Elm Creek Quilts [09] Circle of Quilters Read online

  If she had not felt guilty about the purchase, she would have learned about the job that same day, but as she unpacked the groceries she imagined her husband’s lament at the sight of the magazine. “Think of all the trees that died for those pages,” Nate would say. “Don’t they have an online version you could read instead?” Nate had cancelled his last newspaper subscription while still in graduate school, and Karen had allowed hers to lapse after they had dated for six months and she realized his anti-newsprint stance was not a passing phase. They had not had a magazine in the house since the subscription to Parents they had received as a baby shower gift ran out four months after Ethan was born. If Nate came home and found a magazine in her hands, he might keel over in shock. She could not do that to him, so she hid the magazine in her fabric stash, taking it out only when Nate was at work and the boys were asleep. Those two events coincided only rarely, so it was not until two weeks after purchasing the magazine that she discovered Elm Creek Quilt Camp was hiring.

  She postponed telling Nate about the job not only because she would have to admit how she had heard about it, but also because she was not sure she ought to apply. It was not as if she had an abundance of free time. Even with Ethan in nursery school three mornings a week, she still had plenty to do tending to his increasingly active little brother. Her house looked like the before photo in a redecorating makeover, and come to think of it, so did she. She didn’t need more work; she needed a month alone at a tropical spa with daily massages and handsome cabana boys to bring her fruity drinks with little paper umbrellas in them while she relaxed on the beach.

  But to work at Elm Creek Manor … She wistfully remembered the week she had spent at quilt camp a few months before Ethan was born, a time when she had naively considered herself accomplished and capable because her children had not yet taught her otherwise. The week’s stay had been a gift from Nate, who had secretly made all the arrangements after she had mentioned that she had been seized by an irresistible urge to make a quilt for her firstborn. Maybe she had been under the influence of the breathtakingly adorable pictures in the clandestine stash of baby magazines she had secreted in her underwear drawer, because none of her friends or family quilted, and she had not grown up with quilts around the house. She had no one to teach her, and she was afraid what would result if she tried on her own. Then she happened across an arts program on cable featuring an interview with a male quilter from the Pacific Northwest whose work was exhibited in galleries across the country. The baby quilt Karen envisioned was nothing like his wild, abstract creations, but she figured that if a man could quilt, so could she.

  As she and Nate shopped for the nursery, Karen told him she wished she knew how to quilt without expecting anything more than sympathy. But Nate’s understanding of quilting was that it involved reusing scraps of worn fabric that would otherwise end up in a landfill, so he was all for it. He found Elm Creek Quilt Camp on the Internet and surprised her with a week’s stay, no doubt pleased to foster her budding environmentalist frugality. Soon after she returned home, however, he learned that quilters need new fabric just as painters need paint and sculptors need clay, and he regarded her steadily increasing stash with concern and resignation as it threatened to outgrow the linen closet and spill into the hallway.

  If Karen were more experienced, she might have put her application in the mail immediately, but she had quilted for only five years. She had tried to teach quilting only once, to her best friend, who had eagerly chosen a pattern and purchased fabric but had never actually cut out any pieces. It was a less than exemplary record, one she was certain the other applicants would far surpass. She pictured the Elm Creek Quilters passing her application around a long table, marveling at her hubris before tossing her file into a paper shredder.

  That image made her wish she had never seen the ad. If she ever returned to the manor, it would be as a camper, not as an Elm Creek Quilter.

  Monday night blurred into Tuesday morning. Lucas woke twice to nurse, and Karen dozed uncomfortably in the rocking chair until he drifted off to sleep. She returned him to his crib and stumbled back to bed, but on the second return trip, she stepped on a Tickle Me Elmo doll, which promptly burst into giggles, waking Ethan. She told him to go back to sleep, but not long after she lay down and pulled the quilt up to her chin, she felt the mattress shake as Ethan crawled into bed between her and Nate. Twice before sunrise Karen was jolted awake by her son’s feet in her ribcage, a sensation oddly reminiscent of her pregnancy, though far less entrancing than when he had been on the inside.

  In the morning, Nate shut off the alarm clock and muttered something about sleeping in—a lovely idea in theory, but impracticable for the parents of young children. Lucas rose at his regular hour, calling out for milk. Half asleep, Karen brought him into the master bed to nurse as she lay curled protectively around him. She drifted back to sleep stroking his downy blond hair, his sweet baby softness warming her heart, the fragrance of baby shampoo soothing her into slumber. Later she woke to the sound of the shower running. The sliver of the bed Nate had occupied was empty, Ethan was snoring, and Lucas was sitting up in bed, smiling at her. “Poo poo,” he announced, and held up his hands. While she slept, he had removed his diaper and fingerpainted the sheets with the contents.

  In the summer, the boys’ playgroup met at the park every Tuesday and Thursday morning, but on Tuesdays Ethan had a swimming lesson first. “Did you feed the boys?” Karen asked Nate as she raced into the kitchen after a quick shower and a scramble through the unfolded clothes in the laundry basket for something to wear.

  “Lucas had cereal and toast.”

  “What about Ethan?”

  “He said he wasn’t hungry.”

  “If he doesn’t eat now, he’ll want something five minutes before his swimming lesson starts.”

  Nate shrugged. “I can’t force him to eat.”

  “Did you pack the swim bag?”

  “I thought you did it.”

  Silently, Karen counted to five. Every Monday night she asked him to pack the bag, and every Monday night he agreed. Every Tuesday morning, he assumed she had already taken care of it. Did he think she had squeezed it in between Lucas’s midnight and predawn feedings? “Could you please pack the bag so I can grab some breakfast?”

  “Sure, honey.” He rose and kissed her, coffee mug in hand, and went upstairs. She tracked his footsteps from Ethan’s room to the main bath to their room, hastily spooning down a bowl of muesli while standing at the sink. She had just finished when Nate returned with the blue nylon bag and put it on the kitchen table between his plate of toast crusts and Ethan’s cereal bowl.

  “Did you remember everything?” asked Karen, clearing away the dishes.

  “Yep.” He gave her a quick kiss. “I have to go. I have student conferences.”

  “Did you remember the swim cap?”

  “Uh huh.” Nate took his lunch from the refrigerator and stuffed it into his backpack.

  “Towel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Coffee cup?”

  He paused. “What?”

  “Coffee cup. When you went upstairs, you were carrying a coffee cup.”

  “Oh. I think I left it on the dresser.” He glanced at his watch. “Do you want me to go get it?”

  “That’s all right. I’ll get it.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you later.” He went into the living room to say good-bye to the boys, then hurried off with a cheerful wave.

  After the door to the garage closed behind him, she tried not to open the bag to make sure he had remembered everything. She hated feeling like she always needed to check his work, but the urge was insistent. Towel, swim cap, and goggles were tucked inside the bag just as Nate had promised, but the swim trunks were old, faded from chlorine, and size 3T. Karen had no idea where Nate had found them, since they should have been packed away in the basement with the other clothes Ethan had outgrown and Lucas could not yet wear. If Ethan managed to squeeze into them at al
l, the waistband could quite possibly cut off his circulation.

  Can’t he read a tag? Karen wondered as she hurried upstairs to Ethan’s room. Does he not know his son’s size? Didn’t he recognize the right pair from last week?

  She took a deep breath and tried to let it go. Nate was in a hurry, students were waiting for him, and how many dads knew anything about their kids’ sizes? He had tried to help, and that was what mattered.

  She retrieved the coffee cup from the bathroom counter on her way back downstairs, finished packing the swim bag and the diaper bag and the lunch bag for the park later, and called for the boys to come and get ready to leave. Ethan came at once, but Lucas ran away, laughing, and hid by climbing behind the armchair and covering his eyes with his hands.

  “We can still see you,” his older brother said.

  “No see,” Lucas insisted.

  “And we can hear you. Mom, tell him he’s not hiding right.”

  “Time to go.” Karen reached behind the chair and lifted Lucas to his feet. He promptly went limp, forcing her to haul him out into the open. She wrestled the boys from their pajamas into their clothes and cajoled them into holding still while she slathered them in PABA-free sunblock. She had barely finished one of Lucas’s arms when he grabbed the pink bottle and flung it behind the piano.

  “No pool,” said Lucas. “No pool, please?”

  “Honey, we have to go to the pool.” Karen dropped to her hands and knees and strained to reach the sunblock. “Your brother has a swim lesson.”

  “No pool. No swim!”

  “You don’t have to swim,” said Ethan reasonably. “Just me.”

  “I swim. I swim!” Lucas tugged at Karen’s T-shirt. “I swim, please?”

  “When you’re a big boy, you can take lessons, too.”

  Lucas sent up such a wail of dismay that she had to promise him a treat from the club’s vending machines just to get him to calm down. When Ethan protested, she had to assure him that he could buy something, too.

  “Treat,” said Lucas happily as she buckled him into his carseat.

  “I’m going to get Cheetos,” said Ethan.

  “Cheetos,” shouted Lucas. “Cheetos, too!”

  Karen muffled a groan. Nate would have a fit. She would have to scour the boys’ fingernails clean of all traces of blaze orange cheese residue before he came home from work. What did it say about her that she so quickly resorted to bribing her sons and hiding the evidence from her husband?

  “Mom,” said Ethan as they pulled into the parking lot of the swim club. “I’m hungry. Can I have my treat now?”

  “Treat,” echoed Lucas.

  “No, honey, we don’t have time.”

  “But I’m starving.”

  “You should have eaten breakfast.”

  “Daddy didn’t give me anything.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetie.” They were already five minutes late. “You’ll have to wait until after your lesson.”

  Ethan grumbled as she rushed them into the locker room and threw him into his swim gear. To her dismay, the exchange had given Lucas the impression that snack time was imminent. “Cheetos,” he cried plaintively as Karen carried him while she led Ethan from the locker room to the pool. The room smelled of chlorine and wet cement, and Lucas’s every wail echoed off the walls. Karen left Ethan with his instructor and hurried Lucas into the waiting room. Catching sight of the vending machine, Lucas struggled in her arms until she had to set him down. He ran across the room and flung himself at the Plexiglas. “Cheetos! Cheetos!”

  Three mothers sitting near the tinted glass overlooking the pool broke off their conversation and stared at him, then looked daggers at Karen. Smiling weakly, Karen hurried over and wedged herself between her son and the vending machine. “Lucas, honey. After your brother’s lesson. Remember?”

  “No! No! Now!”

  Bewildered, she picked him up and winced as she avoided his flailing limbs. This was so unlike him, the mellow kid, the one who made her and Nate realize just how challenging Ethan had been. “Honey, calm down. It’s okay.” She held him close and patted his back as he squirmed in protest. “We talked about this. Remember? We’ll have a treat after your brother’s lesson—if you’re a good boy.”

  “Cheetos, Mama,” he wept. “Please.”

  It was pitiful to watch. “All right. Okay.” She set him down, a howling mass of fury and tears and despair on the blue industrial pile carpet. She dug around in her back pocket for change and came up with a quarter and two dimes. With a sigh of relief she slipped the change into the slot, pressed the buttons, and waited for the snack to dispense—cheerfully narrating each action in a vain attempt to assure Lucas his precious Cheetos were on the way. His misery abated only after she placed the open bag in his hands.

  “There.” She straightened and rested her hands on her hips. “All better?”

  He smiled wanly up at her. Only then did she become aware of the conversation by the window. The other mothers were not trying to keep their voices low, and although they did not look at her, she suddenly had the impression that they wanted her to overhear.

  “I can’t believe she rewarded that tantrum—”

  “I pity that child’s teachers in a few years—”

  “—that’s what a diet of junk food does to children—”

  “—someone needs a parenting class—”

  “yes, a lesson on how to redirect negative impulses—”

  After the moment Karen needed to realize the women were talking about her, she scooped up Lucas, yanked open the door to the locker room, and ducked inside. The door closed too slowly to block out the derisive laugher she had left behind. “Stupid, gossipy bi—” Just in time, she remembered Lucas’s rapidly developing vocabulary and clamped her mouth shut around the word.

  This was not the first time she had earned outright disdain from mothers like these, women who managed to handle, apparently effortlessly, the tasks of motherhood and look good doing it. They made their own baby food from organically grown fruits and vegetables. They wore white cashmere twinsets knowing their children would never dream of spitting up on them. They had shiny hair and manicures and wore their prepregnancy clothes within six weeks of their deliveries. They found time to iron. Their children had never tasted a trans-fatty acid. They read all the current books and articles on the latest trends in child development. Having stepped off the fast track for the noble art of motherhood, they pursued their new profession the way they had once pursued advanced degrees and corner offices. They scorned and pitied mothers who stuck their kids in day care and regarded with bewilderment mothers such as Karen’s best friend Janice, mother of four with one on the way, who seemed not to know when to say when, and Karen, scattered and disorganized and unable to pull herself together. When Karen had resigned from her job within a week of returning from her eight-week maternity leave, she had tried to befriend such women at Kindermusik and library story hour, but they smelled her desperation and gave her polite but chilly rebuffs. They did not know that she had once been as successful and confident as they. What was it about motherhood that made her doubt everything she had once admired about herself?

  “One, Mama?” offered Lucas, holding a gnarled orange twig of Cheeto to her mouth.

  “No, thank you.” She redirected the offering and looked up at a sudden movement in the mirror. On the other side of the locker room, a smiling, slender woman in a perfectly tailored suit turned away from a locker, a gym bag slung jauntily over her shoulder. Karen nearly choked. With Lucas balanced on her hip, she swiftly turned toward the nearest locker, ducked her head, and spun the dial as if she knew the combination.

  The click of black pumps on concrete paused beside her. “Karen?”

  Reluctantly, Karen turned around. “Oh, hi, Lucy.”

  “Karen! I can’t believe it’s you.” Lucy’s makeup was flawless, and she looked well rested and refreshed. Karen dimly remembered feeling like that once, long, long ago. “You’re looking—�
�� Lucy sized up Karen in a swift glance. “Wow! How long has it been?”

  Karen rose and instinctively tucked loose strands of hair behind her ears. “Um … almost five years now. Four and a half.”

  “It’s hard to believe it’s been so long.” Lucy smiled at Lucas. “He’s gotten so big! Is something wrong, little guy? You look sad.”

  Karen took in his tear-streaked face and runny nose and cringed. “This is actually my youngest, Lucas. You met my older son, Ethan.”

  “You had another one! How great is that? Two boys. He is just so cute.” Lucy pressed a hand to her chest, as if it ached from adoration. “You know, every time I see all the precious little girl clothes at Neiman Marcus, I think I should have a baby, too.”

  Karen nodded, her face straining from the effort of maintaining a pleasant expression. Why couldn’t she have taken five more minutes before leaving the house to fix her hair and put on makeup? “So, how have you been? Are you still seeing Eric?”

  “Eric?” Lucy laughed. “You have been gone a while. I haven’t seen him in years.”

  “Is that right?” For some reason Karen found this enormously depressing. They had seemed so in love. “What’s new at work? How is everyone?”

  “Don’t get me started. Last year we moved into the new building—you probably heard that—but hardly anyone’s happy with the office assignments. Riegert retired last fall, Donnie got married—” Lucy waved her hand. “You know. The usual.”

  Karen nodded, though she did not know and desperately wanted to. For years she had spent most of her waking hours with these people, but four and a half years ago, they had abruptly vanished from her life.

  “But what about you?” said Lucy, concerned. “How do you like the whole stuck-at-home-mom thing?”

  What could Karen say? “It’s everything I hoped it would be, and so much more,” she enthused, forcing a grin. “It was definitely the right choice for me. And … we usually go by stay-at-home mom, not stuck-at-home. It feels more voluntary that way.”