breath.
“Well, you’ve certainly been in the news,” Peggy says, pulling on her gloves. “What a thing that must have been!” she says. “To find a baby.” She looks at me. “And you were with him, too!”
I nod.
“I’m off to Sweetser’s,” Peggy says. “Have to get some batteries and road salt before the storm gets worse. You want to wait inside? I won’t lock the door.”
“No, we’re fine,” my father says. “Thanks.”
“If I don’t see you later, have a good Christmas,” Peggy says.
My father and I walk to the truck. I climb into the cab. I know enough not to ask a single question, not to say a word.
At Remy’s my father slows to the curb. Through the whiteout and the steamed window, I can see the pale yellow light of a bulb above the register. My father hands me a ten-dollar bill. “Make it snappy,” he says.
The steps are poorly shoveled. A bell rings when I enter the store, needlessly announcing me. Marion sets her knitting down. “Nicky,” she says. “Sweetheart. You’re my hero, you know that? Haven’t seen you since you found the baby. Haven’t seen your dad either.”
“We’ve been kind of busy,” I say.
“Well, I guess so!”
Marion, a large redhead with a rubbery face, married her sister’s husband after an affair of biblical proportions that shocked even the most ardent proponents of New Hampshire’s highly unrealistic state motto,
Live Free or Die.
But that was years ago, and now the woman is a pillar of the community. Her husband, Jimmy, who was once the Regional’s star quarterback, weighs in at over three hundred pounds. One of Marion’s sons is at UNH; the other is at the state prison for armed robbery.
I have hardly ever seen Marion without knitting needles in her hands. Today she’s making something in red and yellow stripes. I hope it’s not for anyone over two years old. “So tell me all about it!” she says.
“Um,” I say, thinking.
“Something that wasn’t in the papers.”
I think another moment. “We wrapped her in flannel shirts and put her in a plastic laundry basket.”
“You did?” Marion says, seemingly happy with the detail. “Were you just completely freaked out?”
“Pretty much,” I say.
Marion picks up her knitting. “You went to the hospital, too?”
“I did.”
“Did you get to stay with the baby?”
“We visited for a minute.”
“What’s going to happen to her?”
“We don’t really know,” I say.
Marion loses her rubbery smile. “It’s sad,” she says.
“Well, we did find her,” I say, not yet willing to relinquish the role of heroine.
“No, I mean sad for the person who did it,” she says. “There must have been a terrible reason.”
I think about how the person who did it is in our bathroom at home right this minute.
“You finish the hat for your dad?”
“Yes,” I say, inching closer to the aisles.
“How did it come out?”
“Pretty good,” I say. “I think it’ll fit him.”
“You ended up liking the rolled edge?”
“I did,” I say.
My mother taught me how to knit when I was seven. I forgot about knitting until one day I saw Marion at the counter with hers and confessed that I knew how. Confessed is the right word. In those days, in the early 1980s, knitting was not a hobby a preteen would readily admit to. But Marion, ever enthusiastic, pounced upon me and insisted that I show her something I’d made. I did—a misshapen scarf—which she praised extravagantly. She lent me a raspberry-colored wool for another project, a hat for myself. Since then I’ve been knitting pretty continuously. It’s addictive and it’s soothing, and for a few minutes anyway, it makes me feel closer to my mother. When I run into trouble with a particular stitch or a pattern, I go down to the store, and Marion helps me sort it out. Usually, I am fascinated by whatever Marion is knitting, by the way a ball of string can become a sweater or a baby blanket, but today I just want to get
“Well, you’ve certainly been in the news,” Peggy says, pulling on her gloves. “What a thing that must have been!” she says. “To find a baby.” She looks at me. “And you were with him, too!”
I nod.
“I’m off to Sweetser’s,” Peggy says. “Have to get some batteries and road salt before the storm gets worse. You want to wait inside? I won’t lock the door.”
“No, we’re fine,” my father says. “Thanks.”
“If I don’t see you later, have a good Christmas,” Peggy says.
My father and I walk to the truck. I climb into the cab. I know enough not to ask a single question, not to say a word.
At Remy’s my father slows to the curb. Through the whiteout and the steamed window, I can see the pale yellow light of a bulb above the register. My father hands me a ten-dollar bill. “Make it snappy,” he says.
The steps are poorly shoveled. A bell rings when I enter the store, needlessly announcing me. Marion sets her knitting down. “Nicky,” she says. “Sweetheart. You’re my hero, you know that? Haven’t seen you since you found the baby. Haven’t seen your dad either.”
“We’ve been kind of busy,” I say.
“Well, I guess so!”
Marion, a large redhead with a rubbery face, married her sister’s husband after an affair of biblical proportions that shocked even the most ardent proponents of New Hampshire’s highly unrealistic state motto,
Live Free or Die.
But that was years ago, and now the woman is a pillar of the community. Her husband, Jimmy, who was once the Regional’s star quarterback, weighs in at over three hundred pounds. One of Marion’s sons is at UNH; the other is at the state prison for armed robbery.
I have hardly ever seen Marion without knitting needles in her hands. Today she’s making something in red and yellow stripes. I hope it’s not for anyone over two years old. “So tell me all about it!” she says.
“Um,” I say, thinking.
“Something that wasn’t in the papers.”
I think another moment. “We wrapped her in flannel shirts and put her in a plastic laundry basket.”
“You did?” Marion says, seemingly happy with the detail. “Were you just completely freaked out?”
“Pretty much,” I say.
Marion picks up her knitting. “You went to the hospital, too?”
“I did.”
“Did you get to stay with the baby?”
“We visited for a minute.”
“What’s going to happen to her?”
“We don’t really know,” I say.
Marion loses her rubbery smile. “It’s sad,” she says.
“Well, we did find her,” I say, not yet willing to relinquish the role of heroine.
“No, I mean sad for the person who did it,” she says. “There must have been a terrible reason.”
I think about how the person who did it is in our bathroom at home right this minute.
“You finish the hat for your dad?”
“Yes,” I say, inching closer to the aisles.
“How did it come out?”
“Pretty good,” I say. “I think it’ll fit him.”
“You ended up liking the rolled edge?”
“I did,” I say.
My mother taught me how to knit when I was seven. I forgot about knitting until one day I saw Marion at the counter with hers and confessed that I knew how. Confessed is the right word. In those days, in the early 1980s, knitting was not a hobby a preteen would readily admit to. But Marion, ever enthusiastic, pounced upon me and insisted that I show her something I’d made. I did—a misshapen scarf—which she praised extravagantly. She lent me a raspberry-colored wool for another project, a hat for myself. Since then I’ve been knitting pretty continuously. It’s addictive and it’s soothing, and for a few minutes anyway, it makes me feel closer to my mother. When I run into trouble with a particular stitch or a pattern, I go down to the store, and Marion helps me sort it out. Usually, I am fascinated by whatever Marion is knitting, by the way a ball of string can become a sweater or a baby blanket, but today I just want to get
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