The Orange Cat Bistro by Nancy Linde

Author:Nancy Linde
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 1996-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Nevada and I perch on opposite ends of Nicholas's old sofa. I'm knitting and Nevada's quilting. The apartment is cozy in a poky, too-small East Village sort of way. I can see the clawfoot bathtub through the archway that opens into the kitchen. It's obvious that Eileen made the chintz curtains and slipcovers, which are starting to fray, and that Nicholas hasn't had the heart to redecorate. Nevada's particularly interested in a little shrine Nicholas has set up to Eileen, complete with pink satin toe shoes and performance photos.

"So that's the dead wife,” Nevada says. “She's pretty."

"So are you,” I say, pouring tea from an indigo pot.

"But I'm not dead."

"It is hard to compete with a dead ballerina. But you have your resources."

"I do.” Nevada's needle flashes in and out of her quilting square, precise and delicate as a hummingbird.

"I suppose congratulations are in order.” My needles feel like oars but, I tell myself, I've only been knitting a week. “You probably think you're doing a better job on your story line than I would have."

"Well at least I'm doing things my way,” Nevada says. Nicholas's grandfather clock chimes 3:00 A.M. If that doesn't wake him, neither will they. “You're so hung up on being touched. I don't see why you're in love with being an object. Isn't it time for women to become subjects? It's exhilarating taking control of your life. You really ought to try it."

"Ahh. So this is a feminist revolution.” I shake out more wool. What would Nevada say if she knew just what I've been taking control of? “Since when did you become such a feminist?"

"I came out of my mother's womb a feminist."

"How politically correct of you."

"Thank you.” Nevada pulls a green and tan afghan over her legs. “What's with the knitting? I didn't know you enjoyed working with your hands."

"Why does a woman have to apologize for enjoying womanly endeavors? Isn't knitting politically correct enough for you?"

"Don't be so touchy, Claire. I'm quilting.” Nevada rummages around in her crewelwork bag for a pair of scissors. “I've been thinking of doing a series of textile wall hangings, you know the kind, with wildly contrasting textures and frayed ends of hemp emerging like expletives. At least until I can get back to my loft. There's no danger of cocooning in a wall hanging. Anyway, I think it's great that you're working with your hands."

"You think I'm wasting my time working with my brain?"

"Are you feeling guilty about something?"

"What should I be feeling guilty about?” I say, not looking at her.

"You tell me.” Nevada looks at the huge blue shapeless thing in my lap. “What are you knitting, anyway?"

"I don't know.” Since Madame's granddaughter gave me a lesson last week, I haven't been able to stop. I finish a row of purl and start a row of knit, ignoring the stitch I dropped half a row back. “Knitting is relaxing. I see why you like to live in your hands."

"I don't know how you can sit and write all day.

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