Elm Creek Quilts [12] The Winding Ways Quilt (27 page)

Her mother had often read to her from Henry David Thoreau and Martin Luther King Jr., so Summer understood well that when confronted with an unjust law, it was her duty to disobey. It was just a sewing machine, after all; she wasn’t going to jail for refusing to pay taxes to fund an illegal war or something. So, having quelled her guilt and convinced herself that historical moral authorities would have sided with her, she began borrowing time at her mother’s sewing machine while Gwen was on the Cornell campus, studying or meeting with her adviser. Summer had seen her mother sew so often that she wound the bobbin, threaded the needle, and sent the needle whirring through her first seam without a moment’s hesitation. After that, she couldn’t imagine ever returning to the slow, meticulous process of hand-sewing—except in the evenings when her mother was nearby, taking note of her progress.

For weeks after her homework was done, she filled those precious few hours alone in the house before her mother’s return with the cheerful, industrious whir of the sewing machine. Rail Fence blocks came together quickly, almost effortlessly. She would turn up the radio to disguise the sound from neighbors on the other side of the too-thin walls, and the time checks announced the moment when she must scramble to restore the sewing table to its prior state, sweeping bits of thread into the trash, hiding her finished blocks in her bedroom. When her mother’s key turned in the lock, Summer would be setting the table in the dinette or sprawled out on the sofa reading a book.

Then came a day when she was so engrossed in piecing her last few Rail Fence blocks that she lost track of time. At the sound of a throat clearing, Summer brought the sewing machine to an abrupt halt and turned to find her mother standing in the doorway. “Your quilt’s really coming along,” her mother remarked drily. “Now I understand why I haven’t seen you working on your blocks for a while.”

“Mom—” Hastily Summer switched off the machine and scrambled to her feet. “I can explain.”

“Trust me, this scene is completely self-explanatory.” Gwen crossed the room, her beaded necklaces clicking softly. She picked up one of the Rail Fence blocks, flipped it over to examine the stitching, then set it down and took up another.

“I was very, very careful,” Summer assured her, drawing closer. “I didn’t sew over any pins.” When her mother continued to study her finished blocks in silence, Summer added, “I didn’t see any logical reason why I couldn’t use the sewing machine.”

“I told you not to. That should have been reason enough.”

“But it isn’t. You just told me I was too young, but these blocks prove I’m not too young. Don’t they look as good as what some of the women in your quilt guild would make?”

“Not quite.” Gwen showed her the underside of one of the blocks where the seam allowances were sewed down helter-skelter. “These blocks won’t lie flat. You skipped an important step. You should have pressed the seams before sewing these sections together.”

In a small voice, Summer said, “You told me not to use the iron.”

Gwen burst out laughing. “You follow my directions regarding a ten-dollar iron, but not a two-hundred-dollar sewing machine?”

“I’ve burned myself on the iron before,” Summer countered. She had the fading scars to prove it. “In that case, your rule made sense, so I listened.”

Gwen shook her head, eyeing Summer with—could it be?—something remarkably like admiration. “I have to admit, you make a fairly good case. Your blocks
are
just as good as those some of my friends might have made.”

“Then can I keep using your sewing machine?”

Gwen muffled a groan and ran a hand across her brow. “I’m tempted to say no, just because you didn’t listen to me. You should have waited for me to show you how to properly use it. On the other hand, you did some fine work here, so you’re obviously ready after all.”

Summer waited for her mother to deliver the verdict, resisting the temptation to point out that her mother had, in fact, shown her how to use the machine, for whenever she sewed, Summer had stood nearby, watching eagerly, absorbing every unintended lesson. At last her mother granted her permission to use the machine, but with a few conditions: Summer would take care of the machine properly, oiling it as needed and keeping the bobbin case free of lint, and more important, she would promise never to sneak around behind her mother’s back again. “If you’re going to disregard one of my rules because you think it’s foolish, tell me first,” Gwen said firmly. “Give me a chance to talk you out of it. Maybe after listening to what I have to say, you might decide that my advice is sound after all. Or perhaps you’ll convince me that the time has come to amend a rule. It’s just the two of us, kiddo. We have to be honest with each other, even if it means one of us doesn’t get to have our own way. I need to know that I can trust you.”

Summer thought she would burst with delight. She could use the coveted sewing machine openly, and her mother had set before her the possibility that rules could be negotiated.

Her enthusiasm for the quilt had always been high, but it positively skyrocketed once she was able to share her work-in-progress with her mom and seek her advice. But when her quilt top was nearly complete, she overheard one of her mom’s quilting friends admonish Gwen that no good would come of rewarding Summer’s bad behavior. Gwen brushed off the woman’s warnings and said that she knew her daughter would never give her reason to regret her decision, never give her cause to mistrust.

Buoyed by her mother’s trust, Summer hadn’t—until she decided not to enroll in the PhD program at Penn and told her mother only after turning down their very generous fellowship. Even that seemed minor in comparison to the lies she had spewed a few months earlier as she tried to conceal that she had moved in with Jeremy. Her mother forgave her, would forgive her anything, but for the first time in her life, Summer detected a flicker of doubt in her mother’s eyes when they spoke of important matters. Until then, Summer had known that she could tell her mother anything, anything, and be believed. She had not realized how much she valued that assumption of truth until it was gone.

Summer had hand-quilted the Rail Fence top in a lap hoop, thimble on her right forefinger, left hand beneath the three layers to push the needle tip back up to the top. The needle pricks stung until a callus formed, after which she could quilt for hours without tiring. All summer long she stitched, perfecting the rocking motion of the needle, adjusting the hoop when she completed a section. Sometimes she would spread the quilt out on the living room floor and stand back to admire it, delighting in the evident improvement of the size and uniformity of her stitches with practice. Her mother praised her efforts and assured her that she was a fine quilter—and not merely a fine quilter for her age, which every ten-year-old knew was the consolation prize of compliments.

August waned and the start of a new school year loomed. Summer spent the last few days of her summer vacation sewing the binding on her quilt, and on the Saturday before Labor Day, she spread it proudly over her bed, gloriously complete. She was eager to begin a new project, but before she could choose a pattern, schoolwork and friends and clubs drew her away from her mother’s sewing table. Worried that she might lose the skills she had worked so hard to master, Summer occasionally helped her mother finish one of her quilts or sewed a block for a Tompkins County Quilters Guild charity project. She intended her next quilt to be a gift for her grandparents, and although she doubted she would be able to begin until summer vacation, she resolved to be prepared.

Then, in January, her fifth-grade class began a unit on pioneer life. They read the Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder, built model Conestoga wagons, and took a field trip to the Bement-Billings Farmstead in the Newark Valley to observe demonstrations of hearth cooking, spinning, weaving, soap making, and blacksmithing. At the end of the unit, the students in Summer’s class wrote five-page “diaries” of what their lives would have been like if they had set out from Ithaca for the West in the mid-nineteenth century. For their final project, they were also instructed to create a special project illustrating some aspect of pioneer life. Handicrafts, food products, and dioramas were acceptable choices, and since their finished work would be displayed in the classroom during the Spring Open House, their absolute best effort was expected.

For Summer, there was no question but that she would make a patchwork quilt. Since their teacher had emphasized that they were not permitted to have any parental assistance aside from the absolute necessities of driving and shopping for supplies, Summer didn’t consult her mother about possible pattern selections and shushed her when she hovered nearby, suggestions on the tip of her tongue. After leafing through her mother’s collection of pattern books, Summer decided upon the Dove in the Window block, since a quilt by that name appeared in Laura Ingalls Wilder’s novel
These Happy Golden Years.
Library books advised her which tools, fabrics, and colors would be most appropriate for a pioneer quilt, although she did have to make an occasional compromise, such as using stainless-steel pins and needles instead of tin-plated brass. Since Laura had sewed by hand, Summer did, too, although she would have gladly attempted a seam or two on a treadle sewing machine just to see how it compared to her mother’s electric version.

With only a month to complete her quilt, Summer reluctantly settled upon a six-block crib quilt rather than a full-size quilt that would have been more authentic. Knowing that all of her classmates and their parents would be inspecting her handiwork—and that the quilt counted for half of her unit grade—Summer stitched with meticulous care. She put the last stitch in the binding at breakfast the morning the quilt was due and barely had time to admire it or look it over for stray pins or mistakes before she had to tuck it carefully into a pillowcase, snatch up her backpack, and hurry off to school.

After the last recess, Mrs. Shepley asked each student to present an oral report on his or her project. Summer’s best friend had made tomato preserves; her other best friend had braided an oval rug from wool scraps. Four students had made dioramas depicting scenes from pioneer life, while one girl showed photographs of a garden she had planted of vegetables common to the frontier diet. A Popsicle-stick log cabin received mixed reviews from the class; it was well constructed and made to scale, but the builder should have used twigs since everyone knew pioneers didn’t have Popsicles. Summer’s Dove in the Window quilt received a smattering of applause even before she began her report. Mrs. Shepley listened, expressionless, as Summer explained why she had chosen that particular pattern and how she had sewn the quilt. Afterward, the girls crowded around her for a closer look and her two best friends begged her to give them lessons until Mrs. Shepley clapped her hands for attention and sent everyone scurrying back to their desks. She praised the class for their efforts without singling out anyone, and for the last few minutes before the dismissal bell rang, the students tidied up the room and arranged their projects on bookshelves and tables lining the walls for their parents to admire later.

At seven o’clock, Summer and her mother walked to school. Summer was so excited that she hardly took a breath between describing the other students’ projects. Privately she thought hers was the best, but she knew better than to say so to anyone but her mother. After the principal’s assembly in the gym, they made their way down the hall to Mrs. Shepley’s classroom, where the students chattered excitedly with one another, thrilled with the novelty of seeing their friends dressed up in the evening when they would usually be at home in pajamas. Their parents wandered the room, reading class assignments posted on the bulletin board and inspecting the Pioneer Life projects. Summer almost burst with pride listening in on the admiring compliments paid to her quilt. Later, over punch and cookies in the cafeteria, Summer repeated the best remarks to her mother and wondered aloud whether she ought to enter a quilt in the next Tompkins County Quilters Guild show.

At that, her mother’s cheerful demeanor clouded. “Oh, kiddo,” she said tentatively, reaching for Summer’s hand. “You know we might not be here then. I have my dissertation defense in June, and if I get that job at Waterford College, we’ll move to Pennsylvania before autumn.”

Summer’s stomach flip-flopped. She had known forever that it was unlikely they would remain at Cornell University after her mother finished school, but it seemed so weird to think about living somewhere else and starting the sixth grade in another school while she sat in the familiar cafeteria of the only elementary school she had ever attended on Spring Open House night.

“Can we not talk about that right now?” she said faintly. Her mother nodded and quickly shifted the subject back to Summer’s quilt and the possibility that she might enter it in a quilt show. They probably had quilt shows in Pennsylvania, Summer reminded herself, and it was possible that her mother wouldn’t get that job after all.

Her oral report and the Spring Open House display had been such exciting successes that Summer almost forgot that their Pioneer Life projects would be graded. A week after the quilt’s lauded unveiling, Summer received her quilt back with a slip of paper listing the criteria used to evaluate the students’ projects. Most of the boxes next to phrases such as “Quality of Work” and “Period Authenticity of Work” were checked, but the box beside “Originality” was conspicuously empty. Summer barely noticed because her eye was immediately drawn to the notation written in blue marker at the bottom of the page: C.

A grade of C. Summer swallowed a lump in her throat and quickly blinked away tears. She glanced at Mrs. Shepley, who was writing the day’s homework assignment on the blackboard. Summer had never received such a low mark, not even for the book reports dashed off at breakfast, not even on the grammar tests she didn’t bother to study for because the material came so easily. But to receive a C on a project she had worked so hard on for so long—it was unthinkable.