Vera Romano sat in the day room, her eyes intent on the broadcaster, while her fingers feed the yarn smoothly to her knitting needles, methodically adding inches to the scarf she was making. The news crew cut to the image of a man she hated: gubernatorial candidate Anson Stone, standing outside a courthouse declaring the claims of sexual misconduct against him were politically motivated. Vera’s friend and roommate, Irene Connelly, flipped his image the bird and sputtered. “I don’t get it. How can people still support him when he’s so obviously guilty. And not just of this,” she gestured toward the flat screen emphatically, “but also of fraud!”
“He appeals to the lawlessness, the unrestricted impulses, some part of the brain yearns for. You know? The part of us that chafes at restrictions? Following the law is a learned activity. If left to our own devices, with no regard for the common good, we would be anarchists or worse.”
Naomi Gould chimed in. “Less than a century ago, a man encouraged his countrymen to annihilate an entire religious group. What’s to say it can happen again? He represented every evil Pandora let loose upon the world and that man,” she said pointing at Anson Stone, preening before the camera, is no different.” In her agitation over what she also believed, Vera had dropped the pattern and had to rip out the last row and start over. Irene, never one to hold back her opinions, blurted out “Why doesn’t someone just kill that piece of shit! I swear, I ‘d do it in a heartbeat if I could get my hands on his scrawny neck.”
“You don’t have enough strength to strangle him,” Vera replied, her needles clicking in response to her irritation. “Besides, you’d be caught on the spot. I don’t see you making a speedy getaway on those legs.”
“I wouldn’t care about getting away. What would they do to me, anyway? Lock me up in some prison and serve me three meals a day for the rest of my life? Look around, Vera. We’re practically there, anyway. It would be worth it to prevent that miscreant from winning the governorship because once he does, he’ll aim higher and I’ll be damned if I’ll allow a man like that to ruin my grandchildren’s future.” Irene’s face had turned bright pink, an indication that the passion of her response had elevated her blood pressure.
Naomi nodded in agreement. Vera kept knitting, but her mind was envisioning a number of scenarios, weaving them into potential plans.
“You’ve got a point. None of us has anything to lose. Wouldn’t it be something if we, a bunch of forgotten people, could manage to pull it off? We’d have to overcome almost insurmountable obstacles. Still,” she said, needles clicking as she added stich after stitch, “there might be a way, if we can get him here before the election.”
“Don’t tease me, Vera. I want that monster gone before he can evolve into an unstoppable force.”
“It must be by his death,” Vera quoted, looking at Irene steadily.
Naomi recognized the line immediately. “That’s what Brutus said when he became one of the conspirators. And I agree. But, how?”
“There has to be a way. I don’t know what it is, but there has to be a way, “she repeated. “I just need time to figure it out. We won’t speak of this again, even hypothetically. Understood?”
“You’re serious?” Irene gazed wide-eyed at her friend.
“Indeed, I am.”
“`
Vera searched her memory for stories of revenge and murder. She was no Medea so she couldn’t create a shirt of flame to wrap him in. There were no catacombs to which she could lure him and cement him for eternity, like Montresor did to Fortunato, although this man’s ego was such that it wouldn’t take much to lure him there if one existed. He had a peanut allergy, but she doubted they could get him to eat anything even if they could lace it with peanut oil. She created and rejected a number of plots before she had her Eureka moment. It was so obvious; she was surprised it hadn’t occurred to her sooner. When she told Irene, her friend rubbed her hands together and giggled in delight. “It’s brilliant! How soon can we start?”
“I’ll talk to the activity director tomorrow about the materials, but in order for this to work, we need at least ten like-minded souls and they can’t be loose-lipped.”
Irene nodded. “Loose lips sink ships.” Then she whispered conspiratorially, “Too bad the Ides of March is so far off. That would be the icing on the cake.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Irene. The cake hasn’t been baked yet. There’s still a lot to do.”
The next morning, Vera approached the activity director, Sally Grant. Sally was one of those over enthusiastic young idealists who believed that goodness existed everywhere if you took the time to look. Her blonde hair was always pulled up in a bouncy ponytail and her shirt sleeves were always rolled back, a signal to all that she was ready to pitch in and make life fun for the residents. When Vera suggested that it would be nice for the residents to begin knitting scarves for the children of the community as part of the “No Cold Kids” campaign, Sally couldn’t control her enthusiasm.
“That’s a wonderful idea, Vera! It tells the community that even though our residents may be older, they still have useful skills and they care about the well-being of our children! I love it! Tell me, what will you need?”
“Yarns, of course, in a variety of colors. Something washable and medium weight and soft. Knitting needles. The larger ones. That will be easier for the ladies to grip and the work will go faster. I can teach them a few basic stitches. Once the scarves are finished, maybe we can have a small party or ceremony to present them.”
“Of course!” Sally’s smile filled her entire face. “Vera,” she said, reaching over to squeeze Vera’s hand, “I can’t thank you enough for suggesting this worthy activity! Maybe we can get news coverage, too. That would be good publicity for our facility and counter all those recent negative stories about places with an aging population.”
Vera let a slow smile drift across her face. It would be newsworthy, all right, but not in the way Sally anticipated, if Vera was successful. She reached for her knitting bag, nestled against her feet. “Would you like me to teach you first, so you can help me teach the others?”
“That sounds great. What do I do first? “
“First, you need a pair of needles and a ball of yarn to cast on your stitches.”
“Cast on?”
“Yes, Sally. Knitting always starts with nothing and evolves. First, you must create the foundation for your design. You loop the yarn around these fingers, but loosely, so it slides easily through the palm of your hand. You use one of your needles to form a looped knot that slides onto the needle, one after the other.” Vera’s hands worked the yarn smoothly, filling her needle with forty or fifty loops. “Then you transfer the needle to your left hand and use the empty needle to begin stitching, like this.” Vera inserted the needle into the first loop, captured the yarn thread behind it, transferring a new loop onto the empty needle. She showed Sally slowly as she created four more new loops and then put the needles in Sally’s hands. “Now you try. Don’t hold the yarn too tightly. Just let it flow. Yes, like that. Good. That’s all you need to know. There’s another stich, called a purl, but you can make a scarf using just this one.”
Sally continued creating stitches and smiled as she completed the row. “I had no idea it was this easy! Or that it would make me feel so…satisfied. I’m going to pick up the yarn and needles after work.”
Vera wrote down how much yarn she would need and suggested ten pairs of needles, size 15. Then she looked around the room for potential recruits. There was Irene, of course, and Lillian Bosch who wrinkled her nose every time bozo’s name was mentioned. Justine Clark was another possibility. She still wore tie-dyed shirts and kept her gray hair long, not wanting to abandon her flower child roots. She was fairly vocal about her disdain for bozo, referring to him as “Fuckface” whenever he appeared on the news, smiling that unctuous smile. Yes, she could probably count Justine in. Marianne Russo was unlikely. She always carried her rosary beads with her and although she didn’t approve of the many instances of bad behavior on his part, shaking her head in disgust, she would want the courts to punish him. Still, Vera thought, this last accusation might be the straw…but no, for now, she’d keep Marianne outside the conspiracy although she would include her in the knitting group. Karen Ross was a no, as was Bonnie Ericsson, both of whom had drunk the proverbial Kool-Aid and were strong supporters of Anson Stone. She hoped they wouldn’t be interested in joining the knitting group, but then she reminded herself that the group served two purposes and both served the children and the children were what mattered most.
“What’s up, Vera? You’re scanning the room as if you have murder on your mind,” Vera looked up into the smiling face of Owen King.
“Not murder, Owen, just potential knitters to make scarves for the No Cold Kids campaign. “
“How about me and Dave? I’m sure we could handle those needles as well as any of the ladies, except you, that is.”
Owen and Dave were brothers and roommates, Owen older by two years, who were among those Vera considered friends. Why not enlist them? It would add community interest to have two men participating in an effort to keep children warm, making it more newsworthy.
“Done. You’re officially inducted into Vera’s Volunteers . If Sally gets the supplies, we might be able to start tomorrow or Friday.“
“Just tell me when and we’ll be there in our places, with bright shiny faces, waiting for your commands.” Owen leaned over, captured Vera’s hand and gave it a gentle, respectful kiss. Then, he straightened up, gave her a smile and a wink and headed off to find Dave.
Vera watched him cross the room and sighed. If only they had met when they were younger. Didn’t someone write a song about turning back time? Vera let her imagination transport younger versions of herself and Owen to a sunny meadow beside a stream, lying beside one another in a passionate embrace and felt those never quite forgotten stirrings of desire rippling beneath her slacks. She let out another sigh and shook her head. Stay focused, she scolded herself. There’s work to be done.
Good as her word, Sally had purchased everything Vera had asked for and posted a sign telling anyone who was interested in joining the knitting group, to sign up, and be at the Craft Cove at 10:30 on Friday. Irene was giddy at breakfast, so much so that Vera had to give her a kick under the table.
“I can’t wait to get started on this project, “ Irene confided to those at the table. “It is so important to make sure the children are taken care of. And who better than us?”
There were murmurs of agreement between bites of toast and sips of coffee. Naomi locked eyes with Vera who nodded and Naomi smiled. “You can count on me.”
The turnout for the campaign was better than expected and soon Sally was off buying more supplies for the group. As more and more hats and scarves and mittens lined the shelves, Vera point the crucial part of the plan into motion.
“Sally, do you remember when we first talked about this? And the possibility we might make the donation into an event? Invite the press and local leaders including the leading gubernatorial candidates to be part of the celebration? We could serve high tea, let our bakers highlight their skills as well as ours.”
Sally nodded her head enthusiastically, ponytail bobbing. “I certainly do! And your group has exceeded my expectations by a mile. I have calls out to our board members and as soon as I have their approval, I can start inviting the dignitaries. Do you have a date in mind of when everything will be completed?” Vera assured her she did and Sally was jubilant. “You made this happen, Vera. It’s going to be something that the community isn’t likely to forget.” Vera just smiled modestly but her heart was racing. Could they succeed? Luck would have to be on their side.
After dinner, Vera sought out Owen. His help was the last knot to be tied off for the plan to successfully rid the world of Anson Stone. Owen greeted her with a smile and patted the seat on the sofa beside him. “Come rest your weary bones, Vera, and tell me why you’ve seemed so preoccupied lately.”
Vera sat down and looked at Owen with real affection. Could she risk their friendship by asking him to be a major part of her plan? She had to. So, over the next few minutes she told him everything. He listened carefully, without interrupting, and when she had finished, he squeezed her hand and nodded.
The day finally arrived when Anson Stone would be in their midst. Irene suggested a group photo, with Stone next to Owen and right behind Irene, Vera and Naomi, who posed with their needles laced through half-finished scarves. The other members of the group gathered in, holding their finished products. They all smiled as the photographer clicked away and then Vera addressed Anson Stone in a quiet voice. Because he couldn’t hear her, he leaned closer. Owen seemed to lose his balance and Stone toppled forward, Vera’s and Irene’s knitting needles piercing his body as he fell, pinning the two women to the floor. In her hand, Naomi hand a handkerchief she had dabbed in almond extract. Various people rushed in to assist in getting Anson Stone off the chairs crushing Vera and Irene. He was bleeding and looked down in shock at the needles protruding from his body. Naomi reached down and pulled one out, pressing her handkerchief to the wound. The medical staff rushed to the candidate’s aid, an ambulance was called, and he was rushed to the hospital. Irene and Vera were evaluated for minor injuries, the worst of which was Vera’s broken wrist. Sally Grant was beside herself, tears streaming down her face as the day turned from celebration to disaster. She hovered over Irene and Vera, both of whom insisted that everything was fine.
“It’s only a broken wrist. It could have been much worse. I could have broken my hip.”
Later that night, the 6 o’clock news reported the death of gubernatorial candidate Anson Stone after a freak accident that occurred during his visit to a local retirement home. There was an ongoing investigation, the reporter said,, but so far authorities did not suspect foul play. Naomi was standing beside the sofa and let a triumphant smile briefly touch her lips as she saw Irene in the corner. Owen was making sure that Vera was comfortable on the sofa. Irene brought over a tray of cookies, baked earlier that day.
“What kind are they?” Owen asked.
“Cherry almond,” Naomi said.
“My favorite,” Vera replied reaching for one.