Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [74]
After reading through three months of entries, I began to perceive a pattern. Like a milkman he’d established a regular route in a roughly two-mile radius. It began and ended at Blind Harry’s but took in at least fifty other stops including a health food store where the homeless could get free vitamins, St. Celine’s Catholic Church, where good people provided afternoon coffee and doughnuts in the recreation hall, the local YMCA that allowed free showers on Mondays and Thursdays. He even made a once-a-week trip to the library, where he recorded which magazines he read, what this week’s story hour was about, which library employee acknowledged him (“Nick in Reference said good morning. Offered me coffee. I declined. He wore a new red polo shirt”), and what was in the library’s huge trash bin outside (“Ingram’s shipment came in today. Half a tuna sandwich in white paper bag. Too much mayo and walnuts”).
I pushed the datebook aside while I finished my lunch and thought about the mysterious, secret world of the homeless. How they observed the rest of us as we went about our daily activities never realizing our every move and word was being scrutinized. I’d read through March and hadn’t seen my name mentioned yet. I would definitely have to flip through it tonight when I had time and see if I’d come under his astute powers of observation.
Back at the museum, I buckled down and worked on cleaning up the last few details of the festival. At five o’clock, I told the few artists left in the co-op buildings I was leaving and reminded them to lock up after themselves. Before closing up the museum, I took one last quiet walk through the quilt exhibit. Nine o’clock tomorrow the doors would officially open, with our first tour scheduled for nine-thirty. We’d have crowds for the next three days during the festival, so I knew this would be my last chance to really absorb the quilts.
I roamed through the exhibit randomly, standing for a long time in front of my favorites, amazed, as always, how each time you look at a story quilt, more details, more parts of the “story,” pop out at you. When I reached Evangeline’s, I remembered my promise to myself to look at that one square up close. Something in me whispered that there was more there than could be seen on a quick first look. And the fact that the woman was holding a blanket that at first glance appeared to be a baby, but wasn’t, certainly intrigued me. I stood on a stool and unfolded the miniature blanket again. It was, as before, empty. I studied the picture closely, trying to discern what the wide dark eyes of the mother were trying to convey, what the bead of a teardrop represented, why the man was sleeping while his wife cried and walked the floor with her empty bundle.
The tiny crazy quilt the man slept under was incredibly intricate and not any bigger than a Fig Newton. It was a separate piece, appliquéd onto the bed with only the back of the man’s head showing. For some reason, I had the strongest urge to see what was under that quilt.
I dug through my purse and found my Swiss army knife and with its compact scissors carefully snipped at the delicate stitching along the edge of the blanket and slowly lifted it up. Involuntarily, I held my breath, not knowing what I’d find.
There was nothing there.
Staring at the plain muslin fabric, I let out my breath and laughed at my own silliness. What was I expecting to find?
You’re really getting a sick way of looking at things, I told myself. Just because one time the clue was in the quilt doesn’t make it automatic. I looked in dismay at my handiwork. Though it wasn’t obvious when you stood in front of it because the square was on the highest row, if anyone studied it carefully, the side I’d snipped would be obvious. I’d have to take the whole blanket off and restitch it to make it look right. Even then Evangeline might notice. But she’d certainly notice if I left it the way it was.