Curtains (17 page)

“I didn’t write that ‘needy’ part,” Morris
said. “My editor put that in. He thought it was more of an
eye-grabber.”

“The article has your name on it,” Faith
said. “You’ve damaged all the children who have been blessed by
Threads of Hope. God can’t forgive those who don’t accept their
sins.”

“God doesn’t have anything to do with
it.”

“If you can’t apologize to the Lord, you can
at least apologize to the circle.” She stood to the side and
motioned down the hallway, indicating that Morris should go
first.

He resigned himself to go on and get his
“mission of contrition” over with, then hurry back to the office
and type it up with Henry McKenna as his co-author. He was halfway
to the meeting room when he felt a prick in the back of his neck.
At first he thought he’d been bitten by a spider, and he reached to
wipe the creature away. The janitor came out of the meeting room,
eyes bright, jaws making gravel.

“Let’s get him upstairs,” Faith said.

At first, Morris thought Faith wanted him to
help subdue the janitor, who looked as if he’d escaped from a
facility for the criminally insane. But the janitor didn’t flee.
Instead, he dropped his push broom and approached Morris. After a
couple of steps, there were two of him, and Morris’s head felt as
if it were stuffed with wet pillows, the silent walls drumming in
wooden echoes. He spun awkwardly, and Faith held up an empty
hypodermic needle, the tip gleaming with one drop of clear
liquid.

A kaleidoscope played behind his eyelids as
he rose from the depths of a stupor. He’d experimented with a
number of chemicals in his college days, but he could never recall
suffering such a sledgehammer to the brain. The kaleidoscope slowly
came into focus and he realized his eyes were open. He tried to
move his head.

The kaleidoscope that had heralded his return
to consciousness turned out to be a stained-glass window. Jesus
stood there, arms spread, catching the dying sunlight. Morris
recognized it as the same window that adorned the steeple of the
church. The room appeared to be an attic of some kind, and a bell
rope ran the length of one wall and disappeared through a small
opening in the ceiling.

He must have fainted. Heat, stress, and a
good dose of whiskey on an empty stomach. Not to mention the trank.
And maybe a touch of the flu had crept up on him.

Snick.

Snick, snick.

As groggy as he was, it took him a moment to
place the sound. Scissors.

The members of the sewing circle were
gathered around him, stitching, darning, cutting scraps of cloth.
He looked from face to face, trying to focus. Both Almas were
there, though Morris had forgotten the names of the others. No,
Reba, that was it. The chatty one. And Lillian. And one, wasn’t she
named after a flower? Rose? Violet? No, Daisy, that was it.
Daisy.

He tried to smile but couldn’t. His lips were
too numb.

“Looks like Mr. Big-Time Writer is awake,”
Reba said, without a trace of her earlier humor.

“A shame he can’t be troubled to get a little
thing right,” the other Alma said. “Now, what would happen if we
left a few loose threads in one of our blankets just because we
didn’t care enough to do it right?”

“Why, that would be like having no hope,”
Daisy said. “Worse, it would be like giving up hope on the
children.”

“Oh, but we know how needy they are,” the
first Alma said. “Because we read about it in the paper.”

Morris tried again to lift his head. The
women weren’t looking at him. They concentrated on their work,
snipping, stitching, working threads and needles and yarn. Morris’
stomach roiled, and he was afraid he was going to vomit in the
presence of these women before he could lift himself and make it to
a bathroom. Flu, for sure.

“Don’t try to talk none,” Reba said. “You
done enough harm with your words already.”

Lillian giggled like a schoolgirl. “You tied
that knot off right, didn’t you, Reba? I know how much pride you
take in your work.”

“Wouldn’t want to go disappointing nobody.
Unlike some people.”

A door opened somewhere beyond Morris’ range
of vision. The women stopped working and looked in that direction,
their faces rapt.

“How’s our latest charity project coming
along?” Faith asked.

“Right fair,” the other Alma said. “Not such
good material to work with, but I think we can shape it up
some.”

“Well, after all, they say we help the
needy,” Faith said. “In fact, I think I read so in the
Journal-Times.”

Morris couldn’t help himself. Sick or not, he
was going to tell them all to fuck off. So what if he lost his job?
He could paint houses, drop fry baskets, go on welfare. At least
he’d no longer have to pretend to give a damn about little old
ladies making sacrifices solely because of their own selfish need
to feel useful.

He tried to speak, but his lips didn’t move.
Not much, anyway.

“Mr. Stanfield, Reba has been sewing for
fifty-nine years, as you know, since you reported it in your
article. That was one fact you reported correctly. So you can rest
assured her stitches are much stronger than the flesh of your
lips.”

Stitches? Lips?

He screamed, but the sound stuck at the top
of his vibrating vocal cords. Faith came into view. She leaned over
him, appraising the handiwork. “A silent tongue speaks no evil,”
she said.

“And doesn’t put down the good work of
others,” Reba said, looking to Faith for approval.

“That’s right,” Faith said. “I’m sorry we’re
having to take time from our true work. Several children won’t get
blankets this week because of Mr. Stanfield. But this task is
perhaps just as important in the Lord’s eyes. This is a true
charity case.”

Morris summoned all his effort and craned his
neck. His clothes were sewn to what looked like the fabric pad of a
mattress. He squirmed but could only move his arms and legs a few
inches. He flexed his fingers, trying to make a fist.

“Alma, how was that tatting on his hands?”
Faith asked.

Alma Potter beamed with satisfaction at being
recognized by the circle’s leader. “I done proud, Faith. Them
fingers won’t be typing no more lies for a while.”

Morris felt his eyes bulging from their
sockets. The first tingle of pain danced across his lips.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stanfield,” Faith said. “I
don’t have any more morphine. The hospital’s supply is closely
monitored. I could only risk stealing a few doses. But my sin is
one the Lord is willing to forgive because it serves a greater
good.”

The women were busy around him, their needles
descending and lifting, the threads stretching and looping. The
other Alma was busy down by his feet, her gnarled hands tugging at
his toes. Lillian brought a scrap of cloth to his face, but Faith
held up a hand.

For the first time, Faith smiled. “Not yet,
Lillian. We can close his eyes later. For now, let him look upon
good works. Let him know us by our deeds, not by his words.”

Lillian looked disappointed. Faith put a
gentle hand on the old woman’s shoulder.

“A good blanket takes care and patience,”
Faith said. “Hope takes patience. All we can do is our part, and
let the Lord take care of the rest.”

“Just like with the sick children,” Lillian
said.

“Yes. They’re sick, but never needy. As long
as one person has hope enough for them all, they are never in
need.”

Morris tried to communicate with his eyes, to
lie and tell Faith that he now understood, that sick children were
never needy no matter what the Kelvinator said, but his eyes were
too cold and lost to the world of light and understanding. He was a
cynic and had nothing inside but desperation. He gazed at the
stained-glass Jesus, but no hope could be found in that amber face
as the sunlight died outside.

The gauze of morphine slipped a little, and
now he could feel the sharp stings as the needles entered his arms,
legs, and torso. Reba was stitching up his inseam, her face a
quivering mask of concentration as she worked toward his groin.
Daisy’s tongue pressed against her uppers as she pushed and tugged
in tiny little motions. Silver needles flashed in the glow of the
lone gas lamp by which the sewing circle now toiled. From outside,
the plate-glass image must have flickered in all the colors of
salvation.

But from the inside, the image had gone dark
with the night. Summoning his remaining strength, Morris ripped the
flesh of his lips free of their stitches and screamed toward the
high white cross above.

“Look, his eyelids twitched,” came a
voice.

“There, there,” Lillian said, as if on the
other side of a thick curtain. “You just rest easy now.”

“Where—” Morris was in the sewing room
downstairs, flat on his back on the table, surrounded by piles of
rags. They must have carried him here after they—

He brought a wobbly hand to his mouth and
felt his lips. They were chapped but otherwise whole.

“I think he’s thirsty,” said Faith, who knelt
over him, patting his forehead with a soft swatch of linen. She
turned to the janitor, who stood in the doorway. “Bruce, would you
get him a cup of water, please?”

As the janitor shuffled off, Faith again
settled her kind, healing eyes on him. “You fainted. A big, strong
fellow like you.”

“Must be—” The words were thick on his
tongue. He flexed his fingers, remembering the sharp tingle of
needles sliding through his skin, the taut tug of thread in his
flesh. A dream. Nothing but a crazy, drug-stoked nightmare. “Must
be the heat,” he managed.

“It’s okay,” Faith said. Gone was her severe
and chiding tone. She now spoke in her gentle nurse’s voice. “We’ll
take care of you. You just have a chill. Rest easy and wait for the
ambulance.”

“Ambulance? No, I’m fine, really, I just
need—” He tried to sit up, but his head felt like a wet sack of
towels.

“Your pulse is weak,” Faith said. “I’m
concerned you might go into shock.”

“That means we need to cover him up,” the
other Alma said.

Faith smiled, the expression of all saints
and martyrs. “I guess we should use the special blanket,” she
said.

“Blanket?” Morris blinked lint from his
eyes.

“We made it just for you. We were going to
give it to you in appreciation for writing the story and let you
enjoy it in the comfort of your own bed. But perhaps this is more
fitting.”

“Fitting,” Daisy said with a hen’s cackle.
“That’s as funny as Santa in a manger scene.”

Lillian approached the table, a blanket
folded across her chest. Unlike the other quilts, this one was
white, though the pieces were ragged, the stitches loose, the cloth
stained and spotted. “We done our best work on this one,” she said.
“We know a sick soul when we see one.”

“Threads of Hope sometimes come unraveled,”
Faith said. Her sweet tone, and her soft touch as she felt his
wrist for a pulse, was far more unnerving than her previous
bullying.

“That’s right,” Reba said. “Sometimes hope is
not enough.”

“And kids die and go on to heaven,” Lillian
said. “The Lord accepts them whole and pure, but their pain and
suffering has to go somewhere. Nothing’s worse than laying there
knowing you’re going to die any day, when by rights you ought to
have your whole life in front of you.”

Lillian helped Reba unfold the patchwork
blanket. Morris saw the white scraps of sheet were actually varying
shades of gray, cut at crazy angles and knotted together as if
built in the dark by mad, clumsy hands.

“There’s another side to our work,” Faith
said. “One we don’t publicize. If it had a name, it might be called
‘Threads of Despair.’”

“I like ‘Threads of the Dead,’” Reba said, in
her high, lilting voice. Her remark drew a couple of snickers from
the old women gathered around the table. Morris didn’t like the way
Reba’s eyes glittered.

“I’ll write the story however you want it,
and let you proof it before I turn it in to the editor,” he said,
his throat parched.

“Cover him up,” Faith commanded. “I’d hate to
see him go into shock.”

Morris once again tried to lift himself, but
he was too woozy. Maybe he really did need an ambulance. And a
thorough check-up. He was having a nervous breakdown. And these
fine women, whom he’d insulted and belittled, were compassionate
enough to help him in his time of need. Faith was right, he was the
needy one, not those sick children.

As they stretched the mottled blanket over
him, preparing to settle it across his body, Morris saw the words
“Mercy Hospital Morgue” stamped in black on one corner.

Sheets from the hospital?

The cloth settled over him with a whisper,
wrinkled hands smoothing and spreading it on each side. His limbs
were weak, his mouth slack, as if the blanket had sapped the last
of his strength. Though his skin was clammy, sweat oozed from his
pores like newly hatched maggots crawling from the soft meat of a
corpse. He was being wrapped in fabric even colder than his
soul.

Threads from the dead, from those who had
lost hope.

Sheets that would give back all that had gone
into them.

A handmade blanket stitched not in the attic
of the heart but in the dark basement of the disappointed.

“The ambulance will be here in twenty
minutes,” Faith said. “Until then, cherish the despair you
deserve.”

She tugged the blanket up to his chin, and
then, with a final, benevolent look into his frightened eyes, she
drew it over his face.

Nothing Personal, But You Gotta Die

So you changed your name.

Not too smart. A name’s a personal thing, and
you had to go messing with what your Momma gave you. What kind of
thing is that? How do you expect anybody to respect you, after you
go and do something like that?