A Farewell to Yarns

checkbook to help in any other capacity volunteered for an hour or two of sale work with the air of a queen offering to confer her presence on the masses.
    The hardest part was finding people to help clear out what was left. The previous bazaar chairman had warned them that the number of leftovers could be overwhelming, and it was imperative to have people who had not contributed items be responsible for what got thrown out and what got saved for future sales. The year before last, she confided, the Parslow sisters took on the job, and ninety percent of what was left had been created lovingly—if tackily by them. There had been tears and hysteria.
    Each call required a certain amount of pleasant chat. Unlike dealing with paid employees, Jane couldn’t just briskly tell people what they were supposed to do and hang up. She had to listen politely to elaborate excuses that had to do with children, husbands, chicken pox, school programs, hysterectomies, and out of town family visits. Some were willing enough to volunteer but wanted to extract some promise or another from Jane in return. By the time she was done, she’d agreed to run for secretary of the local M.A.D.D. group, drive a load of kindergartners to a greenhouse in February as part of their Growing Things unit, operate the cotton candy machine at the P.T.A. carnival in April, and chaperone the midterm high school band booster pizza party in January.
    And while she talked, Jane crocheted madly, silently mouthing “triple, triple, triple, single—“ all the while. Just before she had to pause in her scheduling efforts and start her car pool runs, Jane laid out the afghan on the living room floor. It was really getting to be very pretty, and if she didn’t eat or sleep between now and Sunday, there was a chance she could finish it.
    She’d half formed the thought that maybe Phyllis could help her with it before she remembered that Phyllis was dead. Her busy afternoon had almost made her forget. She suddenly felt a great sense of loss for a woman she’d never really known very well. Phyllis Wagner would never help with an afghan, or finish a sweater for her son, or do anything. Jane had tears in her eyes as she shoved Willard off the afghan and gathered it up to work on while she waited for the kids.
     
    Jane had worried about telling the children, especially Todd, about Phyllis’s death. But because she fudged on the truth (leading them to believe the death was natural) and because they’d never heard Jane talk about her friend Phyllis, much less met her, they took the news well, if not to say downright callously. “That’s too bad, Mom. When are we having dinner? I’ve got to go to brass section practice at seven,“ Mike said when he got home.
    “I bet you feel sad,“ Todd said, then turned his attention back to teasing Willard with a potato chip.
    Katie, surprisingly, showed the most sympathy, even if it was badly expressed. “That’s awful, Mom. I guess someday I’ll get old and my friends will start dying, too.“
    “I’m not old!“
    “You know what I mean.“
    “I’m not sure I do.“
    “Mom, you know that yellow Esprit sweater at the mall? The one I made you come see? Jenny says she was there last night, and it was on sale.”
    A full price version and the coordinated slacks were already wrapped in Christmas paper in Jane’s bedroom closet. “I’m sorry, Katie, I told you no more yellow sweaters. You already have two.“
    “Yeah , but you borrowed one and got mustard on it, remember?“
    “Mom, somebody at the door for you. A man,“ Mike said as he passed through on the way to the refrigerator.
    Wondering how long it might have taken Mike to deliver this news if he hadn’t been hungry, Jane tucked in her blouse and said, “Katie, put that dog in the basement before he notices a stranger in the house.”
    She half expected (hoped?) the caller was Mel VanDyne. She was surprised to see a man she didn’t recognize for a second, then she realized this was the Scourge of the Volleyball Court
    “You don’t know me, Mrs. Jeffry, but I’m John Wagner.“
    “Please come in.“ Leading the way, she took him to the living room. Todd had the television on, looking for something to watch. “Scoot, kiddo,“ she said. He tossed her the controller, an object she’d never understood. Rather than show her ignorance, she set the gadget on an end table without trying to turn off the set. “We have met,“ she told her guest. “At