A Farewell to Yarns

wasn't her fault, and I didn't blame her, but it did create a barrier between us.

“Anyway, we saw less and less of each other and then talked on the phone less often, and finally, when Katie was a baby, Phyllis had some sort of breakdown. I never knew quite why—we weren't ever really close enough to talk about gut-level stuff. I never thought Phyllis had a gut level, to be honest. She was such a simple, straightforward person. Chet took her on some sort of cruise to recover, and the next time I heard from her, it was in a letter telling me they'd stayed on a little island in the Caribbean that they loved so much that Chet bought it.'

“Bought the whole island?'

“Well, most of it, I think. There was a resort hotel and a little village where the hotel workers lived, but they owned the rest, as I understand. I got the impression from her later letters that they eventually bought the hotel as well and put up a few houses for friends and business associates of Chet's.'

“An island in the Caribbean and she comes to Illinois in December? Is she crazy?'

“Homesick, I suspect. I don't know why, after all these years, she'd be so anxious to come back, but she is. We write long letters at Christmas and send the occasional birthday card, but that's all. Or it was until last winter. Somehow she heard about Steve dying—'

“From that distance? Not to speak ill of the dead, but Steve's passing was hardly an international event.”

Jane smiled. Most of her acquaintances went miles out of their way to avoid mentioning Steve and would never refer to his death. Only a true friend like Shelley would speak casually, even lightly, about it. Life, not to mention conversation, was so much easier with a real friend.

“I don't know how she knew. I suspect she's always taken the Chicago papers, though, because in her letters she frequently mentions local events as if she's familiar with them. She may do it for the sake of Chet's sons. One of them lives somewhere close to us, or used to. She mentioned him a couple times, and I suppose she hoped I'd make an effort to meet him, but I never did. You don't know any Wagners in the neighborhood, do you?'

“Hmmm, there's a Joannie Wagner with a fourth grader. I worked at the school carnival with her.'

“That sounds familiar. Anyway, Phyllis called immediately after Steve died and offered tocome stay with me, since my mother was having that surgery and couldn't be here.'

“Oh, I think I do remember you mentioning her. I think I answered the phone that day.'

“Could be. Of course, I had you and Steve's mother, Thelma, and didn't need her—didn't even want her, to be truthful. Phyllis was really a virtual stranger to me by that time. But a month or so later, when I was getting back to being able to think and talk a little, she called again and asked if I'd like to bring the children down to their island for a visit. I begged off, and I must have inadvertently given the impression that I couldn't afford to go. Not that I could have afforded it, but that wasn't the reason. So in the next mail there was a registered letter containing four plane tickets.'

“You never mentioned that to me! Why didn't you go?'

“I didn't tell you, because I was afraid you'd make me go. I couldn't pull myself together and figure out what to do about the dog and the cats and clothes and stopping the paper. You know what a zombie I was for a while. Besides, I—well, I just didn't want to spread my grief around. The only place I felt I could heal was at home.”

Shelley nodded her understanding.

“I sent the tickets back with the gooiest thank-you I could write,' Jane went on. 'She returned a heart- breakingly sweet letter, very understanding, saying how she'd been selfish to try to get me there, but she'd missed me so much all those years. Of course, I had to write and offer to have her visit here after all she'd done, or tried to do  for me. To my astonishment, she took me up on it. Not then, but she said she'd like to visit this winter. So, here we are, picking her up. I don't know why she's not visiting Chet's son and his Joannie instead of me. I don't think they're close, but she'd never indicated that they don't get along. Although, as boys, when she and Chet were first married, his sons gave her trouble. One of them—John, I think his name was—was especially close to his father.'

“So what's Phyllis like? Will she be fun or intolerable?”

Jane had the crochet hook in her teeth as she rewound the yarn. She took it out and tapped her knee reflectively. 'Just boring, I would guess. She's very nice. Very, very nice. She's the kind of person you absolutely cannot dislike. But it's equally impossible to be crazy about her, and that's always made me feel a little guilty. I feel I ought to like her much better than I do. She's a truly good person who deserves the kind of friendship you and I have. I feel obligated, but unwilling, to provide it. She's rather quiet. I remember her as a sort of country girl come to the city, even though she grew up in Bostonor Washington or someplace. She had that sort of wide-eyed, half-scared, half-thrilled look most of the time.'

“Certainly she's outgrown that by now. I don't think I could stand dewy innocence,' Shelley said. 'Why is she coming without her husband? Doing a little Christmas shopping or something?'

“Probably so. She's coming by way of New York; I guess she was there for a few days. She'sprobably dropped a couple million already. But I do find this trip odd. She and Chet have always been inseparable. In her last letter there was the merest hint of trouble in paradise. I'd hate to see her marriage go bad. She doesn't deserve that kind of unhappiness and—I guess it's selfish of me, but I don't think I could stand hours of talk about a disintegrating marriage.'

“And you think it is? Disintegrating?'

“I hope not.'

“How long is she staying?'

“She didn't say. I imagine two or three days. Well, we can get her busy on the bazaar. She'll like that, unless she's changed a lot. She was always making some little ornamental something. She's another of those damned born knitters, and she's the only person I've ever met of our generation who knows how to do tatting.'

“Tatting! I thought it was a lost art.

“The year we lived in the apartment she made Christmas tree ornaments for everybody in the building with styrofoam balls and sequins with all this starched, tatted lace. Sounds tacky, but they were beautiful. All those lonely old people in the building were very touched. So was I. I still have mine.'

“Then she'll fit right in with the church bazaar crowd. They'll think you imported her especially for their use.

Jane was quiet for a moment. They were approaching the airport, and the sky was full of planes. 'Say—the bazaar reminds me of something else. Phyllis was madly in love with Richie Divine. She'll be interested in meeting Fiona—the famous widow. Phyllis has a scrapbook of her favorite stars and another one just for Richie. I thought that was strange, but sort of endearing, that a grown—well, married woman would keep fan scrapbooks.”

Shelley didn't say anything, just rolled her eyes. Jane looked sideways at her, and added, 'She also did jigsaw puzzles, pictures of puppies and kittens, and poured glue over them so she could hang them up on the walls.'

“Good God, Jane! You can't mean that!' Jane giggled. 'No, I just wanted to see if you were paying attention.'

“What terminal are we going to?' Shelley asked repressively.

“Damn it, Shelley! I've crocheted the door handle into my afghan!”

Jane didn't recognize the slim, expensively dressed woman who waved at her as she moved forward with the crowd at the arrivals gate. 'Is that her?' Shelley asked.

“I guess it must be,' Jane said through the side of her mouth. She glanced around to see if perhaps the woman was gesturing to someone standing behind her. But no one was reacting. Jane assumed a smile that was welcoming but not committed enough to embarrass her if this wasn't Phyllis.

The crowd got backed up behind a little girl who had tripped and was screaming bloody murder. Jane had time to study the woman she assumed was little Phyllis all grown up and rich. The Phyllis she remembered had mousy brown hair and an air of perpetual disarray just short of sloppiness. This woman was exquisite;expensively frosted hair swirled around a face that could have graced a magazine cover. This was the sort of beautiful, mature woman who was shown in the high fashion fur ads in magazines Jane flipped through at the bookstore but couldn't afford to buy. Tanned. Gorgeous teeth. Gorgeous teeth? Phyllis had disgraceful teeth back in the old Chicago apartment days. It was the one real drawback to her appearance.

As Jane watched, the woman turned to a young man standing slightly behind her. She said something and pointed to Jane. The young man, blond, tanned, smashingly handsome, and unquestionably the most sulky individual