elevator took us up to the fourth floor, and when we stepped out, Smitty scooped me up in his arms, wrestled some keys out of his pocket, opened this door with the number 4F on it, and said, ‘Welcome home, Lulu.’
“Home to a place I’d never seen, with nothing of ours in it. I know how heartbroken he was when he sold our things, when Cat Stevens died, when he left the neighborhood we had both loved so much for the one that felt, as he said, neutral. He was so tender, my husband. He helped bathe me. He clipped my toenails and dyed my hair. At night he held me while I slept. Without drugs there would be no sleep. Because of the pain. Because of my fear that I would remember something if I fell asleep. So I took a handful of pills, washed them down with vodka, and just before I fell asleep, I would hear the sound of a plastic bag caught in the wind.”
“I remember it,” Mary said. “From the papers. On the news.”
Lulu nodded. “I was a very important story. My survival. Inspiring.” She shuddered.
“I couldn’t stay,” Lulu said. “You can understand that, can’t you? Lulu Smith was killed in Tompkins Square Park that morning.”
Mary nodded.
“An old friend from that first glassblowing class was teaching at RISD. She got me an adjunct thing. Introduction to Glass. I became this person.” Lulu gestured to herself, her hands taking in her whole scarred self. “Lulu Peterson. I teach a class every semester. I make my own glass. I knit. That’s what I am. I’m afraid of things. The dark. The sound of wind. Footsteps in a hallway. Leaves rustling in trees. Voices I can’t identify. Being out there alone.”
Mary understood. After Stella died, the grocery store, the gas station, even her own backyard held danger.
“I don’t go out to eat or anything unless Scarlet takes me,” Lulu was saying. “And when we get back she unlocks my door and steps inside and turns on the lights and walks around checking the apartment. Sometimes she spends the night because I cannot be convinced that no one is waiting to hurt me.”
“I never let my daughter eat a hamburger,” Mary said. “I was so worried about E. coli. I remembered all the stories, from fast-food restaurants, and outdoor barbecues. Children dying. Then this bacteria enters her body and kills her.”
“Oh, Mary,” Lulu said, her voice cracking. “All I can do is this for you.” She inched closer to Mary and examined the hat.
“Look at what you’ve made.”
Mary nodded, the tears hot in her eyes.
“I’ll teach you patterns too,” Lulu said, her own eyes wet with tears. “Snowflakes. Horses. Ducks. You have to concentrate so hard when you do them that you have no room for anything else.”
“Snowflakes,” Mary said. “That would be good.”
“When I first got here, I asked my friend at RISD where I could get yarn. She told me to call Big Alice. I told her my story. I told her everything. Next thing I know, I’ve joined the knitting circle. Ellen was there then. Alice. Roger. You know Roger? A few people who’ve moved away. Or moved on. When the knitting circle ended, Alice drove me all the way back home. One of those nights, I was getting out of her truck with this big bag of yarn when I met Scarlet. She lived in the building too, and eventually I got her to join the circle too.”
Lulu paused.
“You know rosary beads?” she said. “Knitting is like that. One stitch is like a prayer, just like each bead is a prayer. It’s perfect for contemplation.”
“Or escape,” Mary said.
Lulu smiled sadly. “We can’t escape, can we? But we can knit.”
6
THE KNITTING CIRCLE
MARY USED TO drop Stella off at school and then drive to the Coffee Exchange. She always saw someone there she knew. Another mother from Stella’s school. Stella’s ballet teacher. One of their babysitters. Soon she would be table-hopping, getting coffee refills, her newspaper unread. Sometimes she would see a group of women, all with children who
“Home to a place I’d never seen, with nothing of ours in it. I know how heartbroken he was when he sold our things, when Cat Stevens died, when he left the neighborhood we had both loved so much for the one that felt, as he said, neutral. He was so tender, my husband. He helped bathe me. He clipped my toenails and dyed my hair. At night he held me while I slept. Without drugs there would be no sleep. Because of the pain. Because of my fear that I would remember something if I fell asleep. So I took a handful of pills, washed them down with vodka, and just before I fell asleep, I would hear the sound of a plastic bag caught in the wind.”
“I remember it,” Mary said. “From the papers. On the news.”
Lulu nodded. “I was a very important story. My survival. Inspiring.” She shuddered.
“I couldn’t stay,” Lulu said. “You can understand that, can’t you? Lulu Smith was killed in Tompkins Square Park that morning.”
Mary nodded.
“An old friend from that first glassblowing class was teaching at RISD. She got me an adjunct thing. Introduction to Glass. I became this person.” Lulu gestured to herself, her hands taking in her whole scarred self. “Lulu Peterson. I teach a class every semester. I make my own glass. I knit. That’s what I am. I’m afraid of things. The dark. The sound of wind. Footsteps in a hallway. Leaves rustling in trees. Voices I can’t identify. Being out there alone.”
Mary understood. After Stella died, the grocery store, the gas station, even her own backyard held danger.
“I don’t go out to eat or anything unless Scarlet takes me,” Lulu was saying. “And when we get back she unlocks my door and steps inside and turns on the lights and walks around checking the apartment. Sometimes she spends the night because I cannot be convinced that no one is waiting to hurt me.”
“I never let my daughter eat a hamburger,” Mary said. “I was so worried about E. coli. I remembered all the stories, from fast-food restaurants, and outdoor barbecues. Children dying. Then this bacteria enters her body and kills her.”
“Oh, Mary,” Lulu said, her voice cracking. “All I can do is this for you.” She inched closer to Mary and examined the hat.
“Look at what you’ve made.”
Mary nodded, the tears hot in her eyes.
“I’ll teach you patterns too,” Lulu said, her own eyes wet with tears. “Snowflakes. Horses. Ducks. You have to concentrate so hard when you do them that you have no room for anything else.”
“Snowflakes,” Mary said. “That would be good.”
“When I first got here, I asked my friend at RISD where I could get yarn. She told me to call Big Alice. I told her my story. I told her everything. Next thing I know, I’ve joined the knitting circle. Ellen was there then. Alice. Roger. You know Roger? A few people who’ve moved away. Or moved on. When the knitting circle ended, Alice drove me all the way back home. One of those nights, I was getting out of her truck with this big bag of yarn when I met Scarlet. She lived in the building too, and eventually I got her to join the circle too.”
Lulu paused.
“You know rosary beads?” she said. “Knitting is like that. One stitch is like a prayer, just like each bead is a prayer. It’s perfect for contemplation.”
“Or escape,” Mary said.
Lulu smiled sadly. “We can’t escape, can we? But we can knit.”
6
THE KNITTING CIRCLE
MARY USED TO drop Stella off at school and then drive to the Coffee Exchange. She always saw someone there she knew. Another mother from Stella’s school. Stella’s ballet teacher. One of their babysitters. Soon she would be table-hopping, getting coffee refills, her newspaper unread. Sometimes she would see a group of women, all with children who
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