Dead Men Don't Crochet

She’d warned me about the front gate. Now that she was a name again, she’d started locking it and had an intercom installed. As she talked through the speaker, I could hear barking in the background. Maybe barking wasn’t the best description. It was more like wild yipping. She was still working out the kinks in her security system, so it took a few tries to coordinate her buzzing to unlock the gate and me pushing it open.

I passed a trio of hummingbirds hovering around a red nectar feeder as I walked up the pathway. The door was open a crack, and she ordered me to wait while she scooped up “the girls.” She opened the door enough for me to come in, and three sets of eyes focused on the plate in my hand.

“Oh, how wonderful, dear. Your cupcakes are cheese-cakes.” She kicked the door shut and let Marlena and Tallulah loose. The tiny Yorkies did a thorough investigation of my shoes and ankles. Now that I had Cosmo and Blondie and a double dose of dog scent, they went nuts. CeeCee relieved me of the plate, which was disposable. I made it clear the cupcakes were all hers to keep.

“Tony’s going to love these,” she said, lifting the plastic and drinking in their creamy vanilla aroma. Tony was her boyfriend, though she thought calling a veteran soap opera star with white hair a boyfriend kind of ridiculous. Actually she didn’t like any of the variations, either, like man friend, just friend, significant other, or the more direct lover. When she had to give him some kind of definition, she’d settled on calling him her guy.

She didn’t like the title widow, either, which I could completely relate to. It conjured up images of women wearing black veils and sensible shoes and tearing out their hair or something. Her late husband had been a world-famous dentist, and they’d had no children. She said with both of their careers, they’d just never had the time or emotion. The closest she had come were “the girls” and their predecessors.

“Tony’s working,” she called as I followed her to the dining room. Tony Bonnard, aka Dr. Kevin McCoy, was a pillar on the long-running soap opera My Family and Friends. And like CeeCee, he hadn’t let his celebrity status go to his head.

The house smelled of fresh paint, and I noticed boxes piled against the wall when I glanced down the hall that led to the bedroom wing.

“I’m doing some remodeling,” she said as if reading my mind. The interior had been a replica of the set of her old hit sitcom, The CeeCee Collins Show. “It was beginning to look tired. I decided it was time to move on with something fresh,” she said with a dismissive wave. I was glad to see she was leaving the dining room furniture as is. I liked the dark wood trestle table. A long ecru runner ran down the table, and a royal blue ceramic bowl of oranges sat in the center. The walls sported a pleasing shade of peach with white trim.

CeeCee had already brought out a ball of white thread and some steel hooks. She reminded me that the thread was called bedspread weight and that it was the most common kind used for thread crochet. I had brought along the supplies I’d purchased; I took out my thread and steel hooks, picked one from the bunch and looked at it. The end was so tiny I could barely see the hook, but then the thread appeared very thin, too. I had my doubts about being able to learn thread crochet. I had my doubts I’d even be able to see the stitches. I just wanted to get her talking about handkerchiefs.

A woman came out of the kitchen, startling me. CeeCee handed her the plate of cupcakes and said something to her in Spanish. Another change—CeeCee had household help now. There seemed to be a lot of conversation back and forth and CeeCee leaned toward me. “I’m emceeing a charity event tonight.” She smiled and went on about how now that she was back in the limelight with the reality show, everyone wanted her to do a charity event. This one was a personal favorite of hers. “They help seniors who can’t take care of or afford their pets.” She touched my arm. “You know, dear, it feels good to be able to give back.”

Underneath CeeCee’s overdone blondish, reddish pouf of hair and the jewel-colored velour outfits was a tender heart. When the original leader of the crochet group died, it was CeeCee who had carried on the idea of making projects for different charities. She was always making a lap blanket or a baby sweater for someone.

“I’m afraid I don’t have as much time as I thought,” she said. “I have a stylist, and hair and makeup people coming over to help me get ready for tonight.”

I sat down and fingered the runner on the table with new interest, wondering how it was made. It had a gridlike background and a design of butterflies and flowers.

CeeCee saw my interest and commented, “It’s not real. They tried to make it look like filet crochet, but the background is machine made and the design is closer to embroidery.” She showed me how someone had created the design by running rather thick cotton thread over and under the grid.

“Filet crochet? It sounds like something to eat.”

“Dear, I’m afraid that comment isn’t any more original than your yarnoholic one. I’ve heard people call it filet of crochet or a crochet filet and joke about it being a crochet steak.” She laid a book of crochet instruction open on the table and pointed to a photo of a white dove in what looked like the middle of a grid.

“That, my dear, is the real thing.” She pointed out how the open spaces were made by doing chain stitches and the filled-in areas were just double crochets. There didn’t seem a lot of room for error, and CeeCee said the design had to be drawn on graph paper first.

I gazed at the photo for a long time as CeeCee read the instructions out loud. “That isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” I said, thinking it looked nothing like the hanky.

“I thought you could try all different kinds of thread crochet. But if you’re not interested in filet, we’ll do something else.” She set down the book. “So is it doilies you’re interested in?” she asked, picking up a thin hook and making a slip knot with the fine thread. She quickly did some chain stitches and joined them in a ring, and then her hook moved so fast I wasn’t sure what she was doing until she explained the pattern called for a bunch of single crochets in the ring. She pushed some supplies my way and told me what she’d done and said to do the same.

“That isn’t exactly what I had in mind, either,” I said.

“Fine. Then just make a foundation chain of say twenty, and then turn it and do a row of single crochets just for the feel of the thread while you tell me what you did have in mind.”

I tried to follow her instructions, but it was not easy. The thread was so thin it was hard to manipulate it, and the hook—I spent most of the time picking it up after it slipped out of my hand.

“I was thinking about trimming something,” I began. “You know how there are those little linen hand towels with crochet trim, or even terry hand towels? Or a handkerchief. Yes, that’s what I want to know about. Maybe a small square of cotton with a lot of this doily kind of stuff as trim.”

CeeCee gave me an odd look. “A handkerchief? Molly, what you’re describing sounds lovely, but you don’t want to defeat yourself when you’re just learning.” She pushed an instruction sheet titled Simple Washcloth across the table to me. “This is perfect if you want to try something simple to get the feel of working with the thread. Then you can try a handkerchief.”

CeeCee’s simple washcloth was no help for my hanky dilemma, except to give me some appreciation of how difficult that lacy trim must have been to make. I decided to prod her further. “But if I were to make a handkerchief, how would I make some fluffy filigree kind of trim?”

“Why are you so fixated on making a decorated hanky?”

I wasn’t ready to tell her the real answer, so I changed the subject to talking about hankies in general. She put up her hand to stop me.

“Why not just focus on what you’re doing?” She touched my hook, and I looked down at my work. It was a mess. She unraveled it, did the foundation chain for me and gave it back, urging me to practice with the single crochets.

My shoulder blades were achy by the time I got to the second row. I felt tense and frustrated from trying to work with the tiny hook. CeeCee moved my hands down and my head up while telling me that staring directly at it would strain my eyes. I was thrilled when she suggested we take a cupcake break.

“You have to get used to it,” she said in a reassuring manner. I wondered if that would happen in this lifetime.

She gestured for me to stop working and called Rosa to bring in the tea and cupcakes.

A few minutes later, Rosa appeared with an elaborate tray and put it on the table. CeeCee thanked her and winked at me. “It’s nice to have help again. I could burn water,” she said with her trademark tinkly laugh.

CeeCee’s late husband had been brilliant about teeth and a moron about money. When he died she found out he’d gone through all their money. She’d had to start all over, and it wasn’t until the reality show that she’d finally started getting ahead.