A Farewell to Yarns

school in Pennsylvania. “Imagine your yearbook being so important you’d carry it around,“ Shelley said sadly. “I don’t even know where mine is, and I don’t care.“
    “I don’t have one,“ Jane said. “I graduated from a school in Washington, D.C. that I’d only attended for the last semester. I think that was between Egypt and Germany.“
    “Look at this,“ Shelley said, flipping through the pages. “She not only carried it around, it’s nearly worn out. She must have actually looked at the thing often. Why does that break my heart?“
    “Because it’s so typically Phyllis. What’s in the envelopes?”
    The first and thinnest of the two manila envelopes contained various documents; some papers having to do with Bobby’s adoption and a number of pictures of him. Bobby sunbathing, Bobby diving, Bobby lounging on a deck chair, Bobby leaning on a balcony rail. In every one of them he had an arrogant smirk, as if thinking. Look where I am, world!
    There were also some insurance papers, Phyllis’s passport, her birth certificate, Bobby’s passport, and a few faded old photos of a middle-aged woman with hat, hair, and clothes that looked like the picture was taken in the middle sixties. She looked like the kind of woman who really belonged on a farm, making pies. “I bet that’s her aunt, the one who took her in. She died a few years ago. See, here’s a clipping of the obituary notice,“ Jane said.
    There were a lot of pictures of Chet, too, and Jane realized with a shock that he was really quite dynamic and youthful looking. Nothing like the grim, unremarkable man on the evening news. There were candid shots of the two of them dancing, sailing, swimming, playing shuffleboard on a cruise ship. One was a studio portrait of the two of them in silhouette, looking into each other’s eyes. Sort of overdramatic and silly but touching just the same, because the look of love they were exchanging was obviously so genuine.
    “I’m sorry we looked in this,“ Jane said. “It’s like peeping into someone’s bedroom window.“ She stacked the contents and slipped them back into the envelope.
    The second envelope, the one that bulged, was full of knitting patterns, some clipped magazine articles about various crafts, and a plastic palletlike holder strung with samples of several dozen colors of yarn. Folded into a thick bundle were numerous letters and order forms for fabrics and fibers from places all over the world. There was also a long, flat, embossed leather case that opened to reveal a complete set of knitting needles in every size.
    “Wicked looking things, aren’t they?“ Shelley said, gathering everything up to put back in the bag.
    “If I were carrying around money, I’d have put it with the other legal documents in that first envelope, wouldn’t you?“ Jane said. “Probably,“ Shelley said. As she rose to put the displaced suitcase back on the bed, she stopped and peered out the front window. “Somebody’s stopped in front of the house.“
    “Damn! With my luck, it’s either Mel Van-Dyne or my Uncle Jim. Either one of them will have a fit if they find me here snooping around.“
    “I think it’s too late to escape. Two men are coming to the front door.”
    Jane stood up. “Might as well go down there and get chewed out and have it over with. Someday I’m going to write the definitive work on how to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
     

Sixteen
     
    Jane hesitated on the stairs, realizing it wasn’t her house or her place to go to the door. But after a moment, when there was neither sound nor sight of Bobby, Shelley gave her a little shove, and they went down together. The door opened, however, before they reached it. Chet and John Wagner came in, John pocketing a key. Chet looked like a strong man who’d lost a war. So must General Lee have appeared grim, gray, and rigid, held together by dignity alone. John Wagner was keeping close to him, one hand hovering, ready to take his elbow to steady his father as if he were a fragile old man. John had the air of a man thrust uncomprehendingly into a nurturing role and extremely uncomfortable with it.
    Jane stepped forward with her hand outstretched. “Chet, you probably don’t remember me from the old days; I’m Jane Jeffry.”
    He took her hand in a firm grip and held it between both of his square, well-manicured hands. “Of course I remember. You haven’t changed at all,“ he said with a feeble attempt at