Elm Creek Quilts [09] Circle of Quilters (26 page)

She hung up before he could refuse.

All week long he intended to call Francine back and cancel, but somehow, Saturday morning found him lugging Elaine’s sewing machine into the community center. It appeared that all the other workshop participants had arrived early to set up their work-spaces,
but he found an unoccupied place near the back. Most of the women ignored him, but a few threw him curious stares as he searched for someplace to plug in Elaine’s Bernina. After a while, a grandmotherly woman wearing her long gray hair in a bun helpfully pointed out the nearest power strip. He thanked her and sat down, already regretting that he had come.

But by the end of the afternoon, he had figured out where he had gone wrong with his first attempt at free-motion machine quilting; apparently, an uneven amount of quilting in different sections of the top could pull it out of shape. The instructor had also demonstrated a few techniques he had not seen in any of Elaine’s books, and she talked about how different kinds of thread could produce different effects. Then he caught himself taking mental notes of ideas to share with Elaine when he got home, and all interest in the workshop drained from him like air from a punctured tire.

Francine approached him afterward and asked him how he had fared in the workshop.

“Not bad.” He felt fairly confident about his machine quilting now, but none of the other quilters had talked to him during the breaks, and they all kept shooting him furtive, suspicious glances. “You should join the guild.”

“Me? Oh no. I don’t think so. I wouldn’t fit in.”

Francine was a retired high school principal, and at this remark, she gave him a look that made him feel like a truant sophomore. “Why? Because you’re a man?”

“To be honest, yes.”

“Oh, please.” She thrust a guild newsletter at him. “Don’t be such a coward. You have a lot to learn, and a guild is the best place for that. You’ll get a discount on future workshops, too. You’re not the only man who quilts, you know.”

He wasn’t? Russ took the newsletter, gave it a quick look, and stuffed it in his pocket. “Maybe I can make a meeting now and then.”

“Good. See you next Wednesday.”

“I didn’t say I’d come for sure.”

“I know.” She waggled her thick fingers at him over her shoulder as she departed.

He did go to the meeting, drawn by curiosity and hopeful that he would meet another male quilter. The lecture on Civil War era quilts was more interesting than he had expected, but the social break was a hassle, full of conversations that stopped as soon as he approached and more of those suspicious looks. It was a relief when Francine came over and, in her imposing way, asked if he was enjoying himself.

“Sure,” he said. “But I was hoping to meet some of those other men quilters you mentioned.”

“There aren’t any men in our guild yet.”

“But you said—”

“I said that male quilters exist, not that they are members of our guild. Of course, you could join and change all that.”

Russ looked around at the other quilters, all women, all studiously ignoring his conversation with the guild president. “I don’t think so.”

He stuck around for the second half of the meeting, but left as soon as the motion to adjourn had been approved. Elaine had always enjoyed her monthly quilt guild meetings, so he had expected a warmer welcome, a friendlier crowd. Then again, Elaine always brought out the best in people. She could have warmed up even that chilly bunch. But a quilting guild was clearly no place for him.

Quilting was the first thing he learned to enjoy without Elaine, and for a long time, it was the only thing. Then he began to run again, to go out for a beer with some of the guys from work every so often, to take in an occasional Seahawks game with Charlie. But always he returned to quilting. He alternated between completing
one of Elaine’s unfinished quilts and one of his own designs. Trying to buy anything at the quilt shop, where he was alternately ignored and patronized, was such a demeaning experience that he started ordering his supplies through the Internet. One evening, web surfing after a purchase, he followed a shop’s link to a quilt museum to a fabric designer to a quilt block archive, where he stumbled upon an online quilting guild.

Intrigued, he read the messages other members had posted. A neophyte would pose a timid question; a flurry of encouraging responses from more experienced quilters would follow. Someone would post a celebratory note announcing a quilt finished or blue ribbon won and the others would shower her with praise and congratulations. A frustrated quilter would ask for advice on a challenging seam or an impossible block arrangement and receive it. Here, at last, he had found that elusive quilting community Elaine had often spoken of—and he realized that, courtesy of the anonymity of the Internet, he could participate.

He signed on to the quilting list just to see what would happen. For the first few months, he was a “lurker,” a member who read but never posted. Then he began to post brief replies, signing them with only his initials. No one knew he was a man and no one cared.

Then one day, as he checked his email after breakfast, he discovered a thread someone had started that just about knocked him out of his chair: “I just found this list and I’m wondering if there are any other men quilters out there? Not that I mind talking quilts with you ladies, but I was just wondering if I am the only guy—again.” The message was signed, “Jeff in Nebraska.”

The first response was from a woman who assured Jeff that there were several men in the group. The next four messages were from men announcing that they were proud to call themselves quilters and longtime members of the list. Another woman followed with a list of websites featuring the work of well-known
male art quilters. A man from Australia wrote that he and his wife made all their quilts together. A man from Vermont wrote that he and his partner were male quilters and quilt shop owners. A woman who contributed at least one post to every discussion on the list chimed in, “Howdy, Jeff! We don’t care if you’re male, female, or a three-horned purple hermaphrodite from Saturn! You’re welcome here as long as you quilt!”

Naturally, someone then wrote in claiming to be a three-horned purple hermaphrodite from Saturn who enjoyed quilting as well as embroidery, and the conversation deteriorated from there. But enough of the original thread remained to compel Russ to introduce himself.

“Hi,” he wrote. “I guess it’s about time I explained that RM stands for Russell McIntyre. I’m a man and a quilter. I started quilting when I wanted to complete one of my late wife’s UFOs and I found out I enjoyed it. I’ve been quilting for almost three and a half years now and I’ve made nine quilts. (Four of my wife’s, five of my own.) I don’t know any men quilters in real life so it’s great to finally meet some online.”

For the first time he signed off using his full name.

He shut down the computer and went to work. By the time he got to his office and checked his email again, he had five personal messages welcoming him belatedly to the group. Three were from other men, two were from women, and each offered condolences on the death of his wife. They brought tears of renewed grief to his eyes, but he blinked them away, dashed off responses, and settled in to work.

Over the next few years, the five people who first responded to his introduction on the quilting list became close friends. They corresponded almost daily, swapped fabric and blocks through the mail, and met up at the Pacific International Quilt Festival each October. When one of the men started up a separate Internet group for men quilters, Russ signed on, but still retained close ties
to the original group that had befriended him. To his surprise, he discovered that while some other men quilters had been ignored or patronized at quilt shops and guilds just as he had, others’ experiences of the quilting world were quite different. Many admitted to enjoying preferential treatment in their guilds as the only man among a host of women, and others said they were treated no differently than any other quilter. Russ could only imagine what that would be like.

His style evolved in part because of inspiration from his online friends. He continued to layer, slash, and swap fabric, but he experimented with fabric dyed in gradients and curved cuts instead of straight lines. Through his Internet contacts, he was invited to submit a piece for an exhibit at the Rocky Mountain Quilt Museum featuring work by men quilters. Invitations to teach his unique style of quilting followed, as did requests to submit articles to quilting magazines.

On his fortieth birthday, he sat down with his financial advisor and discovered that he could retire early and live off his Athena Tech stock options quite comfortably for at least another forty years. Finally he would have enough time to work on that book proposal an editor had begged him to submit after observing his workshop at the American Quilter’s Society show.

Soon after his book,
Russell McIntyre: A Man of the Cloth
, was published two years later, Russ had a solo exhibition in an eclectic art gallery in downtown Seattle. Carly and Alex came home a few days ahead of time so they could watch the exhibit being hung. Alex teased Russ at the gallery and at their celebratory dinner out afterward, calling Russ his stepdad, the great artiste, but the proud grin never left his face. On the morning before the exhibit debuted, Carly took Russ shopping and helped him pick out a new suit and tie. They both knew but did not acknowledge aloud that Elaine would have insisted upon it had she been there. Even Charlie and Christine came down from Olympia, marking
the first time they had seen his work in such an impressive setting. Christine was obviously thrilled for him, but Charlie seemed perplexed by all the fuss. “They’re just quilts,” Russ overheard him tell Christine. “They’re nice, I guess, but they’re not even big enough for a bed.”

“Don’t embarrass me,” said Christine, exasperated. “This is art. They aren’t supposed to fit a bed.”

Russ was surprised to hear her snap at him, and he turned away so they would not know he had overheard. He stopped short at the sight of Francine, tilting her head as she examined a quilt. He made his way through the crowd to greet her. “Hello, Francine,” he said, unable to conceal his surprise. “Thanks for coming.” He had sent an announcement to the guild, but he had not expected anyone who remembered his fumbling attempts to join the guild to come.

“It’s good to see you,” she said. She had grown thin and her hair was grayer, but she had lost none of her imposing manner. “You’ve come a long way.”

He shrugged. “I had a long way to go. You were right years ago when you said I had a lot to learn.”

Francine eyed the quilts displayed on the gallery walls and indicated the many admirers with a nod. “Apparently you learned it. And to think I assumed you gave up quilting when you snubbed the guild.”

“I snubbed the guild?” said Russ, incredulous. “You’re kidding, right? They gave me the cold shoulder.”

“You came to one meeting, and did you even bother to introduce yourself?” countered Francine. “Everyone adored Elaine. If they had known you were her husband, they would have made you feel at home.”

“So that’s what it takes for a man to be accepted in that guild.”

“No one knew you were a serious quilter. Most of the members assumed you were there to meet women.”

Russ almost choked. “That’s a strange assumption, but it’s not even the worst prejudice I’ve run into in the quilting world. You have no idea what it’s like to go into a quilt shop or a quilt show and have everyone there assume I’m a blundering idiot who has to be watched carefully so he doesn’t break something.”

“Oh, I think I have a fairly good idea what that’s like. I face it whenever I walk into an automobile repair shop.”

His indignation promptly deflated. “Right. It’s exactly like that.”

She smiled. “Well. At any rate, I came to enjoy the show, but also to let you know that we would be thrilled if you would give the guild another try.”

“Thanks. I’ll think about it.” He had no idea how he would find the time, but he would reconsider.

“I also feel compelled to mention that while I liked your book, I did not care for the title.”

“It wasn’t my choice,” he said automatically, as he had done hundreds of times since the book came out. “The marketing department thought it was a clever play on words.”

“Nonsense. It makes you sound like you’ve joined the clergy.”

That was exactly what he had told his editor.

He and Francine parted ways. A few minutes later, he caught the arm of the gallery director and asked for a word. “Anything for you,” she said, but her smile quickly faded when he asked her if she had considered his proposal to put on a retrospective of Elaine’s work.

“Russ, darling,” she said. “Your late wife’s quilts are charming, and you are a dear to want to show her work. But I’ve gone over the schedule and I just don’t think we can squeeze in another exhibit in the foreseeable future.”

That was her euphemistic way of telling him she was not interested. “Thanks anyway.”

“Oh, Russ.” She gave his arm a squeeze. “Don’t let this ruin
your day. You’ve made three sales already and I overheard Bill Gates’s representative asking you about a commissioned work for the corporate headquarters.”

“For his house, actually,” replied Russ, but his thoughts were of Elaine’s quilts, hanging on the walls at home where hardly anyone ever saw them.

“Even better.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and moved off to greet an important patron who had just arrived. Beyond her he saw Charlie and Christine approaching. From their grins he knew they had seen the kiss.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” said Russ, rubbing his cheek with the back of his hand in case she had left traces of scarlet lipstick. “She does that to everyone.”

“She got me twice already,” admitted Charlie reluctantly. Russ knew he was dying to tease him, and Christine would have been thrilled to see him interested in someone new, even someone twenty years younger with multiple piercings and jet black hair dyed shocking pink at the tips. Almost seven years had passed since Elaine’s death. He was forty-two, a year older than she had been when she died. Sometimes he could not believe that he had been her widower longer than her husband.