Elm Creek Quilts [12] The Winding Ways Quilt (28 page)

What would her mother say?

The hours between the end of the school day and her mother’s return home dragged on endlessly. Numbly Summer put water on to boil for spaghetti and emptied a jar of pasta sauce into a saucepan. Then she flung herself onto the sofa and stared up at the ceiling, unable to muster up interest in any of her library books. She had supper nearly finished when her mother rushed in, breathless, book bag slung over her shoulder. “Smells wonderful, kiddo,” she sang out, but she knit her brows and shut the apartment door softly at the sight of her daughter’s mournful expression. “What’s up? Are you okay?”

Without a word, Summer dug the grading sheet from her backpack and handed it over. Eyes on the paper, Gwen slowly pulled out a chair at the dinette table and sat down. Summer remembered dinner and although she had no appetite, drained the spaghetti in the colander and set the pasta and sauce on the table before her bewildered mother.

“I don’t get it,” her mother said as Summer seated herself, planted her elbows on the table, and rested her chin in her hands. “Is your teacher insane, or merely stupid?”

In spite of how awful she felt, Summer managed a wisp of a smile. “Maybe a little bit of both?”

“This doesn’t make any sense.” Gwen brought the page closer to her eyes and then held it out again as if perspective would change the handwritten markings. “Quality, period authenticity, neatness, promptness, oral repot, and so on and so forth—it looks like you’ve met every requirement. She didn’t check ‘Originality.’ Did she mark you down because you used a traditional block instead of inventing a design of your own? But you were supposed to re-create something from the pioneer era. Did you tell your teacher why you chose the Dove in the Window block?”

“It was in my oral report,” Summer said. “Maybe she missed that part.”

“She definitely missed something.” Gwen stretched out to set the grading sheet on the counter, dusted her hands of its distasteful residue, and forked long threads of spaghetti onto Summer’s plate. “We’ll get to the bottom of this,” she promised, spooning red sauce onto the pasta. “Mrs. Shepley obviously made some sort of mistake. Don’t worry about it.”

Summer tried not to, but her stomach had a knot in it, leaving no room for supper. Her friends had received A’s and “Well done!” for their tomato preserves and braided wool rug. Even the Popsicle-stick log cabin had earned a B–. She honestly thought that her quilt was as good as their projects, but maybe she was wrong. Maybe she had sewed a block in upside down, or maybe she had left a pin in the binding and Mrs. Shepley had pricked her finger. It couldn’t be because she had made a crib quilt instead of something larger, since projects even smaller than hers had earned top grades. She was too heartsick to ask Mrs. Shepley herself, so she was relieved when her mother promised to call in the morning and arrange for a conference after school.

If Mrs. Shepley was as apprehensive about the upcoming conference as Summer, she gave no sign of it throughout the long school day. Summer had never felt herself at odds with a teacher before, and she wanted to shrink back into her seat and become invisible. She didn’t raise her hand even when she knew the answers, but Mrs. Shepley called on her from time to time anyway, mostly when no one else volunteered. Teachers knew they could count on Summer for the right answer—at least that was how it had always been until the Pioneer Life project.

At three o’clock, as her classmates raced for the door, Summer packed up her folders and books and waited at her desk for her mother to appear. Gwen showed up right on time, knocking on the open door and smiling with perfect, confident cordiality. “Mrs. Shepley?” she said, striding to the teacher’s desk and offering her hand. “Thank you for meeting with us on such short notice.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Mrs. Shepley responded, gesturing to the only other adult-size chair in the room. She folded her hands on the desktop, unfolded them, and gave Gwen a tight smile.

Gwen nodded graciously and sat down. “I’m sure you’ve guessed why I requested this conference. As you know, Summer sets very high standards for herself, so she was troubled by the grade she received for her Pioneer Life project. Frankly, I am, too. After reading over your criteria, it’s not clear to me exactly where Summer’s quilt fell short. I was hoping you could give us more insight into your evaluation so that Summer knows what she needs to work on to do better next time.”

Summer shot her mother a curious look.
That’s
what this conference was about? She’d assumed her mother had come to demand a higher grade! It wasn’t a question of what Summer had done wrong. Her mother knew she had done her very best.

“I’ll tell you what she can do better next time,” said Mrs. Shepley crisply. “She can do her own work.”

Gwen blinked at her. “Excuse me?”

Mrs. Shepley’s expression was a conflicted blend of condemnation and understanding. “Miss Sullivan, I’m a parent, too. I understand the temptation to offer our children all the help we can. In your circumstances, with no father at home, I’m sure the urge to ease your child’s way is even more compelling. However, in the long run, you aren’t helping Summer by doing her work for her. Although she might earn a better grade on a particular assignment, that’s a short-term gain leading to long-term trouble.”

“Hold on just a second.” Gwen held up a hand, brow furrowed. “You believe I made that quilt?”

“It’s rather obvious, Miss Sullivan. I’m well aware that you’re a quilter yourself. My mother quilts, also, and I know with absolute certainty that no child of eleven is capable of such painstaking work. They simply don’t have the fine motor skills at that age.”

Summer recognized the stormy expression clouding her mother’s features and almost wanted to warn Mrs. Shepley to back off. “So,” said Gwen, drawing the word out, “you think my daughter cheated.”

“The evidence is in the quilt itself, but I don’t place all the blame on Summer. I’ve been teaching a long time, and I know how difficult it can be for a child to discourage an overbearing parent from taking over a project.”

Gwen choked out a laugh. “Oh, now I get it. She’s not only dishonest, she’s also spineless.” Suddenly she stood. “You don’t know my daughter at all. Summer, kiddo, stay put. I’ll be right back.”

Mortified, Summer clutched the seat of her chair and watched her mother storm away, longing to race after her. “My mom didn’t make the quilt for me,” Summer told Mrs. Shepley, her voice barely above a whisper. “She drove me to the fabric store, but that’s all. I did everything else myself.”

“Oh, Summer.” Mrs. Shepley regarded her with the same knowing, judgmental look she had turned on Gwen. “You’re such a good student. You didn’t need to resort to this. If you needed more time, you could have come to me. We could have worked something out.”

“She didn’t help me,” Summer repeated, just as her mother stormed back into the classroom carrying the tote bag of hand-piecing projects she kept in the car for those occasions when she found herself stuck in a waiting room at the doctor’s office or DMV.

“Let’s conduct an experiment, shall we?” Gwen emptied the contents of the tote bag on Mrs. Shepley’s desk and beckoned Summer forward. “Kiddo, show us what you can do with this.”

Summer took a deep breath and approached the desk.

Mrs. Shepley shook her head. “This really isn’t necessary—”

“On the contrary, it is.” A hard glint lit Gwen’s eyes. “You’ve accused my daughter of cheating, and she’s entitled to an opportunity to defend herself.”

As Mrs. Shepley sighed and sat back in her chair, Summer chose two diamonds and a square from her mother’s scraps. Threading a needle, she estimated the quarter-inch seam allowances and joined the two diamonds along one side, doing her best to make small, even stitches with trembling hands. Then she finger-pressed the seam and set the square into the angle between two adjacent points of the diamond pair, sewing one side down, pivoting the pieces, and stitching the other side into place.

“I could have done better if I had pins,” Summer said anxiously, smoothing the finished quarter-star between her hands before placing it on the desk. “And if I had marked the seam allowances.”

“It’s fine as it is,” Gwen declared. “It lies flat, the points meet, the stitches are secure. Given the circumstances, this is excellent work.” She fixed her gaze on Mrs. Shepley, daring her to disagree. “I don’t have any batting or finished tops in my bag. Should I have Summer bring her lap hoop to school tomorrow to prove to you that she quilts as well as she pieces?”

“That won’t be necessary.” Mrs. Shepley rose, her mouth in a hard line. “Your demonstration has told me quite enough.”

“Then Summer can expect an amended grade?” When Mrs. Shepley gave a curt nod, Gwen returned a grim smile and began to pack her tote bag with the scattered quilt pieces and notions. “Thank you. Also, as much as I regret taking a confrontational stance, I must add that I’ll be watching carefully for any hint of retaliation against my daughter. I’d hate to have to take my concerns to the principal.”

With that, Gwen shouldered her tote bag, seized Summer’s hand, and marched from the room. Summer had to jog to keep up with her.

“I don’t know what bothers me more,” Gwen muttered as they left, their footsteps echoing off the lockers in the empty hallway. “That she thinks you’re a cheater, or that she thinks you’re a lousy quilter.”

Summer knew her mother was only attempting a dark joke. It was much, much worse to be a cheater. A poor quilter could improve her skills with practice, but a liar was always a liar.

A few days later, Mrs. Shepley gave Summer a new grading sheet as she passed back spelling quizzes. She had raised Summer’s grade to a B–. Her mother was outraged and threatened to call the principal, but Summer convinced her to let it go. She had so much extra credit saved up that even a B–wouldn’t affect her final mark in social studies. She didn’t want to make any more trouble.

“If your final grade is anything less than it should be,” her mother glowered, slipping back into her Kentucky accent as she always did when particularly outraged, “you better believe I’ll make trouble.”

She didn’t need to. For the rest of the semester, Mrs. Shepley was careful to give Summer exactly the marks any objective observer would say she deserved. Though Mrs. Shepley rarely called on her unless she was the only student to raise her hand, and while her replies to Summer’s comments lacked any warmth or friendliness, Summer considered that a small sacrifice for her vindication. If Gwen regretted coming so swiftly and so adamantly to her daughter’s defense, she never admitted it, although once, as they talked regretfully about Mrs. Shepley’s chilly turn, Gwen apologized for putting Summer in an uncomfortable situation.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Summer exclaimed. “You know what’s uncomfortable? Having my teacher think I’m a cheater. Why didn’t she ask about the quilt on the day of the oral reports? Why did she give me a bad grade with no reason? If you hadn’t come for that conference, we still wouldn’t know that I got a C because she thought I cheated. I would just have a bad grade and a teacher who secretly thinks I’m a cheater, and who probably tells all the other teachers to watch out for me.”

“Let’s hope for a modicum of teacher-student confidentiality,” said Gwen, but they both knew there was nothing they could do to counter gossip in the teachers’ lounge. Surely all of Summer’s previous teachers would know better than to believe any disparaging remarks Mrs. Shepley might utter, but what about teachers who didn’t know her?

It came as a relief, then, when Gwen burst through the apartment door one afternoon, swept Summer up in a hug, and announced that she had been offered a position as an assistant professor of American Studies at Waterford College. Summer would miss her friends, but she was eager to set upon a path that would lead to a fresh start—especially since the winding way to the rural Elm Creek Valley in central Pennsylvania would bring her two hundred miles closer to her grandparents’ house in Brown Deer, Kentucky.

Gwen had known Summer had made the Dove in the Window quilt entirely on her own because she had witnessed Summer’s progress from choosing the pattern to putting the last stitch into the binding, but even if she had not, she would have taken Summer’s word for it. Now, too often, Summer knew her mother wanted corroborating evidence, even though she wouldn’t ask for it. It was wrong to lie, but daughters did not always—could not always—tell their mothers the whole truth of their lives and risk hurting them, disappointing them. Gwen would argue that she and Summer were so close that the ordinary rules did not apply to them, but Summer had come to believe that even though she
could
tell her mother anything, it was not always the wisest or the kindest choice.

From I-80 west Summer and Jeremy followed I-90, which fed directly into the city. They reached the Stony Island Avenue exit at a few minutes after six o’clock in the evening, slowed by rush hour traffic. They drove north, making their way through the south side of Chicago, checking the street signs carefully as they drew closer to their destination. With every block, Summer sensed Jeremy’s rising tension at the sight of graffiti, boarded-up shopwindows, and litter in the median strips. “Urban blight,” he muttered. “This doesn’t look anything like the photos in the school catalogs.”

“We’re not there yet.”

“We’re close enough for it to matter. Don’t ever walk around at night alone, understand?”

Summer eyed him, not exactly sure how to interpret his tone. They were both too road-weary to discuss safety issues without arguing, so she merely replied, “I won’t take any unnecessary chances.”

He relaxed somewhat as they reached the campus and recognized the grassy midway and stately Gothic architecture so familiar from photos on the University of Chicago website. “This is more like it,” he said, turning north onto Woodlawn Avenue.

“It’s no worse than New Haven,” Summer said, more defensively than she intended.

“Maybe you should get a dog. A big dog, like a rottweiler.”

Summer let the remark pass unacknowledged, instead reading aloud from her printouts and directing Jeremy to an apartment building near Kenwood and 56th. A friend from high school had put her in touch with a cousin who was studying for a PhD in Comparative Religions at the Divinity School. Her name, appropriately enough, was Julianne Abbot, and she had offered the couple a place to stay during their visit. In a witty e-mail, Julianne had warned Summer that the accommodations would be nothing fancy, but they were free and the residents were friendly. Summer accepted her offer gratefully and hoped to coax Julianne away from her studies long enough to question her about the best places to search for an apartment of her own.