The Sweater Curse Ch 6 by Leanne Dyck

WARNING: This story contains adult content

Chapter Five: As I drifted from household to household, I brought my knitting needles

photo by ldyck

The Sweater Curse

Chapter Six

    I was finally on my own. Yahoo! I could now claim the career path to which students with my eclectic education were entitled—teaching English in Japan, shepherding in Iceland, and guiding tourists in Greece. All I need do was learn Nihongo, Icelandic, or Greek. I wasn't interested in further study. Instead, I began my illustrious career in retail. 

    A rapidly aging bottled blonde pulled a pair of jeans off the rack. She wasn't only trying to deceive others but also herself. The image of her squeezing her blubber into those jeans made me want to—. I bit my tongue. “These jeans are sized rather small.” I offered her a size sixteen.

    “Do you think I’m fat? I’m a size eight. I’ve always been a size eight.”

    She was angry. She was also my boss’s mother-in-law. This I learnt immediately before I was told to find a new job. I found one in a local bar. There, old winos fondled me while I served them more alcohol. I kept my job until I arrested one advance by kicking an old guy right where it would hurt him the most. Yeah, my life was a thrill a minute.

    I’m just not cut out to deal with the public, I thought, and found a position as a personal assistant. It was a good job until I discovered what a jerk my boss was. He wanted me to suck up for a wage. I was pretty and smart, a fact he couldn’t handle. When I was forced to point out his idiocy, he didn’t appreciate my honesty.

    “You’re fired,” he snapped, and I began looking for yet another job.

    I’d been paid in quarters, but I had million-dollar tastes. My solution was frequent visits to the gated community of my youth. Elevating me to this socioeconomic status was the one useful gift Mother imparted to me.

    “Welcome home,” they cheered, and the champagne flowed.

    I floated into these parties, knowing I could have anyone I wanted. Men were drawn to me like cat hair to black yarn.

    “Hey, sexy. You’re looking hot tonight.” They smiled. I tried not to notice the drool.

    I selected the charismatic and the intriguing, not always the richest. Their age and marital status weren’t important. I happily overlooked the grooved ring fingers, the wedding photos. In fact, it was a relief. It meant they didn’t hear the wedding march each time they looked at me.

    The wives, however, didn’t share my joy.

    “He’s my man. Get your grubby paws off him,” they hissed at me, venom dripping from their fangs.

    I knew how to play because they had introduced me to the game. I followed the rules they had taught. But when I played with their men, they took it personally. They insisted that I stop, but I couldn’t. I enjoyed the game too much. Unable to stop me, they tried steering me in a different direction. “He’s Matthew Brown,” my hostess, the wife of Judge Reginald Masterson, whispered in my ear as I watched a handsome brunette. “A hardworking corporate lawyer on his way to making partner.”

    “Oh, juicy.” I couldn’t hide it—I was interested.

    I don’t know what happened. Did she give him the signal? Whatever it was, he was suddenly there, beside me, drink in hand.

    “Hi, I’m Matthew.” He didn't look me in the eye. He was far more interested in my other body parts.

    “I’m Gwen.” And the rest of me is up here, I was tempted to point out.

    “Nice to meet you, Gwen.” He told my body.

    “You’re a corporate lawyer.”

    “Oh, yes, honey, but let’s not pretend you’d be able to understand anything about my career. Let’s pick a topic you’ll enjoy, like… I don’t know… What soap opera do you watch? I hate to see you go, but...” 

    He wasn't original, but he was determined. He showered me with luxurious gifts—furs, jewellery, furniture, cars. When I milked him dry, I moved on to Devin and Stephen and Philip and... There was no end to the guys who thought they could do what others couldn't—trap me permanently. 

Sunday, November 30 at approximately 4:40 PM PT

The Sweater Curse

Chapter Seven

Artists were invited to our parties.

While on a walk with my dog Abby, we turned onto Dalton Street and reached the ferry terminal parking lot. I looked right and feasted my eyes on this beautiful billboard...

photo by ldyck

My favourite show...

The Sweater Curse Ch 5 by Leanne Dyck

WARNING: This story contains adult content

Chapter Four: She didn't mourn. She moved on.

photo by ldyck

(the rock art was still standing after this photo was taken.)

 Chapter Five

In 2002, after I completed the eighth grade, Mother moved us from Manitoba to BC.

Our new home was a gated community. We, the advantaged, were protected behind tall walls. Except for ours, they were all male-led households. The men were doctors, lawyers, corporate executives, and engineers. They were all successful professionals whose occupations allowed them the privilege of minimal family involvement. Domestics minded the mundane so those left at home could indulge. The abandoned wives amused themselves by painting their nails, sunbathing, and engaging in extramarital affairs. The neglected children experimented with fast cars, narcotics, and sex.

I divorced my family and squeezed myself into other households. Sometimes I stayed in a guest bedroom with its colour TV and walk-in closet. Others offered their pool house. I never stayed longer than three weeks. There was no need; I was constantly offered invitations.

“You can do what you want to do. Say what you want to say. Go wherever you want to go. You’re so cool.” My peers admired my independence.

Their mothers took me under their wings. They taught me how to walk in high heels, apply makeup, mix a martini, and seduce a man. “Remember, dear, don’t give in too quickly. Make him fight for it, and he’ll be putty in your hands. Keep him interested by giving him a little taste of what he’ll want more of. Make him drool long and dream of you.”

 As I drifted from household to household, I brought my knitting needles—like a two-year-old drags a blankie or a Catholic carries rosary beads. This was a tumultuous time, and the local yarn shop became my oasis. I stepped over the threshold and entered a world of directed meditation. I was drawn to shades and hues of every description—lipstick lava, Chinatown apple, gothic rose, potting soil, grape jelly, porcelain green, sea foam, tea rose, pumpkin, lullaby purple, maple sugar, lemon peel, cinder, birch, baton rouge. I cradled the skeins in my hands, and their textures—from coarse to fuzzy to silky—seduced me.

Yes, I built my stash, but I didn’t purchase a single pattern. Why would I follow someone else’s rules? I was a rebel.

I knit wool sweaters in the winter, cotton tops in the summer. I used novelty yarn to accent the collar and cuffs of one design and created a Chanel-inspired cardigan. It received compliments each time I wore it. I gained notoriety as a fashionista.

“Your sweaters are so beautiful, dear. I would like you to knit me one,” a middle-aged woman, one of the mothers, requested. She grinned as if she were doing me a favour.

 “Ah, no. I only knit for myself,” I informed her and everyone who inquired.

“Could you teach me to knit?” one of my classmates asked.

“You? If you think you can learn, I’ll teach you.” Using bulky yarn and size ten needles, I cast on twelve stitches. “This is one of the two basic stitch patterns,” I explained.

“Two stitch patterns? Just two?”

“Knit and purl. This is the knit, or garter, stitch. Watch closely.” I worked one row very slowly.

“Ah, that's easy.”

“It is easy. If you learn it and the purl stitch, you’ll be able to make anything you want,” I promised.

I began to knit faster and faster; the yarn flew.

“When can I try?”

“How about now?” I finished the row and handed her the needles.

 “What do I do?”

“Weren’t you watching?” I asked sternly. “Put the needle in your right hand into the loop, wrap the yarn around, and then pull the old stitch off. Not like that. What’s wrong? I thought you said it looked easy.”

“It did look easy when you were doing it, but it’s not easy for me. I can’t seem to… I’m having trouble… This is impossible.”

“Fine, then don’t learn. It doesn’t matter to me.”

 "No, I'll try harder,” she promised, but the yarn was soon a tangled mess.

I had very little patience with ineptitude and soon abandoned her. Still the requests kept coming. Teach me to knit… Teach me to knit… It was nauseating.

Anyway...

After my dad died, my official address remained unchanged. My school and other governing bodies believed I still cohabited with Mother. They didn’t know about our severed relationship. Periodically, I would visit my old residence when I knew she wasn’t there. I didn’t break in. I had a key. An envelope waited for me there on the kitchen table. It held a lump of bills and a note. I rolled the unread note into a joint. It relaxed me to see “Love, Mother” go up in flames as I puffed. I would suck in Mary Jane’s sweet breath and poke it out on Mother’s curtains, walls, and rugs. Just one of the many ways I would let her know I still cared.

During a clandestine visit, Mother and Grandpapa trapped me. It still hurts to think those two were able to outsmart me.

They had a message, which Mother delivered as Grandpapa glared. “We’ve allowed you to muddle through to the eleventh grade, but this is where the muddling ends.”

I don’t know what they were worried about. I was going to school—at least twice a week. I was late—but there.

“We’re going to talk some sense into you.”

Sense? Those two wouldn’t know sense, even if it bit them on the ass.

“We’re not going to allow you to waste your life. McNamaras are university graduates. Pillars of society.”

 I’m a Bjarnson, not a McNamara! I wanted to scream, but didn’t. Why light a fire? They were already boiling.

“Improve your grades and enroll in university.”

What could I do? I needed Mother’s cash donations. I matriculated, but not into med school. I wasted a few years wandering from program to program seeking fun. I found cute guys and wild parties. Inevitably, I dropped out.

Mother and Grandpapa were ecstatic. She celebrated by moving and not giving me her new address. He stopped leaving curt voicemail messages. In fact, I never heard from him again. I periodically heard about him when I watched the news. Former doctor, now affluent businessman, supported this charity or was honoured and given this award. I was tempted to phone or send a note of congratulations. Yeah, right, just as soon as I stopped buying yarn.

The Sweater Curse

Chapter Six

I was finally on my own. Yahoo! I could finally claim the career path to which students with my eclectic education were entitled...

November 17

The Giller prize winner announced

This year's shortlist...

We Love You, Bunny by Mona Awad, published by Scribner Canada

The Tiger and the Cosmonaut by Eddy Boudel Tan, published by Viking Canada

The Paris Express by Emma Donoghue, published by Harper Avenue

The Life Cycle of the Common Octopus by Emma Knight, published by Viking Canada

Pick a Colour by Souvankham Thammavongsa, published by Knopf Canada

Learn about the Finalists

November 19

CBC Poetry Prize winner announced

shortlist

Last Sunday (November 9th), my husband took me on Mayne Island's studio tour. A highlight was our visit to Ravendale Farm, where I found this beautiful display of knitting...

photo by ldyck

Who won?...