mushy, gray stuff, the results were always obscene. Protrusions and incisions seemed to form themselves without her help, and when she tried to mold something to her liking the results were absolutely vulgar. Finally, she flattened the entire mess to a pancake with the palm of her hand, dubbed it “crêpe de Banning,” and declared her artistic career at an end.
She bypassed the basket-weaving class with a shudder and continued onward to find a needle workshop in full swing, knitting and tatting to the swinging strains of Guy Lombardo. Blueboy ! she thought. She’d almost forgotten about him. Years ago—as everything seemed to be, she realized—when her arthritis first became a nuisance, a doctor friend had recommended needlework as an exercise for her fingers. She’d bought a pre-painted needlepoint canvas of Gainsborough’s Blueboy ,and had gotten it more than half finished before the thousands of tiny holes made her contemplate the anesthetic benefits of alcohol.
The canvas was packed in plastic in one of her bags, available in the unlikely event that she would ever become that bored again. If she finished it in time she might even be able to enter it in the arts and crafts show that was being promoted on posters in every other room of the Sanctuary. It was an annual event, apparently, and the judges were the elite (as elite as you could get in a little town like Jamesville) of the community. The Mayor, the vicar of St. Sebastian’s (a new one, according to the posters), the sheriff, and their wives were to be the honored guests. Vicky thought it might be fun to work on a project again, and it would give her something to do in the evenings when she returned to her room. You can watch only so much television , she felt, before you turn into a walking commercial .
Wool and thread of every shade were displayed on a side table in the parlor, and Vicky crossed to them, stepping in time to the beat of “A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody.” She chose a sampling of colors that she felt might match the already completed areas of her canvas, smiling pleasantly at the busy-fingered music lovers, and made her exit. She had grown eager to get started, surprising herself. Never would she have imagined that needlework, of all things, would captivate her interest. Then she reminded herself that it wasn’t the needlepoint itself that had incited her enthusiasm, nor the crafts show, and grinned to herself.
With Doris busy conducting her classes, Burton off playing golf, and Roger hard at work in her room, Vicky was still at odds for something to do by herself, and decided to write her letter earlier in the day than usual.
She got to work on Blueboy that evening, in her “transient” room, and cross-stitched away until her eyes began to follow suit. She then put the canvas and wool away, determined to find some activity that would balance out the hours of dreary stitchery she’d have to endure if she were to finish the portrait on time for the show.
* * * *
Her little “foray” into town had been just what she’d needed. With a final wave to the young officer as he drove off in his police car, she slipped the pad into her purse beside the Hummel figurine and approached the Sanctuary, extremely pleased with herself.
Roger and Doris came through the door as she ascended the steps from the warm afternoon sun of the grounds into the cooling shade of the veranda. They acted pleasantly surprised to see her. “We’ve been looking for you,” Roger said, the cleft in his chin deepening with his smile. “Your room is finished. Come take a look.” He spoke quickly, eager as a little boy wanting to show Grandma what he’d made with his Erector set. He led the way.
“We’ve even managed to have your new phone number connected,” Doris said, “unheard of in this short a period of time. It took a little doing, but I convinced the phone company that a rush job was imperative.”
“Celebration time!” Vicky cried.
She bypassed the basket-weaving class with a shudder and continued onward to find a needle workshop in full swing, knitting and tatting to the swinging strains of Guy Lombardo. Blueboy ! she thought. She’d almost forgotten about him. Years ago—as everything seemed to be, she realized—when her arthritis first became a nuisance, a doctor friend had recommended needlework as an exercise for her fingers. She’d bought a pre-painted needlepoint canvas of Gainsborough’s Blueboy ,and had gotten it more than half finished before the thousands of tiny holes made her contemplate the anesthetic benefits of alcohol.
The canvas was packed in plastic in one of her bags, available in the unlikely event that she would ever become that bored again. If she finished it in time she might even be able to enter it in the arts and crafts show that was being promoted on posters in every other room of the Sanctuary. It was an annual event, apparently, and the judges were the elite (as elite as you could get in a little town like Jamesville) of the community. The Mayor, the vicar of St. Sebastian’s (a new one, according to the posters), the sheriff, and their wives were to be the honored guests. Vicky thought it might be fun to work on a project again, and it would give her something to do in the evenings when she returned to her room. You can watch only so much television , she felt, before you turn into a walking commercial .
Wool and thread of every shade were displayed on a side table in the parlor, and Vicky crossed to them, stepping in time to the beat of “A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody.” She chose a sampling of colors that she felt might match the already completed areas of her canvas, smiling pleasantly at the busy-fingered music lovers, and made her exit. She had grown eager to get started, surprising herself. Never would she have imagined that needlework, of all things, would captivate her interest. Then she reminded herself that it wasn’t the needlepoint itself that had incited her enthusiasm, nor the crafts show, and grinned to herself.
With Doris busy conducting her classes, Burton off playing golf, and Roger hard at work in her room, Vicky was still at odds for something to do by herself, and decided to write her letter earlier in the day than usual.
She got to work on Blueboy that evening, in her “transient” room, and cross-stitched away until her eyes began to follow suit. She then put the canvas and wool away, determined to find some activity that would balance out the hours of dreary stitchery she’d have to endure if she were to finish the portrait on time for the show.
* * * *
Her little “foray” into town had been just what she’d needed. With a final wave to the young officer as he drove off in his police car, she slipped the pad into her purse beside the Hummel figurine and approached the Sanctuary, extremely pleased with herself.
Roger and Doris came through the door as she ascended the steps from the warm afternoon sun of the grounds into the cooling shade of the veranda. They acted pleasantly surprised to see her. “We’ve been looking for you,” Roger said, the cleft in his chin deepening with his smile. “Your room is finished. Come take a look.” He spoke quickly, eager as a little boy wanting to show Grandma what he’d made with his Erector set. He led the way.
“We’ve even managed to have your new phone number connected,” Doris said, “unheard of in this short a period of time. It took a little doing, but I convinced the phone company that a rush job was imperative.”
“Celebration time!” Vicky cried.
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