Kate Jacobs (6 page)

* * *

"This Mrs. Phillips said she would come
tomorrow morning at eleven, on her way home from a Pilates class, to go over
the details of her evening gown. She seemed very eager to get started so I told
her that was fine. I think it's going to be pretty lucrative." Georgia sat
at the register, talking to Anita who was greeting the club members at the
door. Their earlier tension was tucked away and she was more than happy to let
it go. She felt drained; she had watched Dakota run upstairs to grab her coat
and scarf and head off to dinner with James. Wait, she wanted to call out,
you're taking my heart with you. "She has to be home at nine thirty and
not a minute later," she said instead, as she watched them bound out of
the shop, arm in arm. "You're going to miss club tonight," she told
Dakota, feebly. "That's okay, Mom, you can just set out the cookies."
Dakota was positively glowing.
God, she hated that bastard.
"Let me guess which bastard." Georgia looked up; she had been
muttering aloud. "K.C., I am losing my mind," she admitted.
"Happens to the best of us, babe." K.C. took off her long camel coat,
dusted off the flakes of snow on the shoulders, hung it up on the rack by the
door. She was still in her interview suit and pumps; Georgia could see the
goose bumps on her legs through her nylons.
"I'm starting a new piece today: I'm going to put together a sweater with
the words HIRE ME over my tits. Then I'll wear it around town until some
schlub
hires me."
"To do what?" Georgia chided, confident that K.C. would land on her
feet; still, she knew that a lot of the reason the shop was having such a boom
was because the economy was hurting and these women had no place else to go.
And K.C., she could guess, certainly didn't want to spend her afternoons
staring at the walls of her apartment. She was a born-and-bred New Yorker, all
tough cookie outside and surprisingly soft center. She respected a person who
could match her brash personality—the cabbie who talked back, for example, or
the woman elbowing her on the way to the sale bin—but at the same time, K.C.
knew just when to reach out, as she did when Georgia was new to the city and
being buffeted around.
K.C. had managed to survive the recession of the early nineties, waited out the
ebbs and flows, and stayed intact at Churchill Publishing until her recent
layoff.
"It hurts, let me tell you," she said to Georgia. "I worked my
ass off in that dark, dingy little office. And now they've given me the
boot." It wasn't her, she knew; the entire city was still reeling. But now
she was stuck, having reached that dangerous point where she was too expensive
for her old position yet too mature for potential employers to risk hiring her,
confident she'd bail at the first opportunity of a better gig elsewhere.
She wouldn't, of course. K.C. couldn't imagine a life anywhere but in New York.
She loved a good summer street-fair, scoping out sample sales for the latest in
cheap(
er
) designer duds, waiting on line for
tix
to Shakespeare in the Park, and getting exasperated
with all the tourists clogging up the sidewalks in midtown. It was her city,
her home, and she couldn't fathom being in a different place. She wasn't the
type of person to get stuck in a rut—K.C. changed her hair color with
regularity, currently sporting a dark auburn pixie cut that highlighted her
lively hazel-colored eyes—but she could never understand anyone who would
voluntarily leave the most vibrant city in the world. It was a constant: her
one true love was New York and she was never going to cheat. Or change. She
hadn't even moved apartments in years. Sure, K.C. had ventured around the globe
(the requisite post-Barnard backpacking around Europe circa 1978), but she
barely paid attention to the rest of America. Tough, feisty Manhattan was the
only world that mattered. That Georgia had stuck it out and made a go of things
earned her
K.C.'s
eternal respect.
Just then Lucie strode through the door, clutching a plastic grocery bag
stuffed with a selection of medium-weight alpaca yarns in olive and heather
gray, ready for another session of the knitting club. A pair of needles stuck
out of the bag. K.C. pounced, eager to have a new listener to her week's tale
of woe. Georgia could see that the sandy-haired woman was rather startled to be
the recipient of
K.C.'s
unique brand of something
akin to charm.
"Hi, Georgia." Lucie spoke softly and nodded in her direction, then
let herself be led to the table by a chattering K.C., murmuring hellos with
Anita and Darwin, scooping up a couple of cookies along the way. Georgia ambled
along behind them. She missed Dakota, was storing up all the raves about her
peanut-butter crumble cookies so she could share them when she tucked in her
little
muffingirl
later. She grabbed a chair and sat
down at the table. Darwin, she noticed, still seemed painfully conscious of her
presence and went out of her way to sit at the opposite end, next to a recent
newcomer to the store. The kind of woman her mother would have called a
trouper, who kept trudging along in life but would never quite get to the front
of the line. In fact, this customer had been sitting in the shop all afternoon,
bound and determined to be further ahead than she was last week. She had asked
Anita to teach her several different ways of casting on, which she performed
methodically. So far she'd made a long practice piece but hadn't yet started on
a pattern. Maybe, Georgia thought to herself, she should offer a special class:
Is casting on all you want to do? Over and over and never getting started? Come
to Georgia's shop because she can teach you everything you need to know about
getting stuck in a rut!
And then it came to her. That was it. A lot of the women were coming to the
meetings to work on their personal knitting projects, but they weren't getting
too far ahead. They were stuck. Something was missing.
"I think I have to tear the whole thing out again!" the woman with
the practice piece moaned to Darwin, who frowned and backed away almost
imperceptibly. She was still reluctant to touch a stitch lest it sully the
nature of her research.
"Maybe you could get tutoring," Darwin offered. "I make a lot of
money helping out undergrads with their women's history courses—I edit essays
and, you know, just spend a lot of time explaining how we're all bound by
patriarchy." She was pleasantly matter-of-fact, nibbled on a cookie. She
spoke to the group. "Because we are. Just so you know."
"Uh-huh. Well, maybe in the meantime someone could teach me how to
transfer stitches." She was glum. Anita went over to look at what she was
tearing out. And so, Georgia thought, a typical gathering of the Friday Night
Knitting Club. There was no official proceeding: at some point, Anita might
begin whatever chat she had prepared, though there were many nights when she
didn't even get to it, so busy was she sorting out everyone's individual
mistakes or lending a sympathetic ear as someone (more often than not it was
K.C.) related the bad dates and work mishaps of a busy week.

* * *

What they needed was a plan. A pattern. An
organization.

* * *

"Everyone?" said Georgia. "I was
thinking it might be nice to all work on one project together."
"Like the archaic model of the quilting bee?" asked Darwin.
"Um, that's actually quite effective—and fun, if you're a quilter,"
Georgia told the academic. Then she turned to face the group. "I know a
lot of you pop in to work on your own projects—which is great, you're more than
welcome—and I know we have knitters of all different levels. But for those of
you willing to try it, I thought it would be neat if we all took up the same
pattern. That way, the beginners could really watch the more experienced
knitters. And it might be easier on Anita!"
Her silver-haired mentor came over to stand beside her. "I think it's a
great idea," she said, then whispered to Georgia: "I'm glad to see
you're really getting involved!"
"And I'll offer a ten percent discount on all the wool you need,"
concluded Georgia. "Are you in?"
A few steps over to some of her beginner's pattern books, and Georgia had
selected a
stockinette
-stitch sweater with a garter hem
and a slashed-neck opening—eliminating any need for round needles or extra
finishing on the neckline. It was basic, looked good, and would be more than
challenging for the beginners while being easy and relaxing for the experienced
knitters like Lucie.
She was unusually quiet tonight. Georgia watched Lucie sit with her hands in
her lap for a full fifteen minutes, staring out the window, before she picked
up her needles. And the grocery bag? Lucie was always so put together, but
tonight she looked as though she had gotten dressed in stuff from her father's
closet. Her top seemed to be several sizes too big and her usually manicured
nails were chipped. She looked…tired. Still, Georgia didn't disturb her
reverie. She understood when life could feel so overwhelming. Was Dakota
laughing her way through a plate of fries and ketchup, a little dash of vinegar
on the top? "Ha, ha, Daddy, you're so funny," she might be saying.
"Mom's always cranky and she works all the time. Will you buy me a bike?"
Georgia felt hot, stood up, mumbled something about needing to check something
in the office, and took a few steps across the room to the door, absentmindedly
thinking about locking it early. She figured everyone who was going to show up
for club was already there.
Just then the door flew open and Georgia was knocked to her knees as a figure
barreled past her into the shop. "
Robberrrr
…!"
warbled the intruder, as though announcing her intentions. She seemed to be
pushing forward, pointing to the back of Darwin's long, dark hair; something
glinting in her hands. "What the…?!" screamed Georgia. As if in slow
motion, she felt herself twist, then dive at the person's legs to knock her
down. "Help me!" she screamed, as chairs tipped over and the women
ran to her aid. Papers seemed to fly around the room. Everyone was yelling; the
intruder was kicking near her face. "Help!" "Call the
police!" "Keep her down!" "Georgia, oh, my God!"
"Nine-one-one!" "
Robberrrr
!"
Suddenly K.C. was sitting on the struggling figure. The body was noisy,
snuffling and screaming. Georgia felt herself being pulled up, was surprised to
be upright, to feel Anita's familiar hand rubbing her back. The faces of her
friends and customers stared at her and then at the floor. She looked down.
And there, in a lump, lay the mystery shopper from the afternoon. The crazy
redhead. Though now her newsboy cap was halfway across the room, no doubt
kicked about in the commotion. The group kept her down easily; the girl was
slight. Mascara and tears ran down her cheeks; her coat was torn. A tiny
camcorder lay smashed nearby. She had a cut above her eye. Did I do that?
Georgia wondered. Wow. She felt both impressed and horrified. The shouting in
the room began to subside as the adrenaline slowed down. Everyone quieted down…except
for the girl. A horrible moaning sound was coming out of her.
"Robber," she seemed to sob. "
Robbbberrrr
."
And then Anita, always Anita, took charge. Lucie was dispatched for water,
Darwin was sent for tissue, K.C. was convinced to get off the girl, and Anita
settled the stranger on a chair and wriggled off her coat. The unexpected
visitor looked more like
Opie's
cousin visiting from
Mayberry than a
crackhead
or a burglar. Georgia
rubbed at her knees, felt the beginning of a bump. The girl continued to cry,
taking noisy, ragged breaths. "There, there," Anita said.
"There, there." Still whimpering, her freckles streaked with globs of
black, the redhead looked up, shrinking back ever so slightly from the crowd
that stared at her. And then she spoke, in such a whisper that everyone leaned
forward as if to hear a long-awaited pronouncement. Georgia held her breath.
The redhead cleared her throat and tried again, haltingly, her voice scratchy
and fat droplets still running down her cheeks:
"Has…has anyone…has anyone here seen Julia Roberts?"

three

Early-morning sun streamed in the windows;
Dakota
stretched out on the faded peach-and-yellow sofa in her pajamas and let the
warm light fall on her face, her head cradled in her mom's lap.
"It was quite a ruckus last night, kiddo. Yarn and needles everywhere!
Everywhere! Everywhere!" Georgia reached over to tickle Dakota, who
squirmed and jumped off the couch, jog-shuffling to the kitchen in her
oversized lime-green slippers. Georgia followed her, grabbing a couple of
bananas out of the fruit bowl on the sturdy IKEA table as she walked by. She
went over to the counter to slice up the fruit, her back to her daughter;
still, she watched out of the corner of her eye as Dakota moved stealthily to
refill her bowl of
Froot
Loops. The two Walkers
shared breakfast every morning, but Saturday meant sweet rolls and sugared
cereals and lots of cuddles.
"Did anyone get hurt?" Dakota was sorry she'd missed the action and
yet elated to have gone out with her dad the night before. He'd bought her a
bike! She couldn't wait to tell her mom. But she wasn't totally sure how it was
going to go over. Well, no, that wasn't true. She knew exactly how her mom was
going to react. Badly.
"Darwin was yelping about Peeping Tom psychos and K.C. could hardly be
persuaded to get up off this girl. Poor Lucie—she looked like she was going to
throw up. I think she was really scared. And I have a bump on my knee the size
of a bowling ball. It wasn't one of the shop's better moments." Georgia popped
a slice of banana into her mouth, then offered a piece to her little girl, who
shook her head, a drop of milk running down her chin. Nope, Dakota was
confident her mother hadn't noticed that she'd doubled up on cereal. Excellent.
"The next thing you know, Anita's got this girl sitting up and she's
blathering on and on. And then she starts crying all over again." She
leaned over with a napkin to wipe off Dakota's face. "And that's enough
cereal, sweetie. No
thirdsies
."
Georgia reached for the coffee pot, filled her mug, and took a gulp. "The
meeting broke up early thanks to the arrival of this
nuthut
,
but you'll be happy to know that Lucie and Darwin took home several cookies
each."
"Did they fill out the comment cards?" Dakota looked up, her eyes
filled with excitement and perhaps a little trepidation. Baking and this kid!
Still, better she obsessed about flour and sugar than midriff-baring tops and
boy bands. Though Georgia suspected she was starting to think about that stuff,
too. She shook her head.
"Oh, darling, with all the commotion, I completely forgot to hand out your
comment cards." She leaned over and whispered conspiratorially. "But
they all loved the treats. Why don't you just ask them their feelings about the
cookies and muffins next week?"
"Because people never tell what they don't like when you ask them
face-to-face. They only give you lots of compliments and that doesn't always
help." Dakota was silent for a moment, her brow furrowed. "What about
that crazy girl? Did she eat any cookies?" Georgia was always cheered by
Dakota's single-minded ambition.
"Yes, my little Martha Stewart, she ate about fifteen cookies, I'd
say." Georgia grinned back as Dakota's eyes lit up. Score! "That girl
may be rather obsessive about Miss Julia Roberts, but she had more than enough
time to eat everything in sight." Georgia looked out the window and spoke
softly. "The end of the evening was a bit of a bang-up, but she doesn't
seem like a dangerous type. We all sat down with her for a long time and got
quite a story."
Georgia smiled to herself as she remembered. So far, that magazine article had
brought both good and bad. The redhead wasn't actually crazy. Or even a druggie
or a psycho. No, she was something worse: an NYU student who was hell-bent on
making a film. Only there were around a million issues with getting it done,
starting with the fact that she and her group had next to no money. And
somewhere along the way they had realized they really needed a Big Name to make
a go of the project. A few too many drinks while reading a
People
article about celebs who love knitting crossed with a mention on the
New
York Post
's Page Six that Miss Julia was in town, and then that
New York
mompreneur
piece; it just seemed so perfect. Julia
would probably need wool while she was in town and they would catch her
off-guard, convince her to do a cameo in their searing crime drama! And so the
young woman used the entire $12.75 she had in her pocket to buy odds and ends
while she scouted out Walker and Daughter. Which, by the way, she had said to
no one in particular, is really cute. You've done a lot with this place. Ever
thought about making a commercial for cable? Because I could help you with
that.
And then she slowly took a cookie off the plate on the table and ate it. And when
no one said anything, she ate another. Cookie after cookie after cookie while
the members of the club stared. And stared.