“Don’t these reporters have anything better to do than harass our good citizens?” asked Alice, who a minute earlier had pinned verbal medals on Godwin and Betsy for taking the time to go see if something was wrong at John Nye’s house.
“Those reporters are like vultures, only worse,” grumbled Bershada, clipping off a new length of DMC 457 and separating the strands before threading her needle with two of them. “Vultures can’t help doing what they were designed to do, while reporters actually go to college to learn how to circle in on trouble.”
“What I don’t like,” said Alice, “is the way they ask a question they don’t expect an answer to, just to get themselves on the news. ‘Are you guilty of kidnapping that child?’ they shout at someone. What do they expect that person to do? Stop and give a long, complex defense? When the policemen are pulling him by the elbows?”
“That’s the perp walk,” contributed Godwin, bringing a fresh cup of hot water and a tea bag to the table for Doris.
“What’s a perp walk?” demanded Alice.
“A ‘perp walk’ is when the police take someone in handcuffs on foot along a route lined with photographers. John told me about it. He said it’s kind of a humiliation for the prisoner and it gets the police some air time, showing them doing their job.”
“Oh, I’ve seen their pictures in the paper,” nodded Martha, her crochet needle flying in and out as she built a brown and yellow afghan square. “They look funny trying to pretend they always carry their coats over their two wrists.”
“Or over their heads,” said Bershada dryly.
“What are you working on, Doris?” asked Alice, leaning sideways for a look.
“It’s something I just bought.” She handed around the chart, which was Maru’s Aztec design of a tlattoli, which looked like a J with square projections around its outside.
“Goddy brought it back from Mexico,” explained Betsy. “It’s a word in the Aztec language—tattle-tot, or something like that. It means speech or talk.”
Godwin sat down, picked up his knitting, and launched into his story of meeting the designer in a store in Mexico City.
“She sounds nice,” commented Emily.
“She’s very nice,” said Godwin.
“This means talk, huh?” said Bershada, looking the chart over. “I think we should adopt this as the official emblem for the Monday Bunch. Talk, talk, talk; that’s what we do.” There was laughter and agreement.
“This is interesting,” said Emily, taking it next. “Two sets of instructions. In this first one, you do the backstitching first, then fill in the color. That’s different.” “That’s different” is Minnesota Nice for “That’s weird.” She handed it to Alice.
“What did you say the designer’s name was?” asked Alice.
“Maru—it’s a nickname for Maria Eugenia.”
“Never heard of her,” declared Alice in her bluff way.
“No, she’s only been published in Spanish-language magazines so far,” said Godwin. “Here, let me show you something else she did.” He went to a spinner rack in the back and returned with a chart in a small Ziploc bag. From a distance it looked like a pair of fat, red, lumpy Xs, but on closer examination it was a pair of red frogs with their legs extended.
“Her daughter likes frogs, so she designed this to decorate a dress or pinafore.” He turned the bag over to show a white dress with a row of red frogs around the hem and waist.
“Too
cute
!” exclaimed Emily.
“No, it’s too
icky
!” said Martha, an elderly woman with a brisk air. “Slimy frogs, ugh!”
“I bet a boy would love to have a Sunday shirt with a frog on the pocket,” said Alice in her deep voice.
“A knit shirt with a row of these across the chest,” amended Bershada. “He’d be the hit of his kindergarten class. All the girls would scream and pretend to be horrified.”
“Except one,” nodded Doris, shyly. “And she’d catch him at recess and kiss him.” Some of the women gave knowing chuckles.
“What, hoping he’d turn into a
prince
?” said Godwin, and there was laughter.
“I’ll take one of those charts,” declared Emily. “But I also want Anchor 229. Frogs are green, not red.”
“One skein enough?” asked Godwin, starting for the back again.
“Yes, thanks.”
Godwin came back with the skein—and another plastic bag. “How about this Maru pattern?” he said, handing Alice a chart of stacked alphabet blocks in pastel colors.
“The same person did that Aztec thing, those frogs, and
this
?” she said, eyebrows raised high.
“That’s right; you won’t find
her
in a rut,” said Godwin.
Betsy, conferring with a customer over a scarf pattern only ten stitches wide to be knit on enormous needles, smiled at Godwin’s enthusiasm. He enjoyed pushing new designers, and evidently this Maru had made quite an impression.
Godwin stayed all day, buoyed by a steady stream of customers who came in to wish him well.
So he was in the shop when, near closing, a man, tall and seriously graying, with a somehow-familiar face, came into Crewel World.
Godwin simply stared, so Betsy said, “May we help you?”
“Yes, I think so,” he replied, looking not at her but at Godwin. “I’m Charlie Nye, John’s brother.”
Eight
NOW it was Betsy’s turn to stare.
Godwin, his face now stern, had come forward and stood with his feet apart and one hand in a pocket. “I’m Godwin DuLac. I’m very sorry about your brother.” He spoke in a low, even register Betsy had never heard before.
“Thank you.” Charlie Nye’s face was sad.
“How did you find out about”—for an instant the façade broke, but was immediately restored—“about what happened?”
“The Excelsior police department called our parents,” replied Charlie, “who called my sisters and me. Then Johnny’s secretary called me directly—I was listed as next of kin at his office. I asked her if there was someone local I could talk to, and she gave me your name and said you worked here. I’d like to talk to you. Please?” There was a world of pain in his voice.
“Okay. I don’t know if you know how well . . . I knew him.”
The man smiled crookedly. “You two were lovers, right?”
For an instant Godwin looked frightened, then he blushed to the roots of his blond hair. Then he lifted his chin and growled, “Well, I don’t know if I like—that is—what makes you think that?”
And suddenly Betsy understood what Godwin was doing. He was pretending to be straight.
Charlie looked around, his attitude uncomfortable. “Look, is there somewhere private we can talk?”
Godwin looked at Betsy, who said, “Why don’t you take Mr. Nye upstairs?”
“All right,” said Godwin. He explained to Charlie, “I’m staying with Betsy—Ms. Devonshire—temporarily. She owns this whole building and lives upstairs. Come on, this way. I can make you a cup of—of coffee.”
Of course, thought Betsy. Straight men don’t drink tea. She was sorry she couldn’t go watch Godwin try to climb the stairs like a straight man. Trying to imagine it made her giggle, so it was just as well.
They were gone about forty minutes, and when they came down, Godwin’s swish was back. “He knows, but he doesn’t care!” Godwin murmured to Betsy as he sashayed by. He stopped by the knitting yarn to turn and say to Charlie, “Would you like to look around the shop?”
“No, I don’t think so. I’ve got a lot to do, a number of people to connect with. It was good of you to take time from your day to speak with me. Thank you.” He smiled thinly at both of them and left the shop.
“Well!” said Betsy as the jingle of golden sleigh bells died away. “That wasn’t what I expected!”
“Me, either!” said Godwin. “He is a
nice
man!” He sat down in a chair at the table. “I wish John had been more like him,” he added quietly.
“What did he say?” A thought struck. “Goddy, do you mean that
he’s
gay, too?”
Godwin chuckled. “Oh, no, he’s straight. Got a wife and kiddies and is very happy about it. But he’s nice. John . . . John could be nice, when he
wanted
something or needed to
please
someone. But Charlie’s just
nice
. He’s like I wish John was. Oh, Betsy!” Godwin put both hands over his face.
She went to sit down next to him. “Poor Godwin,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder, and they fell silent for a minute while he pulled himself together.
“He wanted to know what kind of funeral John might want, and I had to say that we never talked about things like that, except like as a joke. You know, scatter my ashes on Cary Grant’s grave. Charlie said his family was all raised Presbyterians, so since I don’t have a better idea, he’s going to take John home to Fargo for the funeral, and have him buried in the family plot there. But he says it’s fine if I organize a memorial service, or see if I can get a role in the memorial service where John worked. Because I’m sure not going to be welcome at the funeral. Charlie says the rest of his family wouldn’t stand for any—how did he put it?—‘
acknowledgment
of John’s sexual practices.’ Funny word, ‘practice,’ isn’t it? Like doctors and lawyers are always practicing. When do they do it for real?”
Betsy pulled him gently back on topic. “You told me John told you his family wanted John to pretend he wasn’t gay when he was at home. But Charlie knew, he walked in here knowing—and knowing you were John’s partner. And he wasn’t cruel to you.”
“It seems Charlie was an exception, John could talk to him.”
“Then how do you know the rest of his family aren’t all exceptions? I mean—you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I know, but Charlie said the family was pretty set against John—he calls him ‘Johnny,’ did you notice that?” Betsy nodded. “Anyway, his family absolutely wouldn’t let him come home unless he let them pretend he was just a confirmed bachelor.”
“Yes, and leave you here alone.”
“Yes, well, what else could he do?”
He could have stood up to them, she thought angrily. Or, he could have stayed away and shared his Christmas with poor Godwin, whose family wouldn’t let him come home under any circumstances; and they’d both have had a merry Christmas with someone they loved. But, of course, John might have been one of those people who were loyal to their families no matter how flawed, who went home for holidays that were nightmares, because those ties were stronger than the pain. So she said, “I don’t know, Goddy, I don’t know.”
He stood. “Me either. I wonder what kind of memorial service Wellborn, Hanson, and Smith will put on? I should find out—Tasha will know, I can ask her. There will probably be a lot of people there who don’t know each other, I could sit real quiet in the back, out of the way.”
“I suppose you could,” agreed Betsy, knowing Godwin could no more sit quietly at such an event than he could fly. He’d bawl loudly and apply a handkerchief ostentatiously, because he was Godwin, who wore all his emotions on the outside.
“Or maybe I should call Donnie and Mark and Jo-Jo and Mickey. We could throw a great party. I bet we could rent the garden at Vera’s—God, we used to have some
fantastic
times there! I wonder how much it would cost?”
“I don’t have any idea,” said Betsy, who had never heard of Vera’s.
“You know, Charlie thinks John left me something in his will. I wonder what it is.”
“You’re the one who knows how John’s mind worked, not me.”
“Huh, it’s probably a gold watch. Isn’t that the usual gift you give someone who’s being put out to pasture?”
“Oh, Goddy, stop it. Anyhow, if it’s a watch, it better be a Rolex.”
Godwin giggled. “We could throw a pretty nice party on what you can get for a Rolex.”
“Would you sell it? His last gift to you?”
“No, I guess not. Maybe it’s not just a watch. Maybe it’s money. No, no, no, it’s the
house,
I bet he left me the
house
! I mean, I just
know
he’d hate to have some couple moving in with dirty-fingered children and a
dog,
a big, nasty dog that would dig up all our flowers. He knew how much I loved that house, so it’s
got
to be the house, how wonderful!” He spun around with joy, hands clenched under his chin.
“Now, Goddy, don’t count your chickens.”
“Oh, don’t be so negative! You’re always the wet blanket! It
must
be the house!”
Betsy stood. “You think what you like, but meanwhile could you go get me a bottle of water?”
“Certainly!” Godwin, full of good cheer, bounced through the twin sets of box shelves. There was a little refrigerator in the back room of the shop, where a coffeemaker, tea kettle, and boxes of stock were also kept.
Betsy shook her head after him. Poor fellow, his emotions were all over the place, and of course they ruled his intellect. Goddy might grow older, but he would never entirely grow up.
She went to the checkout desk to finish making up an order for floss. Rainbow’s Fuzzy-Wuzzy was selling well, and their overdyed silks, too. And Kreinik’s blending filaments. And here was a note from Godwin saying they were low on Anchor 941, 137, 139, and 142—someone must be doing a big lake or sea scene to judge by the dent made in her stock of those blues.
A clear plastic bottle of water was put on the desk. She looked up and saw Godwin looking somber. “I’m such a ninny,” he said. “I get carried away, like a cork on the outgoing tide. You’re right about counting chickens—especially when these aren’t even eggs yet. Are you mad?”
Betsy smiled. No wonder John always made up with Godwin. When he was penitent, he was irresistible. “Of course I’m not mad. It must be exciting to know you’re named in a will.”
“Yes, but I could’ve waited awhile for this. I’d rather be making up with John than wondering what he left me.”
“I understand. This is a terrible time for you.”
“Worse than you know.” He brushed away a tear.
The phone rang and Betsy pulled herself together to answer it crisply, “Good afternoon, Crewel World, how may I help you?”