Patchwork

Chapter Two

I first learned about Granny's power when I was ten years old. Our neighbor, Mr. Bailey, was suddenly stricken with a cancer that was feeding on his brain with the speed and voracity of acid eating through cotton. We once watched him work in his garden - a strong and capable man with a quick smile - riding his lawnmower and hauling cords of wood on his broad shoulders from the forest that stretched behind our homes. Then we watched him being carried from the car into the house by his oldest son, an armful of feathers, bald and drooling and incoherent.

Late one evening, Mr. Bailey's son came to visit Granny. I was sent to my room, as most children were when the adults had guests in that day and age, but I crouched at the top of the stairs to eavesdrop. I could barely hear them talking in hushed whispers below me. The younger Bailey had urgency in his voice that scared me because it was being met with a tone of what seemed like resistance from Granny. I was so confused yet intrigued. Eventually, I could make out the sound of a man crying and pleading through his tears. The exact words were not clear, but I understood my Granny hissing at him, "you can't tell nobody! Promise me first!" I decided to take my chances and trot down the stairs as if I wanted something from the kitchen. To my disappointment, young Bailey had made a quick exit, leaving my Granny standing in the floor with a worried look on her face.

Early the next morning, he brought his ailing father over in his arms, and the three of them retreated silently to the living room. Granny pulled the drapes, shutting out the light, and they huddled around the fireplace whispering like scientists working on some secret experiment. I stood and watched from the far side of the room as Granny stared into Mr. Bailey's eyes and softly asked him some questions to which he could not physically respond. She settled back into her chair and pulled her quilting basket closer to her feet before she began sharpening her scissors on the tiny stone she kept on small table next to her chair.

Mr. Bailey now lay bunched up on the sofa like a ventriloquist's dummy during a stage break. His head lolled back and forth and he made unintelligible sounds from deep within his throat. I soon became bored with the scene and went out into the backyard to select a fresh vegetable to pick and give to Mr. Bailey, since his garden had long since withered and died. When I came inside a while later, Mr. Bailey and his son were gone, and a new quilt of about 18 inches wide lay folded neatly on Granny's chair. I walked over to the quilt and fingered it in wonderment at the tight precision stitches holding the fabric together.

It was so pretty, yet, disturbing. The patches were from an assortment of materials - corduroy, wool and denim. Some of the patches were dirty and stained and seemed to emit a faint sickly odor. My eyes fell to the corner where I spotted a patch of cloth that matched Mr. Bailey's Sunday suit. He had only one and he once wore it with such pride. It now hung on him like a child in his father's clothing. The patch had been cut from that suit, I was sure of it, for it was the exact suit that Mr. Bailey had draped over him when his son carried him over and laid him on the sofa.

"Get away from there!"

I was startled and dropped the patchwork cloth. Granny was standing on the stairs, glaring at me through her lenses.

"I'm sorry, Granny, I was just looking at it," I picked up the cloth and laid it back on the chair where I'd found it. Granny rushed over and retrieved the cloth from the chair, stuffing it into a plastic bag she had in her hand, then turned and retreated up the stairs, carrying the bag with her.

I spent much of the next week in bed sick with the flu. When I finally awoke feeling normal again, I could hear beneath my window, a man's voice chattered excitedly about something I could not make out. But I did recognize the deep, rich bass of his tone, it sounded like an old friend whose voice I had not heard in many months – but it couldn't be – could it? I dragged myself to the window and looked down to see Mr. Bailey standing at the end of his walkway talking to another neighbor and he seemed to be gesturing wildly toward my house. Both Mr. Bailey and the neighbor were now facing my house, of that I was certain. I slid over to the side of my window and tucked myself behind the curtain so they wouldn't see me. When I peeked again, Mr. Bailey had turned his back away from my direction and continued talking. I felt my stomach churn and a feeling of dread grew within me for reasons I didn't understand. He was still wearing his favorite Sunday suit from the night before. Except for the missing square of fabric from the coattail, the suit looked like new and he wore it tall and proud. Mr. Bailey was no longer bent over in pain, his spine was straight and his shoulders square, and it was in that moment that my ten year old heart began to believe that my Granny could do magic.

That's what it was to me – magic. I wanted to see more. I wanted her to do the tricks I'd seen on television, pull a rabbit out of a hat or make something disappear. But she did none of that and I grew irritated with her. What good was magic if you didn't do any tricks? She never said any of the magic words like "abracadabra" or "presto chango". She did nothing at all but sit in her chair and make quilts all day. Whenever I would ask her to do a magic trick, she'd give me an exasperated look with her steely blue eyes and say, "baby, I don't do tricks, I got more important work to do on earth."

"Hmph!" I'd mutter under my breath, "what a waste!"

The visitors started a few days after Mr. Bailey's miraculous recovery. Having guests at all was a surprise because Granny was very private and didn't have any real friends. She was cordial and kind to everyone but she kept her distance and insisted that you keep yours. Most people didn't get much more than a nod and a "Good day" out of her, and it had been that way for all of her life in that house and in that town. I had friends in school, but their parents didn't allow their kids to play at my house because they thought Granny was strange. I had long ago stopped feeling a twinge of excitement at the thought that someone might be dropping by to play with me. So when I heard the sound of a car pulling up in the street in front of our house, I thought it might be another guest of Mr. Bailey's who had become quite a popular fellow since his return to health. But then I heard the sound of squeaky wheels approaching, and I couldn't resist going to the window in time to see a young mother pushing her child up the walkway in an old rusted stroller. I opened before she could knock, preparing to point out her mistake and redirect her to Mr. Bailey's house next door, but when I looked into her tear-stained face, I knew somehow that she was here to see Granny, and I knew that I wasn't to interfere.