Page 8 of The Christmas Mittens
The knitting group met at Franny’s shop at seven p.m. sharp.
And when the gals said seven sharp, they meant seven sharp. Punctuality was right up there with tidy yarn balls for this group. I arrived with six minutes to spare after picking up Gilda, taking her home, and ensuring she had a decent meal of a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup and was working on homework. Of course, she could stop doing homework the minute I left, but overall, she was a good kid who took pride in being in the honor society. A landmark that I had never come close to during my school years. If I brought home an A in anything other than shop and farm engine classes, my parents did a dance in the street.
“Evening, Mitchell,” the six called out in unison as I dropped my tote beside my usual seat by the stove. The six gals werealready busy, needles clacking, as the mad rush to finish holiday projects and last-minute donations for the outerwear drive was in full swing.
Maggie, Lorna, Franny, Chloe, Meredith, and Jessica. All lovely ladies, ranging in age from mid-thirties—Chloe and Jess—all the way to early seventies. I made number seven. To say I stuck out like a sore thumb wouldn’t be a falsehood, but the women had always been accepting of a rooster in their henhouse. Possibly they were even more welcoming to me as I had lost my wife and was left with a young child. Gilda had more sweaters and crocheted stuffed animals than any child should. The Woolverines had become adopted aunts and grandmothers to my daughter.
“Evening, all,” I said as I dug into my bag to remove my Christmas gift sweater for Gilda. It was coming along nicely, even if I did have a few issues early on with the fish that swam across the sea of light blue. “It’s been a week.”
They all nodded, heads bobbing as needles clacked in time to the holiday music playing through the shop radio behind the register. The store was closed now, obviously, but the spirit of Christmas was strong. Cheery bolts of fabric lined one wall and glitter and sequins by the bushel lined another. Skeins of yarn in every color of the rainbow sat along the back wall and shelves and cabinets packed tight with books, floss, and ribbons had been crammed into every available foot. In some parts of the shop, you had to turn sideways to pass. The smell of cinnamon and pine wafted upward from a wax warmer by the coffee pot behind the till.
“How’s Gilda?” Franny asked. The scarf she was working on was flowing along nicely.
“She’s fine now. A few nights ago we had an unexpected visitor.” I settled in with a needlepoint pillow behind my lower back for support. The women all glanced up from their rowsquestioningly. How do I phrase this delicately? “Her monthly friend arrived for its first visit.”
All six women said “Ah” in understanding.
“The poor thing. Did she have any difficulty?” Franny asked, her scarf lying on her lap for a moment as a log popped in the wood stove in the corner.
“No, some cramping but nothing too bad. We had a little talk, then she went back to bed,” I explained, taking my yarn up to pick up at the end of the row. “She was fully prepared for the onset, but I assumed, stupidly I guess, that we’d have more time. I had to run out for supplies.”
“Don’t beat yourself up about it, Mitchell,” Meredith said with kindness. “My husband made many a run for me and my two girls when they were teens.”
Everyone nodded along with that statement. “Seems to me that girls are starting younger and younger. I didn’t get a visit from Aunt Flow until I was sixteen,” Franny announced, which then kicked off a discussion about changing times, growth hormones in milk, and which remedies for cramps worked the best: pain relievers, a heating pad, and chocolate, according to the six women clicking and clacking away. I made a mental note to buy everything Gilda may need from here on out. I didn’t feel uncomfortable as we discussed something that was perfectly normal for half the population. I’d never been one of those delicate, flowery men who can’t abide even hearing about menstruation. If marriage taught you anything, it was that sharing bodily functions was all part and parcel. Granted, it had been a while since I’d shared anything bodily with anyone, but if I had a choice, I would love to share my body with my sexy Prada Man.
Which shook me enough that I dropped a stitch as my mind wandered to places it had not ventured since Justin Timberlake’s “Can’t Stop the Feeling” was popping.
“So, not to sidetrack the discussion of Susan Fillmore’s latest conquest, but has anyone laid eyes on that good-looking guy in the dark blue coat?” I tossed out as nonchalantly as could be.
The six of them exploded into rapid-fire conversation about him—whatever his name was—and where he had been spotted over the past few days. At the grocery mart, at the library, at the Suds-N-Soap laundromat, and riding a bike out on one of the old logging roads in the state game lands.
“Did the bike have a baby seat?” I asked and got a sound shake of the head from Chloe, whose boyfriend Bert had been in the woods doe hunting.
“Bert said it was just some sort of fancy mountain bike. He didn’t mention anything about a baby seat. Why do you ask?” Chloe enquired so I found myself instantly on the spot. I hated to tell tales about the man behind his back. If he did need assistance from the church, which I was beginning to think was not the case because Prada coat, fancy mountain bike, and generous cash donations, I shouldn’t be gossiping about someone in need. That seemed tacky. But on the other hand, how could I get information from this buzzing nest of busy bees if I didn’t offer some pollen? Or something like that. I was terrible at analogies.
“Someone said they saw him strolling down Main Street with a baby stroller,” Maggie chimed in. Franny set her knitting aside to make more coffee. “Of course the child was wrapped up tight and someone couldn’t see the baby. Do we think the baby is ugly?”
“Margaret!” We all chided at once. The retired tax collector blushed ten shades of red. “Well, it could be. I’ve seen some truly horrible-looking babies.”
“And this is why people always mailed in their taxes instead of paying them at the courthouse,” Franny whispered to the side. I smirked at the corrections from all in the circle, saying no babywas ugly. Maggie argued her point until I slipped in to calm things down before we had a knitter’s battle breaking out. No one wanted irate women with sharp needles going at each other.
“I’m sure the baby is adorable. Its father is delectable,” I rushed to say. The bickering stalled as all eyes flew to me. Shit. I’d not meant to drop that kind of nugget. These gals were romance prospectors big time. Each and every one would stand at the creek of love for days, panning for little flecks of gold amid the dirt. Gold being any kind of attraction from one person to another. “I meant to say that he’s quite attractive in the way that European men are attractive.”
“So, he’s attractive,” Jessica clarified. I nodded.
“Very,” I added and pressed my lips together to keep anything else from bubbling out.
“Well, if this man has a baby and is camping out there all alone, perhaps someone should go out to the campgrounds to check on the infant. What if it’s too cold and he can’t afford propane for heat? Is he in a camper? A tent? What kind of facilities are there for bathing the child and washing its clothes?” Meredith asked and got a wave of worry from the others. I tried to wedge a word in to support the guy. I mean, hewaswearing Prada.
Was he or did he steal it?
We are not going there again. He had money. End of that, thank you, me. Also, he was dropping cash like a horny goat at a…goat show. Ugh. That was a terrible comparison. Suddenly, and quite scarily, they all looked at me.
“What?” I asked, lowering the sweater for Gilda to my lap.
“You should go out and check,” Franny said and rapped me with her knitting needles right on the kneecap.
“Me?!Why me?” That seemed like quite an intrusion into someone’s personal life.
