Jesus stood there, arms spread, catching the dying sunlight. Morris recognized it as the same window that adorned the steeple of the church. The room appeared to be an attic of some kind, and a bell rope ran the length of one wall and disappeared through a small opening in the ceiling.
He must have fainted. Heat, stress, and a good dose of whiskey on an empty stomach. Not to mention the trank. And maybe a touch of the flu had crept up on him.
Snick.
Snick, snick.
As groggy as he was, it took him a moment to place the sound. Scissors.
The members of the sewing circle were gathered around him, stitching, darning, cutting scraps of cloth. He looked from face to face, trying to focus. Both Almas were there, though Morris had forgotten the names of the others. No, Reba, that was it. The chatty one. And Lillian. And one, wasn’t she named after a flower? Rose? Violet? No, Daisy, that was it. Daisy.
He tried to smile but couldn’t. His lips were too numb.
“ Looks like Mr. Big-Time Writer is awake,” Reba said, without a trace of her earlier humor.
“ A shame he can’t be troubled to get a little thing right,” the other Alma said. “Now, what would happen if we left a few loose threads in one of our blankets just because we didn’t care enough to do it right?”
“ Why, that would be like having no hope,” Daisy said. “Worse, it would be like giving up hope on the children.”
“ Oh, but we know how needy they are,” the first Alma said. “Because we read about it in the paper.”
Morris tried again to lift his head. The women weren’t looking at him. They concentrated on their work, snipping, stitching, working threads and needles and yarn. Morris’ stomach roiled, and he was afraid he was going to vomit in the presence of these women before he could lift himself and make it to a bathroom. Flu, for sure.
“ Don’t try to talk none,” Reba said. “You done enough harm with your words already.”
Lillian giggled like a schoolgirl. “You tied that knot off right, didn’t you, Reba? I know how much pride you take in your work.”
“ Wouldn’t want to go disappointing nobody. Unlike some people.”
A door opened somewhere beyond Morris’ range of vision. The women stopped working and looked in that direction, their faces rapt.
“ How’s our latest charity project coming along?” Faith asked.
“ Right fair,” the other Alma said. “Not such good material to work with, but I think we can shape it up some.”
“ Well, after all, they say we help the needy,” Faith said. “In fact, I think I read so in the Journal-Times.”
Morris couldn’t help himself. Sick or not, he was going to tell them all to fuck off. So what if he lost his job? He could paint houses, drop fry baskets, go on welfare. At least he’d no longer have to pretend to give a damn about little old ladies making sacrifices solely because of their own selfish need to feel useful.
He tried to speak, but his lips didn’t move. Not much, anyway.
“ Mr. Stanfield, Reba has been sewing for fifty-nine years, as you know, since you reported it in your article. That was one fact you reported correctly. So you can rest assured her stitches are much stronger than the flesh of your lips.”
Stitches? Lips?
He screamed, but the sound stuck at the top of his vibrating vocal cords. Faith came into view. She leaned over him, appraising the handiwork. “A silent tongue speaks no evil,” she said.
“ And doesn’t put down the good work of others,” Reba said, looking to Faith for approval.
“ That’s right,” Faith said. “I’m sorry we’re having to take time from our true work. Several children won’t get blankets this week because of Mr. Stanfield. But this task is perhaps just as important in the Lord’s eyes. This is a true charity case.”
Morris summoned all his effort and craned his neck. His clothes were sewn to what looked like the fabric pad of a mattress. He squirmed but could only move his arms and legs a few inches. He flexed his fingers, trying to make a fist.
“ Alma, how was that tatting on his hands?” Faith asked.
Alma Potter beamed with satisfaction at being recognized by the circle’s leader. “I done proud, Faith. Them fingers won’t be typing no more lies for a while.”
Morris felt his eyes bulging from their sockets. The first tingle of pain danced across his lips.
“ I’m sorry, Mr. Stanfield,” Faith said. “I don’t have any more morphine. The hospital’s supply is closely monitored. I could only risk stealing a few doses. But my sin is one the Lord is willing to forgive because it serves a greater good.”
The women were busy around him, their needles descending and lifting, the threads stretching and looping. The other Alma was busy down by his feet, her gnarled hands tugging at his toes. Lillian brought a scrap of cloth to his face, but Faith held up a hand.
For the first time, Faith smiled. “Not yet, Lillian. We can close his eyes later. For now, let him look upon good works. Let him know us by our deeds, not by his words.”
Lillian looked disappointed. Faith put a gentle hand on the old woman’s shoulder.
“ A good blanket takes care and patience,” Faith said. “Hope takes patience. All we can do is our part, and let the Lord take care of the rest.”
“ Just like with the sick children,” Lillian said.
“ Yes. They’re sick, but never needy. As long as one person has hope enough for them all, they are never in need.”
Morris tried to communicate with his eyes, to lie and tell Faith that he now understood, that sick children were never needy no matter what the Kelvinator said, but his eyes were too cold and lost to the world of light and understanding. He was a cynic and had nothing inside but desperation. He gazed at the stained-glass Jesus, but no hope could be found in that amber face as the sunlight died outside.
The gauze of morphine slipped a little, and now he could feel the sharp stings as the needles entered his arms, legs, and torso. Reba was stitching up his inseam, her face a quivering mask of concentration as she worked toward his groin. Daisy’s tongue pressed against her uppers as she pushed and tugged in tiny little motions. Silver needles flashed in the glow of the lone gas lamp by which the sewing circle now toiled. From outside, the plate- glass image must have flickered in all the colors of salvation.
But from the inside, the image had gone dark with the night. Summoning his remaining strength, Morris ripped the flesh of his lips free of their stitches and screamed toward the high white cross above.
“ Look, his eyelids twitched,” came a voice.
“ There, there,” Lillian said, as if on the other side of a thick curtain. “You just rest easy now.”
“ Where-” Morris was in the sewing room downstairs, flat on his back on the table, surrounded by piles of rags. They must have carried him here after they-
He brought a wobbly hand to his mouth and felt his lips. They were chapped but otherwise whole.
“ I think he’s thirsty,” said Faith, who knelt over him, patting his forehead with a soft swatch of linen. She turned to the janitor, who stood in the doorway. “Bruce, would you get him a cup of water, please?”
As the janitor shuffled off, Faith again settled her kind, healing eyes on him. “You fainted. A big, strong fellow like you.”
“ Must be-” The words were thick on his tongue. He flexed his fingers, remembering the sharp tingle of needles sliding through his skin, the taut tug of thread in his flesh. A dream. Nothing but a crazy, drug-stoked nightmare. “Must be the heat,” he managed.
“ It’s okay,” Faith said. Gone was her severe and chiding tone. She now spoke in her gentle nurse’s voice. “We’ll take care of you. You just have a chill. Rest easy and wait for the ambulance.”
“ Ambulance? No, I’m fine, really, I just need-” He tried to sit up, but his head felt like a wet sack of towels.
“ Your pulse is weak,” Faith said. “I’m concerned you might go into shock.”
“ That means we need to cover him up,” the other Alma said.
Faith smiled, the expression of all saints and martyrs. “I guess we should use the special blanket,” she said.
“ Blanket?” Morris blinked lint from his eyes.
