instruction.
Morley gave Sam his first knitting lesson that night, in his room.
“Shut the door,” he said.
She soon found out that teaching a ten-year-old boy to knit was about as easy as building a chair.
She didn’t have the words for it.
She sat him beside her on the bed, and they both held a set of knitting needles out in front of them, as if they were about to fly a plane.
“Watch me,” said Morley as she ever so slowly made a loop in the red yarn and slipped it onto the needle.
She was trying to teach him how to cast on.
She glanced at him. Sam staring at his hands in despair.
Morley took his needles and did the first row herself. She handed them back and said, “Okay. Now, do exactly what I do.”
After an hour or so, he sort of had it. More or less.
“What is it you want to knit?” asked Morley.
“A coat,” said Sam.
“Oh,” said Morley.
Sam had drawn Stephanie’s name.
Morley had to teach him again right from the beginning the next night. And once again two nights later. He did fine as long as he kept going, but every time he put the needles down he lost track.
By the beginning of November Sam was good enough to sit in front of the television and knit while he watched TV. Whenever Stephanie appeared, he would thrust the needles into Morley’s hands or stuff them under the couch. Morley hauled an old black-and-white portable out of the basement and set it up on his bureau. He sat in his room all weekend, the needles clicking away like a train.
“My fingers hurt,” he said on Sunday night.
The next Saturday he was invited to Jeremy’s house for a sleep-over and he wanted to know what he could take his knitting in. Morley was afraid he would get teased, but she packed it up nevertheless, and he headed off with his toothbrush and his sleeping bag and his bag of wool. At nine o’clock Jeremy’s mother phoned and said, “You aren’t going to believe this. You know what they’re doing? They’re downstairs watching Lethal Weapon Three . . . and knitting.”
Suddenly knitting was the thing to do. Suddenly everyone wanted to knit.
The next weekend there was a hockey tournament in Whitby. Dave drove Sam, Jeremy and two other boys.
“They all sat in the back,” he said. “And they were talking about hockey and the game and how they were going to cream the team from Whitby—the kind of stuff you’d expect to hear from a backseat of little boys. And then one of them said, ‘Damn. I dropped a stitch.’
“They’d talk about hockey some more. Then all you’d hear was the clicking of their needles, and then someone would say something like ‘Look how long Jeff ’s is. Jeff, you’re going so fast. You must have done this before.’
“It got quite giddy. One of them said they should knit on the bench between shifts. It was rather wonderful.”
Morley didn’t think it was wonderful at all.
As far as she could tell, her Christmas project was headed off the rails. She was worried about Sam. She thought he was getting compulsive about the knitting. He would disappear into his room and sit on the edge of his bed and knit for hours. And he kept unravelling everything he did. It was never perfect enough.
“It’s fun to destroy it,” he said. “I like the feeling of the knots coming undone.”
It didn’t seem healthy.
But that wasn’t the worst of it.
On Saturday afternoon while Dave was in Whitby, Becky Laurence had shown up at the front door.
“Is Stephanie home?” she asked. She was holding a package wrapped in brown paper.
“No,” said Morley. “Stephanie is out. Shopping.”
Becky had turned to go, but then she had stopped and held the parcel up and said, “Tell her the present is ready. Tell her she owes me fifteen bucks.”
She had shown up twice more that afternoon.
“Tell her I need the money,” she said.
Morley was fairly certain that Stephanie had pulled Dave’s name out of the pot on that night in October. And that placed Morley in a terrible
Morley gave Sam his first knitting lesson that night, in his room.
“Shut the door,” he said.
She soon found out that teaching a ten-year-old boy to knit was about as easy as building a chair.
She didn’t have the words for it.
She sat him beside her on the bed, and they both held a set of knitting needles out in front of them, as if they were about to fly a plane.
“Watch me,” said Morley as she ever so slowly made a loop in the red yarn and slipped it onto the needle.
She was trying to teach him how to cast on.
She glanced at him. Sam staring at his hands in despair.
Morley took his needles and did the first row herself. She handed them back and said, “Okay. Now, do exactly what I do.”
After an hour or so, he sort of had it. More or less.
“What is it you want to knit?” asked Morley.
“A coat,” said Sam.
“Oh,” said Morley.
Sam had drawn Stephanie’s name.
Morley had to teach him again right from the beginning the next night. And once again two nights later. He did fine as long as he kept going, but every time he put the needles down he lost track.
By the beginning of November Sam was good enough to sit in front of the television and knit while he watched TV. Whenever Stephanie appeared, he would thrust the needles into Morley’s hands or stuff them under the couch. Morley hauled an old black-and-white portable out of the basement and set it up on his bureau. He sat in his room all weekend, the needles clicking away like a train.
“My fingers hurt,” he said on Sunday night.
The next Saturday he was invited to Jeremy’s house for a sleep-over and he wanted to know what he could take his knitting in. Morley was afraid he would get teased, but she packed it up nevertheless, and he headed off with his toothbrush and his sleeping bag and his bag of wool. At nine o’clock Jeremy’s mother phoned and said, “You aren’t going to believe this. You know what they’re doing? They’re downstairs watching Lethal Weapon Three . . . and knitting.”
Suddenly knitting was the thing to do. Suddenly everyone wanted to knit.
The next weekend there was a hockey tournament in Whitby. Dave drove Sam, Jeremy and two other boys.
“They all sat in the back,” he said. “And they were talking about hockey and the game and how they were going to cream the team from Whitby—the kind of stuff you’d expect to hear from a backseat of little boys. And then one of them said, ‘Damn. I dropped a stitch.’
“They’d talk about hockey some more. Then all you’d hear was the clicking of their needles, and then someone would say something like ‘Look how long Jeff ’s is. Jeff, you’re going so fast. You must have done this before.’
“It got quite giddy. One of them said they should knit on the bench between shifts. It was rather wonderful.”
Morley didn’t think it was wonderful at all.
As far as she could tell, her Christmas project was headed off the rails. She was worried about Sam. She thought he was getting compulsive about the knitting. He would disappear into his room and sit on the edge of his bed and knit for hours. And he kept unravelling everything he did. It was never perfect enough.
“It’s fun to destroy it,” he said. “I like the feeling of the knots coming undone.”
It didn’t seem healthy.
But that wasn’t the worst of it.
On Saturday afternoon while Dave was in Whitby, Becky Laurence had shown up at the front door.
“Is Stephanie home?” she asked. She was holding a package wrapped in brown paper.
“No,” said Morley. “Stephanie is out. Shopping.”
Becky had turned to go, but then she had stopped and held the parcel up and said, “Tell her the present is ready. Tell her she owes me fifteen bucks.”
She had shown up twice more that afternoon.
“Tell her I need the money,” she said.
Morley was fairly certain that Stephanie had pulled Dave’s name out of the pot on that night in October. And that placed Morley in a terrible
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