Embroidered Truths (4 page)

Betsy frowned after him as he slouched out the door. There had been serious quarrels before between Godwin and John, and John had even expelled Godwin a time or two. But this felt different. She remembered her promise that all would be well, and hoped again that she would be able to keep it.

Three

AT 6:40 the next morning, Betsy’s clock radio gently clicked on and began playing an old rock song, Sonny and Cher’s “I Got You Babe.” She woke feeling slightly panicky, because that was how the weatherman woke, over and over, in
Groundhog Day.
It was one of her favorite movies, and she and Godwin had ended up watching it last night while working on stitching projects.

Once she realized she was not in Punxatawney, PA, but in her own bedroom, she smiled and nearly went back to sleep while indulging in amused recollections of scenes from the movie. But feline footfalls coming up the mattress roused her again. Sophie, Betsy’s cat, normally slept in her own basket in the living room, but last night she moved into Betsy’s room. Sophie knew and liked Godwin, but Godwin belonged down in the shop. Now he was up here and not just for a visit; he hadn’t gone home at bedtime. Like most cats, Sophie was deeply traditional and looked on any change in the routine with suspicion. She walked heavily up the bed to Betsy’s shoulder, gave her high-pitched cry, and looked toward the door, calling Betsy’s attention to the anomaly that was still going on this morning.

Sophie was a very large cat, mostly white, with tan and gray patches on her head and back. Her enormous fluffy tail was a mix of tan and gray, currently twitching erratically. Sophie had been on a diet since Betsy inherited her at an obese twenty-two pounds. And despite Betsy’s best efforts, her cat’s current weight was twenty-three pounds. She was a beautiful cat nevertheless, lazy but sweet, whose one exercise was asking everyone she met if they had something for her to eat.

Her reaction to Godwin’s occupation of the guest bedroom was thus an anxious look at the door, followed by her special breakfast cry. “A-rew?” she asked. “A-rew?” Betsy laughed and pulled her in for a snuggle. Sophie obediently began to purr, but she continued to look toward the door at intervals.

When Betsy finally got out of bed and reached for her robe, Sophie tried to lead her to the kitchen.

“First things first,” said Betsy, heading for the bathroom.

But soon Sophie was crouched over her morning serving of Science Diet dry cat food, the one formulated for fat, old, lazy cats—though they didn’t put it that baldly on the label—while Betsy made herself a cup of English Breakfast tea.

Normally, she drank her tea while checking her e-mail and reading her RCTN and INRG newsgroups—but her computer lived in the guest bedroom, and there’d been no sign that Godwin was up and about. She didn’t want to wake him, poor thing. They’d stayed up late last night, and while he’d gone to bed first, she was sure she’d heard him crying in the guest room just as she was falling asleep.

She wished he weren’t so fastened on John. In Betsy’s opinion, it was an unhealthy relationship, with all the power on John’s side. Well, most of it. When Betsy had promoted Godwin to store manager—Godwin preferred to call himself Vice President in Charge of Operations and Editor in Chief of
Hasta la Stitches,
the shop’s newsletter—she had nearly doubled his salary and offered him the same benefits program she had for herself. It wasn’t nearly enough to make him John’s fiscal equal, but it made Godwin less of a total dependent. Godwin had been thrilled, and later said it made John treat him with more respect.

Her smile had a hint of triumph in it as she went to put her empty cup in the sink. She decided oatmeal would be breakfast this morning. It could sit on the stove until Godwin was ready for it.

She went to the cabinet where she kept her pots and selected one the right size that was heavy enough to simmer without burning.

Her smile faded as she considered whether it had been a good idea to take a bite out of John by promoting Godwin. John was the type of gay man who liked his boyfriends immature. He had a record of taking in young men for a year or two, and then turning them out when they became too sophisticated. While Godwin had been very naïve at nineteen, that was no longer true—and an even more mature Godwin had emerged under the burden of more responsibility.

It was interesting, Betsy reflected, that John hadn’t discarded Godwin. Perhaps John had done some growing in the past few years, too. Or maybe it was that Godwin remained incurably silly and fun even as he became more hardworking and reliable.

She half-filled the pot with water, added salt, and put it on a burner to heat.

Not that Godwin hadn’t occupied the position of store manager practically from the start. Betsy had inherited the shop when her sister died, and, having no experience in owning her own business and little knowledge of needlework, had quickly come to rely heavily on the young man to guide her through the learning process. His promotion had been only recognition of a status he had from the start. Still, now he was making more of the decisions about employees and sales, had begun publishing a shop newsletter, and was building a Crewel World website.

The pot began to steam. She went to a different cabinet and got out the round canister of oatmeal, the old-fashioned kind that has to cook for awhile but has a nuttier taste, and a package of raisins.

So maybe there was more to this relationship between John and Godwin than a sophisticated man indulging a naïve boyfriend, she thought. And why not? Godwin was not just an amusing, charming boy. He was a creative soul, kind, loyal, and intelligent, with flashes of mature insight. Maybe John was ready for a more mature relationship. Betsy sure hoped so.

She measured the oats into the boiling water and turned the heat down. If that was the case, then this was just a lovers’ quarrel. Which meant that probably some time today John would call the shop to talk to Godwin and start the process of making up.

Having talked herself out of her worry over her manager, she decided to have a couple of sausages to go with the oatmeal—Betsy tended to celebrate good feelings by eating something nice. She got out the brown sugar to sprinkle on her oatmeal along with the raisins.

She had eaten her share, showered, and dressed before Godwin wandered vaguely out, his blond hair all pushed to one side on his head, his chin whiskery, and his eyes red-rimmed.

“Good morning, Glory!” Betsy said cheerfully.

“Whatever,” he mumbled. “Is there coffee?”

“No, but the water’s still hot for tea. Or if you can wait awhile, I can perk a pot.”

“Can’t wait, my heart needs a jump-start.”

So Betsy made him an extra-strong cup of black India tea, put a bowl and spoon on the table in front of him, pointed out the oatmeal simmering on the stove and the sausages keeping warm in the oven, and went to do her morning commune with the Internet.

It took three cups of strong tea, but Godwin was looking a lot more cheerful as they went down the stairs at nine thirty to start the opening-up process. Sophie trundled ahead, eager to begin her daily chore of cadging treats from the customers.

Betsy went through the back door, through the back room, through the twin set of box shelves that divided the front of the shop from the back, heading for the desk that served as a checkout counter—and stopped short.

“Goddy,” she called, “are we expecting a really big order from somewhere?”

“No,” he called from the back room where he was starting the coffee—the shop offered a free cup to its customers. “Why?”

“Because there is a really huge box by our front door.”

Goddy came trotting through, to stop short himself and stare. It was one of those cardboard boxes refrigerators come in. “Wow!”

Betsy dodged around him, heading to the front door with the keys. “It’s a mistake, it must be. I bet it’s books for ISBNs.” Next door to Betsy was a used-book store of that name.

She unlocked the door and looked for a label. There was none, only a single word written with a thick-nubbed marking pen: GODWIN. Her heart sank.

“It’s for you,” she said. “From John.”

It was a struggle, but the two of them managed to push the box into the shop. Godwin got a box opener from a desk drawer and slit open the top.

“My
clothes!
” cried Godwin. The box was full to the top with clothing, pushed in any old way. “Oh,
look
at them!” He pulled out a pair of trousers, badly wrinkled. “My Versace suit!” he cried, and began to dig for the coat.

“Hold it, hold it!” Betsy ordered. “Look at what you’re doing, for heaven’s sake!”

Godwin glanced around, the floor near the box was like a teenager’s bedroom, knee-deep in shirts, slacks, underwear, and socks, lots of white socks. And some not so white.

“Oh, my God, he put the dirty in with the
clean
!”

He dropped the shirt in his hand and went to sit at the library table and put his head into his arms.

Betsy came around behind him and rested her hands on his shoulders. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

“If only I knew what I did wrong, I could apologize.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong. Because if you had done something so wrong he’d throw you out and send your clothes after you, you’d be pretty sure what it might be.”

“I can’t think, I just can’t think,” he said thickly, his face muffled in the arm of his shirt.

“Sometimes,” said Betsy, looking at the strew of clothing around the big box, “a bit of physical exercise gets the blood flowing and ideas come to you.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you can’t leave that mess in the middle of the shop.”

He raised his head and looked around. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, why didn’t you stop me sooner! Let’s get this cleared away!” He rose and hurried to begin stuffing clothes back into the box.

Betsy came to stop him. “Wait a minute,” she said, and he obediently stopped, a fistful of socks in either hand. “How are we going to get this box upstairs?”

“In stages, of course,” said Godwin. “First we get the stuff back in the box, then the box into the entrance hall. We’ll go through the front door, it’s shorter. I can carry arm-loads up the stairs, it’ll only take a few minutes.”

It took more like half an hour, which was fine. Betsy hadn’t been kidding about the exercise and, besides, Godwin needed a few minutes to pull himself together. Meanwhile, Betsy continued opening up alone, knowing Godwin wanted time to himself to mourn the sad condition of his precious designer suits and silk shirts and hand-tooled Italian shoes.

He came back into Crewel World even more depressed than she feared. “I was hoping he’d call, but instead he throws my clothes out after me,” he said.

“But not into the street like that one time,” she reminded him.

“Yes, but that time he yelled at me, called me names, called me on the phone to yell some more. This time, nothing, just silence.” He pulled his shoulders up and twisted his head from side to side. “My muscles are all clenched,” he reported. “It’s like my whole body knows this is different from the other times.”

“Oh, Goddy,” she sighed sympathetically.

“But at least he didn’t tear things or cut them to ribbons like some people do when they break up. Nothing’s damaged, an iron will put most of it right. But for the rest, where do you keep your washing machine?”

“In the basement—they’re pay machines for my tenants but I use them, too. Do you have change?”

“I dunno.” He began to search his jeans pockets. “Not much,” he reported after a minute, looking at a small collection of coins.

“Here,” she said, and went for her purse. She had some change but had to break two dollars from the cash register to make sure he had enough.

“Do you have to put your own money in?” he asked.

“Of course. Work’s work, this is personal.”

“Even though I’m an employee?”

“I’m not doing this for an employee, I’m doing this for a friend.”

“Oh,
Betsy!
” He came at a trot to embrace her and they stood that way in a silent embrace—until they sniffed simultaneously, which made them laugh and break apart.

“John also put my computer and my briefcase in the box, but not my good gold and diamond jewelry. Why would he be so mean?”

“Perhaps he’s not being mean, he’s giving you an excuse to get in touch with him about them.”

Godwin stared at her, then bloomed so gloriously at that possibility that she was forced to say, “Now, maybe not. Maybe he is being mean. You know him best, what do you think?”

He faded while he thought a few moments, then shrugged. “I have no idea. Sometimes he is a mystery wrapped in an enigma. What’s an enigma?”

“Something hard to understand.”

“Yes, that’s John all right.”

That afternoon, he spent the minutes between customers dashing down to the washer and dryer in the basement, and left work a few minutes early to take a suit and a jacket to the cleaners. But he insisted again on cooking supper, and this time poached two whitefish fillets which he covered with steamed crab and shrimp, and chopped asparagus in a white sauce.

After supper he declared himself exhausted and went into the guest room. But he came out half an hour later, complaining he was too overwrought to sleep. “I’m going to a movie,” he said. “Want to come?”

But Betsy was tired herself. And she had to get up very early in the morning for her water aerobics class, so she sent him off alone.

She worked on a model she was making for her shop—Laura J. Perin’s splendid “Independence Day,” a colorful counted needlepoint canvas. It was an abstract pattern of fireworks, with flowing and jagged lines indicating movement and glass “gems” dotting it.

It had seemed intimidating at first, with its variety of stitches. Now that it was underway, Betsy decided it wasn’t all that hard. It was beautiful, and she was enjoying the use of so many different kinds of fibers.