An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler (44 page)

One page filled, Agnes had said, an entire page covered with signatures demanding the destruction of the skateboard ramp. The thought of it made Diane dizzy with apprehension. How could it be that so many of their neighbors had sided against them?

The phone rang as soon as Agnes left; it was Gwen, calling to gloat over Steve’s article. “It’s perfect,” she crowed. “You’ll have every parent and private property hawk in Waterford on your side.”

“I haven’t had a chance to read it yet,” Diane said, pinning the receiver to her ear with her shoulder so her hands would be free to pack the boys’ lunches. Tim sped through the kitchen and planted a kiss on her cheek on his way out. “Bye, honey,” she called after him.

“Honey?” Gwen echoed. “Hanging up so soon?”

“That was for Tim, but yes, I do have to go.” Had Gwen forgotten what school mornings were like in a family with teenagers? “First, though, does the article say anything about Mary Beth’s petition?”

“No. What petition?”

“I’ll tell you after your workshop. See you at Elm Creek Manor.” Diane hung up and called out to her sons. “Lunches are ready. Hurry up or you’ll be late.”

Michael snatched his from the counter and ran out the door, but Todd hesitated, his brows drawn together in disbelief. “Brent’s mom made a petition against us?”

The phone rang again.

Diane glanced from her son to the phone, to the clock over the kitchen table, and back to her son in the amount of time for the phone to pause between rings. “Not against us, honey, not against you. We’re just having a difference of opinion. This is the way adults settle these things. We shouldn’t take it personally. We can talk about this later, okay? You’d better hurry or you’ll miss your bus.”

He nodded, put his lunch bag in his backpack, and left, but he didn’t look convinced. Why should he? Diane knew her explanation was a half-truth at best. Neither she nor Mary Beth was demonstrating textbook adult behavior, and Diane herself was taking this matter all too personally. She snatched up the phone a second before the answering machine would have clicked on. “Hello?”

It was a neighbor, calling to apologize for signing Mary Beth’s petition. She never would have signed it, she said, if she had known the whole story, but now that she’d read the newspaper article, the Sonnenbergs had her support. Diane thanked her, but as soon as they hung up, the phone rang again.

“Hello?” she said, glancing at the clock.

“Tear that damn thing down or we’ll tear it down for you,” a voice growled in her ear, low, gruff, a man’s voice. Then there was a click and the dial tone.

Stunned, Diane slowly replaced the receiver—and the phone rang again. Heart pounding, she unplugged the cord from the jack.

After Gwen’s workshop, while the campers were enjoying their free time, Diane told Gwen, Sarah, Carol, and Sylvia about the call. All but Sylvia listened with wide eyes, stunned by the story. Sylvia looked concerned, but somehow she didn’t seemed surprised.

“Did you use star sixty-nine to trace the call?” Gwen asked.

Diane shook her head. “I didn’t think of it.” Her heart sank as they all urged her to do so next time. Why were they so certain that there would be a next time?

“I must say I’m amazed by all this,” Carol said. “This seemed like such a nice little town.”

Sarah gave her a slight frown. “It almost always is. This is an anomaly.”

“I hope you’re right,” Carol said, but she looked dubious. “It doesn’t seem like a very nice place to raise children.”

Sarah gave her a disapproving look but said nothing more.

Diane dreaded to go home, but eventually she could think of no more excuses to stay, and she wanted to be there when the boys arrived. Before she left, Sylvia took her aside and placed her hands on Diane’s shoulders.

“Promise me you won’t let those fools scare you,” Sylvia said.

“I won’t,” Diane said. Though she was taller, she felt young and small beneath the older woman’s knowing gaze. “I’m not scared, just angry.”

“Good.” Sylvia squeezed Diane’s shoulders. “I want to believe in the good in people, I do, but I’ve seen how the people in this town can turn on a person. I know how it feels to have a whole town against you. Don’t let them make you afraid. Don’t let them make you feel ashamed when you’ve done nothing wrong.” And with that, she strode away, back to her sewing room.

Diane watched her go, wondering.

When she got home, the house was quiet, but instead of the restful peace she usually sensed there at that time of day, the silence seemed strange and watchful. She chided herself for her nerves and told herself she was being silly, but still, she walked through the house checking every room to see what was amiss. She felt alert, wary. Something wasn’t right.

When she returned to the kitchen and drew back the curtain to peer outside, she saw it.

Paint as red as blood stained the skateboard ramp; angry splashes and hateful words marred the smooth curves. Diane found herself running outside, strangling a scream of rage as she drew closer, close enough to see shattered eggs and mud and broken glass. She stopped at the base of the U, clenching and unclenching her fists, fighting to breathe. Her eyes darted around the yard, though she knew the culprits were long gone. The paint was dry; the dark patches of mud were cracked on the surface; the eggs had hardened into yellowish, foul-smelling streaks.

Michael. She couldn’t let him see this.

She raced to the back of the garage for the garden hose, unwinding it like a thick green snake on the lawn. Most of the mud surrendered to the force of the spray, but the eggs were more stubborn and the paint glared scarlet through the droplets. She brought out buckets and soap and brushes and scrubbed at the stains with all her strength. She scrubbed harder, faster, until her muscles burned, sweat trickled down her forehead, and all she could do was scrub and scrub and scrub and spit out curses through clenched teeth.

“Mom?”

She gasped and turned so quickly that she upset the bucket, sending a stream of pink, soapy water running down the base of the ramp to the lawn. Michael and Todd were staring at her, too stunned to get out of the way.

Diane couldn’t think of what to say. She sat back on her heels and drew the back of her hand across her brow, pushing the sweaty blond curls aside.

“What the hell happened?” Michael said. Openmouthed, he climbed onto the ramp and slowly spun around, taking it all in.

Diane watched him until she caught her breath, then she picked up her brush and got back to work. Her fury was spent; she worked slowly now, deliberately. A few moments later, she heard Michael set the bucket upright and fill it with water and soap. Soon he was on his knees beside her, plunging a second brush into the bucket and scrubbing furiously.

Five minutes passed, and then ten, and then Todd joined them. Unnoticed, he had gone back inside to change out of his nice school clothes. It was such a typical Todd thing to do that Diane almost burst out laughing, but she didn’t let herself, because she knew if she did, tears would soon follow.

They worked until Tim came home. Diane had forgotten to make supper, so they ordered pizza. When they sat down to eat, Diane yanked the curtains shut so they couldn’t see into the backyard.

“We need a guard dog,” Todd said, chewing thoughtfully on a long string of mozzarella. “A huge, mean dog. A Doberman pinscher or a rottweiler.”

“Or a pit bull,” Michael said. “Or a couple of pit bulls.”

“Or a velociraptor on crack,” Tim suggested, reaching for a second piece.

It was so ridiculous that Diane had to laugh—deep, aching, whole-body laughs that soon had the entire family joining in. They laughed completely out of proportion to the humor in Tim’s remark, and that awareness was what finally helped Diane stop laughing long enough to finish her supper. But for the rest of the evening, as the four of them tried to remove the signs of the vandalism, all anyone had to do was snarl and claw the air like a dinosaur after prey and they were all helpless with laughter again.

The next day, Diane left for Elm Creek Manor as late as possible and rushed home as soon as Judy’s workshop ended. To her relief, no additional vandalism had occurred during her absence. Perhaps the culprits thought none was needed; traces of paint were still plainly visible on the smooth curve of the ramp, spelling out words she liked to fool herself into thinking her sons didn’t know.

She was sitting on the swing on the deck, the round robin quilt untouched in her lap, when Todd came home. “I skipped band practice,” he said by way of greeting, but she hardly heard him. His shirt was torn, the collar stained with blood that probably came from his split lip. His left eye was puffy and bruised.

“What on earth?” Diane jumped up, letting the quilt fall, and raced to him. She checked him all over for more serious injuries before marching him inside to patch him up.

“Brent,” he said, though she had already guessed. “He got mad because I was passing around a petition after school.”

“A what?”

He reached for his backpack, wincing in pain, and took out a crumpled sheet of paper. “I figured if they could have a petition, we could, too.”

Diane skimmed the page, taking in about two dozen children’s signatures below a paragraph asking the commission to let Michael Sonnenberg keep his skateboard ramp.

Her heart was too full for words. She wrapped Todd in a hug and held on tight.

“Mom,” he said in a strained voice, “that kind of hurts.”

Immediately, she released him. “Sorry.” Then movement in the family room doorway caught her eye. It was a young man with hair neatly trimmed and nary an earring to be seen.

Diane stared. “Who are you and what have you done with my son?”

“Funny, Mom,” Michael said, but he grinned, pleased.

Todd looked astounded. “Dude, what did you do to your hair?”

“I got it cut.” Michael flopped into a chair. “I don’t want to give those guys any ammunition.”

A month ago, Diane never could have imagined she’d ever say the words she was about to speak. “I wish you wouldn’t have. You don’t need to change for them.”

But Michael merely shrugged. “It’s just my hair. It’s not me.” His eyes met hers, and for a moment Diane felt that they understood each other.

Her heart full of sorrowful pride, Diane took up the round robin quilt that had been so often studied and too long neglected. She chose fabric in a deeper shade of cream than what Sarah had used, for Sarah’s fabric was too bright for this new feeling, for this not-yet-comprehensible sense that in fighting for her son’s happiness she had done exactly what her family needed her to do, so that regardless of the hearing’s outcome, she would know she had not failed them.

She cut four large triangles from the cloth, knowing that although they came from the same fabric, and looked alike, and might even seem identical to an outsider, there were subtle differences among them—a more crooked line here, a sharper point there, an edge not quite as long as it should be. Some quilters would call them mistakes, these variations that made each piece unique, but now Diane knew better.

She sewed the longest side of each triangle to an edge of the round robin quilt, setting the design on point, forcing a new perspective. One triangle for Tim, one for Michael, one for Todd, and the last for herself. The two smaller tips of each triangle met the analogous angles of the triangles on its left and its right, like four members of a family holding hands in a circle, united at last.

Four

H
e had thought about Sylvia often since that Sunday morning weeks ago when he had seen her on television. It was a shock, at first, to see the short gray hair where once there had been long, dark curls, but her spirit was the same, there was no doubt about that. The young woman who had spent so much of the program at Sylvia’s elbow, though, the one who had made that joke about her mother—she was a mystery. She and Sylvia seemed close. Could she be a granddaughter? Had Sylvia married again after all? He didn’t think so. He hoped not. If he’d had any idea that Sylvia would ever consider taking another husband, he would have stuck around.

A pang of guilt went through him. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, Katy-girl,” he said aloud. He could picture her wagging a finger at him in mock reproach, and he grinned. No, Katy knew he wouldn’t trade anything for the more than fifty years they had spent together. Those years had given him two children, a home, and a peace he had never dreamed he could possess. Katy never minded his limp, or his background, or the way he needed to be by himself every once in a while. When he woke in the darkness shaking and sweating from the nightmares, she had held him and shushed him and stroked his head until he could sleep again. In the mornings she would say nothing of his terror, leaving him his dignity.

He missed her. Sometimes he wished he had been the one to pass on first. Katy would have managed fine without him, better than he had done without her. Then again, he wouldn’t wish this loneliness on anyone, least of all his wife.

It sure would be nice to have her in the passenger seat, riding along beside him as they crisscrossed the country. Of course, if Katy were still alive, he wouldn’t have sold the house and bought this motor home. She loved that little house. Over the years, as their nest egg had grown, he’d often suggested they find a bigger place, but she wouldn’t hear of it. “Why move now, just when I have my garden the way I like it?” she had asked. Another time it was because the kids were in school, and then it was because all their friends lived in the neighborhood. But one by one their friends retired and moved to condos in Florida or rooms in their children’s homes. His buddies at the VFW grew fewer and fewer. Some died, and all too soon Katy joined them.