Tapestry of Fortunes A Novel

21


Late Saturday morning, I am in the basement cutting out pieces of fabric for a quilt I’m making for Travis. It’s a simple nine-patch, but I’m making it with the softest flannel I could find, in muted, masculine colors. It’s going to be beautiful. The phone rings and I ignore it. Then I hear Travis calling, saying it’s for me. “Can you take a message?” I call back.

A moment. And then he comes downstairs to say, “It’s Martha Stewart.”

I stare at him blankly, the scissors in my hand.

“Did you hear me?”

“I … Yes!”

“She’s the one everybody makes fun of.”

“Shhh!”

“She can’t hear me!”

I go upstairs into the kitchen, and then it comes to me who’s really calling.

“Hi, Rita.” I say. “Very funny.”

“Pardon?” an unfamiliar voice says.

“Oh! Sorry, I thought … This is Samantha Morrow.”

“Yes, I know. I called you. This is Martha Stewart.”

“Well, I … I …”

“I had a message saying that we went to high school together, and you needed to talk to me?”

“Oh, no, I just … I was … Well, it was a bad day, you know, and I just wanted to talk to you. I don’t know why. I’m sorry. We didn’t go to high school together.”

“I’m well aware of that.”

Travis, who has been standing beside me, whispers loudly, “Is it her?”

I nod, motion for him to go away. He doesn’t.

“So what can I do for you, Samantha?”

“Oh, it’s … ‘Sam.’ ”

“All right. Sam, then.”

I look at Travis, who looks pointedly away, then turn my back to him. “Well, Martha, I just … I actually wanted to ask you some questions about …” I clear my throat. “Can you hold on for one second, please?” I turn to Travis, and in a dangerous whisper say, “Go up to your room for a while. Now.”

He frowns, runs upstairs, and I hear his door slam.

“Sorry,” I say. And then, “You know, Martha, I just want to say that it’s so nice of you to call. I’ve had this fantasy … I wanted to ask you some things about divorce. I—”

“Are you a reporter?”

“Me? Oh no, I’m nothing.”

“You’re nothing?”

“Well, I mean, I’m … I just wanted to ask you if you … kind of … fell apart after your divorce, Martha. That’s what I wanted to ask you. I thought if even you did, I could—”

“I don’t think that’s something I’d like to discuss.”

“Oh, I know. I know. I’m sorry. I’m so embarrassed.”

“Is that all you wanted?”

“Yes. Although, as long as I have you on the phone … I’m making a quilt, out of flannel? For my son? The one who answered the phone? And I was wondering about the backing, whether to use gray flannel or red.”

“How old is he?”

“Eleven.”

“Gray. Red trim. What pattern are you using?”

“A nine-patch.”

“Good. Make sure you use a little yellow right next to the gray.”

“Yes, I have some in there. A yellow plaid.”

“And on the back, put one square on the lower right-hand corner.”

“Oh, what a good idea! I will! Thank you.”

“I’ve got to be off, now.”

“Martha, before you go, I just want to tell you that I once met a man at a party, a psychiatrist, a very attractive man, who said that he wanted to marry you.”

“I see.”

“Really, he was very attractive.”

“Well, thanks for telling me.”

“Okay. Thank you!”

“Samantha?”

She said my name. “Yes?”

“I didn’t fall apart. I spent one evening with Bernstein’s Kaddish and a bottle of ’eighty-six Montrachet. And then I got busy. Try it.”

A click. I sit at the kitchen table, think who this might really have been. But it sounded like her.

Travis comes back downstairs, sits with me at the table.

“Were you eavesdropping?” I say.

“No!”

“Just a little?”

“Well, God, Mom, it was Martha Stewart! She’s practically a celebrity!”

“Don’t say ‘God,’ Travis.”

He rolls his eyes. “Well, gee, it was—”

“And she is a celebrity.”

“Not really, ’cause everybody hates her.”

“Not everyone. And anyway, we don’t really know who it was.” I head back down to the basement. Gray backing. One patch, lower right-hand side. Joke or not, something is occurring to me. You live your life, and you get to ask for things, and sometimes they are given to you.

Just before bed, the phone rings. After I say hello, I hear my mother shrieking, “Martha Stewart called you?” Travis. I wonder who else he told. David? I hope he told David.

“It was probably a joke.”

“Oh, I don’t think it was a joke. I hear she doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.”

“Ma. I don’t think it was really her.”

“Oh. Who would it be, then?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I think it was her. And it only goes to show you.”

“Fine. Right.”