Читать книгу Blood Stitches - Erin Fanning - Страница 9

Quake Stitch

“What’s going on with Esperanza?” Frank asked. “She sure seemed in a hurry to get away.”

“My sister is the queen of evasion. I mean, it’s obvious she knows more about Mr. C than she’s telling us.”

Frank and I hung our coats on pegs in the hallway and headed to the living room. Shadows draped themselves across the furniture. I switched on a lamp as Frank flung his backpack next to the sofa.

“How long do you think she’ll keep us in suspense?” Frank plopped in front of the fireplace and tossed his fedora across the room. It landed on top of the TV.

“Maybe forever. She’s good at keeping secrets, but I’ll try to ease Mr. C into the conversation later tonight.”

Frank placed several split logs and kindling, along with crumpled newspaper, in the fireplace. On the mantel sat a family of four miniature dolls, knitted by Abuela and dressed in the traditional costume of Pueblo Hunab, her Mexican birthplace. A knitted tapestry of the Tree of Life stretched its branches and gnarled roots across the wall. Abuela had called it the soul of Mayan mythology, where heaven and hell intersected.

More knitted tapestries, all Esperanza’s and in every color imaginable, decorated the rest of the walls. One held a bird’s nest, feathers, and dragonfly wings, as if it were an opening to a mysterious land like Narnia or Middle-earth. Esperanza’s work hung in galleries from Albania to Zaire, but not a single gallery in Seattle carried her pieces. When asked why, she said, “My work is too folksy for Seattleites,” and changed the subject.

Frank rummaged through the knitted dolls. “Matches?”

I tossed him a box of matches sitting next to a pile of stationary on Esperanza’s writing desk and wandered to the window. Rain battered the streets. A little ghost, accompanied by two adults holding umbrellas, tottered down the sidewalk. He’d never make it to our house before his parents talked him into going home.

Halloween in Seattle. What could you do? Nothing, just like you couldn’t control an earthquake.

The memory of that night ten years ago came to me in streaky blurs. The earth yawned open. The second floor collapsed. Mamá and Papá disappeared. My world jumbled into a collage of broken house and shattered furniture with Esperanza, Abuela, and I wedged between ceiling and wall.

“Esperanza and I knit a story about light and fresh air,” Abuela said. “First we add special yarn.” She plucked strands of our hair and wrapped it around yarn.

I dozed to the music of needles clicking together as Esperanza and Abuela continued knitting afghans they’d managed to hold, as if by magic, throughout the quake. Firefighters discovered us two days later among the ruins and cut away the blankets forming skin-like cocoons around us. Abuela and Esperanza had knitted us to safety, weaving us into a story of survival.

Their fingers, though, hadn’t reached Mamá and Papá.

Of course, I asked tons of questions. Where had the yarn come from? Why hadn’t I felt thirsty or hungry? Esperanza and Abuela claimed I was delirious from a bump on my head. Over time, I let it drop. None of us wanted a reminder of losing Mamá and Papá.

Now Abuela was gone too, a stroke taking her a year ago.

The fire crackled, and Frank joined me at the window. Lamplight pooled around my socks, and rain rat-a-tatted on the roof.

“Rain, rain, go away. Come again, another day,” Frank said.

“You go from Lester Ruben to Mother Goose. I guess Shakespeare’s a stretch.”

“Oh yeah? ‘Being your slave, what should I do but tend upon the hours and times of your desire?’”

“English 101, right? One of the sonnets?”

“Sonnet 57, to be precise.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Never underestimate me.” His hand brushed mine, and a charge ran up my arm. “You know, you don’t need to be jealous of Esperanza. You’re as pretty as she is.” He stammered over the last few words.

My cheeks grew hot. No guy had ever called me pretty.

Frank put his arm around my waist.

Surprising myself, I leaned against him. Frank understood my complicated feelings for Esperanza and Abuela, how they shut me out and acted like nothing mattered except knitting. Our friendship went back forever. Words were unnecessary.

“What are you two doing over there?” Esperanza said from behind us.

Frank and I disentangled and whirled.

Esperanza, balancing a tray holding three steaming mugs, winked at me. She placed the drinks on the coffee table and handed Frank a mug. Eyes downcast, he sipped the drink, fire flickering behind him.

Esperanza kicked off her heels and curled up on the sofa. She pulled a triangular shawl, knitted with blood-red yarn, out of a basket. Candy wrappers, tissue paper, and toothpicks poked out of her work. Rows of bobbles protruded from the material like scabs.

“What gallery is that for? The pattern’s amazing.” I almost added disturbing but didn’t want to say anything negative after my bad joke earlier. I sat cross-legged on the floor and took my calculus homework from my backpack. I caught Frank’s eye. “Think you could help me with this?”

“If you’ll proof my Ruben essay.”

“It’s a deal.”

He stretched out next to me, our awkward moment at the window forgotten.

Esperanza rummaged through a paper bag and selected a handful of eggshells. She held them next to the shawl.

“Well?” Frank asked. “Who’s taking it? To be honest, it makes me uneasy.”

“I’m sure a collector will like its edgy quality,” I said.

“Gabby’s right. My customers want a visceral reaction to their art.”

“You mean people who live in loft apartments with lots of black leather furniture and secret rooms full of whips and chains?” Frank asked.

Esperanza buried her face in the bag, mumbling about a broken coffee cup. She extracted a chipped handle and pipe cleaner.

Frank chuckled. “Or men in trench coats, lurking in dark alleys?”

Like our orange-skinned friend from that afternoon. I blurted, “Are you sure you’ve never heard of Mr. C?”

Esperanza looked up from threading the pipe cleaner into the knitted shawl. “Why do you ask?”

Answering a question with a question, her favorite stalling technique, gave her extra time to think of a response, which might or might not be the truth. Someone pounding on the door saved her from replying.

“Our first trick-or-treater.” Esperanza dropped the knitting on the sofa and slipped into her heels. “I’ll get it.” She tottered from the room.

Frank handed me his essay. “Something’s going on.”

“No kidding, Sherlock.”

“Hey, no need for sarcasm. It’s not like you ‘eased Mr. C into the conversation’. Could you have been any blunter?”

“The question popped out before I could stop it.” The steady drum of rain turned into a volley of hail. “What are trick-or-treaters doing out in this weather?”

“And what’s holding up Esperanza?”

“I bet she’s avoiding us in the kitchen or her bedroom,” I said. “We might not see her again tonight.”

“The mystery continues. Oh well, we’ve got plenty to keep us busy.” Frank bent his head over my calculus homework while I read his essay.

Raised voices echoed from the hallway. Something crashed and Mr. C, arm intertwined with Esperanza’s, barged though the door.

He ripped off his cap, hair spiking around his head like a halo of orange flame. “I decided for a trick instead of a treat.”