Knitting Under the Influence

  Sari watched him take his son's hand and walk out the door with one last wave. She sank into a chair and let her head fall back.

  Even hand in hand with a small child, Jason Smith swaggered when he walked, just like he used to swagger a million years ago in high school—when he and his friends ridiculed and tortured Charlie on a daily basis.

  Sari tried to remember the details, but it was all pretty foggy. Funny how hard it was to remember the most painful periods of your life really clearly. Maybe there was a reason for that— maybe that way you protected yourself from reliving them.

  Jason Smith was one of a bunch of faces, a bunch of names. They all blurred. Had he ever led the charge against Charlie? Been one of the ones who called him retard and shoved him against the wall? Or was he one of the kids who just stood there and laughed while shit like that went down? Looking at his face—handsome as it was—had made Sari want to throw up, so she knew he'd done at least that.

  Some things your gut remembered better than your brain.

  Someone had pulled Charlie's pants down during recess, in front of a circle of cheering students. Had that been Jason? By the time a friend had found Sari to tell her, and she'd gone running to help him, it was too late. There was a teacher already there, but he hadn't seen anything, and in the end no one got in trouble because no one would say who did it. It could have been Jason. Or one of his rich asshole friends. It almost didn't matter. Whether you were the one who did the deed or just the one who stood by—applauding—and let it happen—what was the difference, really?

  Sari hugged her arms across her chest and rocked, feeling cold and hot at the same time.

  All the girls had crushes on him. You'd walk into the bathroom and see his name in a heart with someone else's, or two girls would be sitting perched on the edge of the sinks, talking and smoking, and you'd hear his name over and over again. Even Sari couldn't not look at him when he was in the same room. He was that handsome.

  He had kissed her on the cheek just now, had said that they were old friends, and she was supposed to—

  She was supposed to help his kid. Sari was supposed to help his kid just because Zack had a neurological disorder, and because that's what she did. She helped kids with autism learn to talk and behave and overcome the symptoms of their disorder. No matter who their parents were.

  Sari helped kids with autism get better, and it shouldn't matter to her that Zack's father and all his friends had tortured her brother and ruined her life.

  She sat up straight. It wasn't Zack's fault who his father was.

  So. She had to help him. It was the right thing to do and she knew it. It wasn't even a choice.

  But the finality of that didn't stop her from wondering—did Jason Smith really not remember about Charlie or did he just not care?

  Could anyone be that cold?

  She crossed to the desk and fished her cell phone out of her purse. “I have to see you tonight,” she said when Lucy answered.

  “Meet me at the yarn store,” Lucy said.

  VI

  Jason Smith,” Sari said, as soon as she had greeted Lucy. She had found her in the back of the store, where the wall was lined with diamond-shaped cubbyholes filled with different-colored balls of yarns. Skeins of wool were also piled up in wooden general store bins. Yarn stores usually gave Sari the same feeling that candy stores did when she was little—there was the same rainbow of choices spread out before her and the same anticipation made both wonderful and tense by the knowledge that all these choices had to be eventually narrowed down to a selection. Tonight, though, she barely glanced at the colors around her. “What do you remember about him?”

  “Jason Smith?” Lucy repeated. She ran her fingers lightly along a row of blue wool skeins. “Too rough. I want it really soft … You mean Jason Smith from high school? Man, I haven't thought of him in years.”

  “I know. Me neither. What do you remember?” Lucy thought for a moment as she slid along the wall, fingering more yarn. “Good-looking asshole.”

  “How big an asshole?”

  She plucked out a ball of wool and studied it thoughtfully. “Big. I think. But he kind of had a right to be because he was so hot.”

  “Debatable,” Sari said. She leaned back against the cubbies and folded her arms. “He was one of the guys who tortured Charlie, wasn't he?”

  “A lot of people did that,” Lucy said, tossing the skein back and picking up another one.

  “I know,” Sari said. “But I think Jason Smith was one of the worst ones.”

  “Maybe. I don't remember. What I do remember is he was always being followed around by a bunch of girls, because he was good-looking and a jock. Why'd you bring him up, anyway?”

  “He brought his kid into the clinic today for treatment.”

  “No way!” Lucy raised the yarn she was holding up to the light. “Pretty, don't you think?” She lowered her hand. “So Jason Smith has a kid with autism?”

  “Yeah. And, by the way, I could probably get fired just for telling you that, so keep it between us.”

  “He's not old enough to have a kid with autism, is he? How old is the kid?”

  “Three.”

  “Babies having babies,” Lucy said with a shake of her head. She searched through the bin of wool that matched the color she had picked out. “Do you think there are fifteen balls in here? I need fifteen.”

  “Don't forget to check the dye lots.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “You know,” Sari said, watching her sort through the yarn, “we keep doing that. You, me, and Kathleen.”

  “What? Forget to check the dye lots?”

  “No—I mean, we keep acting like no one our age could possibly have kids. We even act surprised when people we know get married. But we're not that young anymore. People our age get married and have kids all the time. People a lot younger than us do. At some point, we've got to accept the fact that we're not college students anymore and haven't been for a while.”

  “I’ve accepted it,” Lucy said, making a pile of the yarn on top of a chair. “I don't like it, but I’ve accepted it. Okay, that's nine, ten, eleven—”

  “It's just…” Sari stopped and stared at the growing pyramid. Then she said, “It was really weird seeing this guy. Last time I saw him was probably high school graduation. And here he comes in with a kid and he's a parent like all the other parents I see every day. It was weird. Like he had become a grown-up but I hadn't.”

  Lucy stopped counting and looked at her. “What are you talking about? You were the professional in the room, and all be did to be there was blow some sperm. Any fifteen-year-old can get a girl pregnant.”

  “I’m not really a professional,” Sari said. “It'll be years till I get my license and can practice in my own right.”

  “Doesn't matter. You were still the expert.” She turned back to the yarn and counted it again with little pecks of her index finger. “Twelve, thirteen … Shoot, I don't think there's quite enough.”

  “What are you making, anyway?”

  “A sweater.”

  “For yourself?”

  “For James, actually.”

  “Wow,” Sari said. “That sounds serious.”

  “It's just a sweater,” Lucy said.

  “Yeah, right. Just hours and hours and hours of work. Hours and hours and hours.”

  “I know,” Lucy said. “That's okay. I like knitting.”

  “Still, knitting for a guy means you think it's going to last. I wish I knew James better—we've only ever met in passing.”

  “We should all have dinner together,” Lucy said. “Could you do it next Friday night?”

  “I don't know,” Sari said. “I’d have to cancel my date with this hot guy I’ve been seeing who gets really jealous when I go out without him. Have I mentioned that he's imaginary?”

  “The problem is your job,” Lucy said. She scooped up the whole pile of yarn and dropped it back in its bin. “Every guy you meet at work is married
.”

  “Or on the spectrum. Hey, I like that green.” Sari picked up a skein and showed her. “Don't you think that would look nice on James?”

  “Yeah, I do. Help me check the dye lots.” They started to search through the barrel of yarn. Then Lucy stopped. “Oh, wait—I just remembered something else about Jason Smith.”

  “I’m counting D-44s. What?”

  “He slept with Portia Grossman.”

  Sari looked up. “Shut up! She was our class valedictorian.”

  Lucy nodded. “He did. I’m sure of it. I remember her strutting around, telling her friends during homeroom. They were all so jealous, I was jealous.”

  “You just said he was an asshole.”

  “I said he was a good-looking asshole. There's no one hotter in the whole world than that, Sari.”

  “Not to me. There are only twelve D-44s, Luce.”

  “I think there are enough D-47s. See if you can find one more in there.” Lucy watched as Sari rooted through the bin. “There's just a vibe about bad boys, Sari. Like they could get a little angry, a little dangerous, and in bed that would be—”

  “Jason Smith tortured my brother,” Sari said. “I could never be attracted to him.”

  “Yeah, all right,” Lucy said.

  The total for the yarn came to two hundred and fifty dollars. Lucy sighed and paid it.

  Sari lay in bed that night feeling lonely. Kathleen had moved into her new place that afternoon, which was a good thing—she took up a lot of space, both because she was so tall and because she was … well, Kathleen. She had, for example, woken Sari up at four the previous morning because she thought it would be “fun” to bake cookies and talk, and Sari, who had to be up at seven to go to work, cursed at her and pulled a pillow over her own head so she could go back to sleep.

  But tonight she could have used Kathleen's company.

  For the first few years of her life, Sari had shared a room with Charlie, because the house had only three bedrooms and Cassie had thrown a fit when they tried moving newborn baby Sari in with her. Even at the age of five, Cassie was spending a lot of time alone in her room with the door shut—presumably living out a fantasy life that improved on her real one—and she wasn't about to give up her privacy without a fight. So Sari's crib was set up in Charlie's room, which he accepted without question. He accepted everything without question. Possibly because he didn't have the language then to ask a question. But also because he was, by nature, passive and accommodating.

  When Sari turned five, they moved to a bigger house, and she got her own room. She was thrilled—no more worrying that Charlie would suddenly decide to empty everything off the shelves or methodically pull every hair out of her dolls’ heads as he occasionally had done in the room they shared.

  But for years after that, if she woke up during the night because of a bad dream or because she heard a strange noise or because it was raining out—for any reason at all—the loneliness of her own room would become unbearable. She would slip out of her bed and dash across the hallway to Charlie's room. Before she had even reached the threshold, she could hear his snoring—he was already growing fat and had always had allergies, and the combination made him a noisy sleeper.

  Sari would crawl into bed next to him, shoving him over to make room for her on the outside half of his narrow twin bed. He often muttered in response but never woke up, and Sari would snuggle up tight against him. He was big and warm and the familiar rhythm of his snores soon put her back to sleep.

  In the morning, Charlie would wake up early and roll over her to get out of bed, as if she weren't even there. Sari would huddle under the covers then, still half asleep, and drowsily watch him while he walked in circles around the room, hooting and waving his hands in the air, an alien creature whom she could never completely come to know.

  2

  Ribbing

  I

  So what's the apartment like?” Lucy asked, glancing up from her knitting. This morning was the first chance she'd had to start the sweater for James, and she was casting on stitches for the back.

  “Big,” Kathleen said.

  “What is it with you and big?” Sari asked. She lived in a tiny one-bedroom fourth-floor walk-up near Westwood Village and could barely afford the rent. Right now, the three of them were crammed around the one small round table that functioned as both her kitchen table and her desk—she'd had to move her computer and a bunch of papers onto the floor before setting up for brunch. Plates of half-eaten muffins and cups of tepid coffee were jammed in with knitting magazines and uncurling coils of measuring tape. Sari gestured around her. “How come you keep getting to live in these big beautiful places, and I’m stuck here?”

  “I don't know,” Kathleen said. “Maybe I was nice to cows in a previous life and earned a lot of good karma.”

  “I was a cow in a previous life,” Lucy said with a smirk. “Back in high school.”

  “You weren't fat.” Sari squinted at her row counter and flicked another number forward. “You just thought you were. Is it furnished, Kath?”

  “Nope.”

  “Shit,” Lucy said, throwing down her needle with the cast-on stitches. “I’ve counted this three times and I’ve gotten a different number each time. I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

  “Here.” Sari rested her own knitting on her lap and held out her hand. “Let me try.”

  “Thanks.” Lucy handed it to her and watched as Sari slid the stitches along, one by one, her lips moving silently. “So when are you going furniture shopping, Kathleen?”

  “I already bought a couple of airbeds and a few odds and ends. But I’m not going to buy any real furniture or anything. I mean, the guy could kick me out at any minute. No point getting too settled. Plus I’m short on cash.”

  “How long can you live like that, though?” Lucy said. “It sounds like you'll have this place for at least a few months. You can rent furniture, you know.”

  “Too much work.”

  “Well, at least buy some kind of bed frame, so you're not sleeping on the floor with all the bugs.”

  “There aren't any bugs in that place,” Kathleen said. “They can't afford the rent.”

  “I got sixty-four,” Sari said, handing the needle and yarn back to Lucy.

  “Good,” Lucy said. “I got that once, too.” She took her knitting back to her own seat. “You'll need a table and at least three chairs, Kath, for when it's your turn to host.”

  “Can't we just sit on the floor?” Kathleen said. “Have we gotten so old we need to sit in chairs all the time?”

  “I have,” Lucy said. “It's one thing to be all bohemian and stuff in college, but we're years out of college now. I’m over being uncomfortable.”

  “But I like having the empty floor space,” Kathleen said. “I can run laps in my own apartment. And do push-ups and play soccer—”

  “Play soccer?” Sari said. “Your neighbors must love the sound of balls thwacking against their walls night and day.”

  “No one's complained yet. Except for one old lady but she's the type who'd complain about anything.” Kathleen stopped knitting to pull at a couple of strands of yarn that were all tangled up. “Hey, did I tell you guys I’ve got a job interview tomorrow?”

  “You're kidding,” Sari said, searching through her bag. “That was fast.” She pulled out a skein of white wool, frowned at it, and shoved it back. “What's the job?”

  “Nothing exciting. I’d be the assistant to some real estate guy. That's all I know.” She reached for her coffee mug and took a sip.

  “What's his name?”

  “Rats—Sam told me, but I don't remember. Something Porter, I think. Johnson Porter? Jackson Porter? Something like that.” She put the mug back down.

  “You should probably try to get it right in the interview,” Lucy said.

  Sari said, “Is he the Porter in those Porter and Wachtell signs you always see on big construction sites? That Porter?”

  “I don't know
. Maybe.”

  “If he is, that's a huge company,” Sari said. “I see those signs everywhere. How did you get the interview?”

  “Through the same guy who got me the apartment. Sam Kaplan.” She squinted down at the pattern she was using. “Does anyone know how to do a yarn-over at the beginning of a row? I can't figure it out. It doesn't make sense, does it? Doesn't it have to be in the middle of a row to work?”

  “Hold on, let me take a look.” Sari put down her own knitting and came over to kneel in front of Kathleen. “Well, first of all, you've gotten it all tangled up,” she said.

  “Like everything in my life,” Kathleen said, watching Sari's hands sort through the tangle. “But you'll fix it, won't you, Sari?

  That's what you do—you fix everyone's messes.”

  “This is the slipperiest yarn I’ve ever seen,” Sari said.

  “Slipperiest?” Lucy repeated. “Is that even a word?” She looked over. “But I see what you mean. It's all shiny. You might even say blinding. What are you making, Kathleen?”

  Kathleen held up her Vogue Knitting so they could see the picture. “A tank top.”

  “A bright gold tank top,” Lucy said, shaking her head. “Subtle you're not.”

  “I like bright colors,” Kathleen said. “We can't all be elegant and boring like you.”

  “I’ll accept that as a compliment coming from a girl with bright green toenails.”

  “They're not green,” Kathleen said, stretching out her bare feet so they could all see. “They're chartreuse. It's my new favorite color. When I finish this tank, I want to make a chartreuse tube top. Don't you think that would be cool?”

  “If you wear a handknit tube top, don't your nipples poke through?” Lucy said.

  “Not if you use a small enough needle and a really fine yarn,” Sari said. “I think I got it straightened out, Kath. Let me see the instructions.”

  “Anyway,” Kathleen said, handing them to her. “What's wrong with a little nipple showing? Give ‘em what they want, I always say.