’t trapped like the others were in their narrow little lives.”

Merry wanted to reprimand Camille for such thoughts, but then she stopped herself. Of course the girl wanted to escape Sweetgum. She’d turned down a college scholarship to stay home and nurse her mother through a long, excruciating illness. Camille never said much about her mother at their meetings, but Merry could guess what their life was like. They lived off of what Camille could make running her mother’s dress shop—not an easy proposition since the new Wal-Mart had come to town. Merry tried to shop at Maxine’s when she could, and Camille was always helpful and appreciative. But of course it was no kind of life for a twenty-four-year-old girl with dreams of something far more glamorous than a small town in Tennessee.

“I don’t think that oldest girl, Meg, was trapped at all,”
Esther said with a frown. No Chanel suit tonight, but she still looked impeccable in her Chico’s separates. “Meg March was sensible. She knew her place and found the right husband for her. A young woman could certainly do much worse.”

“I always liked Jo,” Ruthie said, a far-off expression in her eyes. “She was determined to live her own life, not the one her bossy aunt wanted her to live.”

“Very good,” Eugenie said, nodding at all of them. “I picked this novel because the author shows us so many different kinds of heroines. All of the March sisters have something to teach us.”

“Except the one that died,” Hannah snorted. “The only thing I learned from her was to stay away from your mom when she’s been visiting sick people.”

Hannah’s disdain sent Merry’s blood pressure skyrocketing. What was it with teenage girls these days?

“Did you read the book?” Merry said before she could stop herself. “Beth’s death is the most touching part. She’s their anchor, and when she dies …” She stopped, her throat too tight to continue. Oh for heaven’s sake. How in the world could she get so worked up over a book group discussion? It was just this girl, sitting there next to her, disdaining everyone and everything.

“Why don’t we show our scarves,” Eugenie said, interrupting Merry before she could finish. “I’m interested to see what you all did in the spirit of
Little Women
.”

Merry reached down for her bag, cheeks blazing. Thank goodness Eugenie had interrupted. Why in the world had she responded so strongly to the girl’s bravado? It was nothing but adolescent posturing. Heaven knew Merry experienced enough of that at home every day.

“I know you said to use worsted,” Ruthie said, spreading a beautiful camel-colored scarf out on the table, “but this alpaca just called to me when I saw it online.” Like a lot of knitters in small towns, they often had to rely on Internet sites when it came to buying yarn.

“That’s very nice, Ruthie,” Merry said as she reached out to finger the scarf. The wool was soft and crimpy, a lustrous brown that felt natural, not scratchy and manufactured like less expensive yarn.

“I know it’s kind of an unusual texture for a man’s scarf,” Ruthie said. Her eyes looked sad, and she eyed her knitting wistfully. “But maybe tucked inside an overcoat …”

Camille laid her scarf on the table in front of her. “I’m afraid mine’s just plain dark gray.” She smoothed it with her fingers. “Not very special, but practical.” She glanced at Eugenie. “I hope the next project will have a little more flair.” She, too, seemed wistful. Merry wondered if something was in the air, the way they were all moping and distracted.

“I chose gray as well,” Eugenie said. Her scarf, like Camille’s, was strictly utilitarian.

Merry spread hers on the table for the group to see. “I
thought I’d give this to Jeff, so I picked the forest green. It’ll look nice with his eyes.” Although he’d probably never wear it. Winter rarely got cold enough in Sweetgum to require a wool scarf.

“I picked maroon.” Esther’s scarf was cashmere, Merry noticed.

“What about you, Hannah? Did you have time to finish your scarf?” Eugenie asked with far more patience than Merry would have shown.

The girl looked like she might throw up. Merry watched the teenager’s face flush and then turn white as the color drained away. “I … I finished.” She reached under the table and pulled out a Ziploc bag. The navy scarf was an attractive color, Merry thought, but as she watched Hannah unfold the piece, she bit her lip. What she saw was a classic beginner’s mistake.

“Here.” Hannah shoved the scarf across the table as if it were a water moccasin she’d found in Sweetgum Creek.

“Good for you, finishing it so quickly,” Ruthie said, her soft gray eyes full of kindness. “That’s excellent for your first project.”

Hannah seemed unimpressed by the praise. Merry could tell without reaching over to touch the scarf that Hannah had knit it far too tightly. The biggest difficulty in learning to knit was getting the yarn tension just right. Too loose and you wound up with a lumpy mess. Too tight, like Hannah’s scarf, and you might as well have made a steel wool pad.