Carolyn McPherson [Tales of P Tales of the Quilt (epub)

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.All in all, a white elephant in Gilbert's beady, porcine eyes (if eyes can be beady and porcine at the same time), and something—I'm talking about Florence's house again—that ought to have been torn down years ago to make way, if he had his way, for a dozen absolutely undistinguished ticky-tacky houses constructed of cinder block.And painted white.Under the terms of Florence's will (which, of course, in a small town like Spotsburg everybody knew), the house went to Florence's daughter Maureen (who lives in Ohio and really had no use for it), and the contents went to Gilbert.Gilbert wasn't completely hard-nosed about this.He generously invited his sister to buy anything from him that caught her fancy.So within a month of Florence's death, there was an auction of the contents of the house, and though most of us Spotsburgers felt uncomfortable poking through Florence's things, we felt even more strongly that her belongings should go to people who would treasure them.Auction day arrived, and we turned out in force to look over a century's accumulation.It was a warm August day, and the grounds surrounding the house looked like a party, with tables and small items of furniture and even a refreshment booth provided by the auctioneer."Gotta get rid of this junk," Gilbert said to nobody in particular, bringing more heaps of old linens and books and cut glass mementoes and china and souvenirs of world's fairs out of the house, and dropping them on tables.We were allowed to go though the house, too, and look at the furniture and rugs—heavy, dark Victorian pieces: tables and sideboards and beds and dressers and wardrobes and her old grand piano, still covered with the paisley piano scarf that was there the day I closed Florence's eyes.All of it was excessive, as the Victorians loved to be, but it also had a charm that would never be reproduced in one of Gilbert's proposed bomb shelter dwellings.What interested me—surprise, surprise—was Florence's quilts.I've always thought I'd love to have a collection of old quilts, but it's just impossible.They take up room.They need to be kept cool and dry.And so Arden, Ramona and I studied the quilts more for their designs and fabrics than with the thought of buying one.Until I saw the velvet crazy quilt.You know about crazy quilts.Unlike earlier (and later) quilts, crazy quilts did not feature symmetrical, repeated blocks of calico patchwork.Instead, they were made of oddly-cut chunks of velvet or silk.This particular crazy quilt was made of silk velvet in jewel tones—ruby, emerald, topaz, sapphire, aquamarine—and as silk does, even old silk, it glowed.The blocks were joined with exotic embroidery stitches executed in golden silk buttonhole twist.And (and this is what really intrigued me) occasionally instead of a velvet patch there was a silk ribbon or a fabric card.For example, between two pieces of ruby and sapphire velvet was a white ribbon printed with words inviting one and all to a cotillion being given in Spotsburg's Opera House in June 1884.(The Opera House has since been torn down to make way for the bank's parking lot.) Between two other chunks of velvet was a strip of pink satin printed with one of those goopy Valentine messages the Victorians loved so well.(The Victorians never seemed to know when to quit.) The quilt featured a half dozen fabric cigar bands, too.And in one corner of the quilt a fat embroidered bullfrog and, in large red letters, "To Charlotte Conway, Spotsburg, 1886."I can't say the quilt was beautiful.It was lumpy and musty and it certainly wasn't in very good shape, either: that old silk was rotten in many places.There were other, nicer, quilts on the table, including a Sunbonnet Sue and a really handsome Amish Roman Stripe, in bold, plain colors and black.But the crazy quilt was an excellent example of that genre (as we say) and, conveniently identified as it was, I thought it might be possible to find out more about its owner.And that intrigued me.I thought my quilting students would like it, too.I was just deciding to buy the crazy quilt when old Gilbert (Florence's aforementioned worthless son) sauntered over to me.Gilbert is the first person in Spotsburg to have adopted the hairstyle worn by that new music idol, Elvis Presley.It's not the only thing about Gilbert that's unattractive.He also chews gum, wears some sort of nauseating perfume, and leers.He kind of leaned into me and dropped his heavy eyelids."Hi, doll," he said, chomping his gum noisily."You busy tonight?"Off to the side, Arden made a little disgusted noise."Sure am," I said, looking away."With anybody I know?"I wanted to say "One of your old high school buddies, Joseph Stalin," but, fortunately, Ramona began asking me something about the crazy quilt, and better manners won the day.Somehow Gilbert sensed that his presence wasn't wanted (perhaps he intuited this from the fact that we weren't speaking to him), and he trudged off, anxious, no doubt, to cash in on more of his mother's priceless belongings."Not one of Spotsburg's leading citizens," I muttered to Ramona.Arden shook her head grimly in agreement.Now, I'm a nurse and in a position of some responsibility and confidentiality, and I do NOT spread gossip.So I did not tell Ramona the rumors: that the eminently resistible Gilbert was involved with big-time hoods in Detroit, in prostitution rings, and some sort of pornography racket.Instead I told her what was well-known actual fact, as reported in the Spotsburg Sentinel: that Gilbert Montgomery had served time in Jackson State Prison for the robbery of a jewelry store several years ago [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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