Michael Malone - Weebly

in his bed and begged not to be sent, not to be seen,
not to be? Did he waken from dreams to feel himself
once again shrunken beneath his sheets?
Judith stood. She had to close the curtains more
tightly. Then she went to a closet. On its floor was a
paper sack of yarns and needles.
Years ago she had knitted things; the quiet
discipline was one the Sisters of Mercy had taught her.
For some reason she had packed this crumpled A&P
bag in with the rest of her belongings (or Haig's
belongings, rather, for she did not collect things) and
had let the movers move them here from Madder, here
to the outpost of Hawk Haig's yet unlinked chain of
businesses, here on the highway shoulder.
Judith now decided to knit something. A scarf. She
would knit Sammy Smalter out of her mind and into a
scarf of her scraps of yarn.
Until almost midnight she unraveled the knots of
balled threads and began slowly to knit again. Into that
beaded click without warning the screech of a
telephone shrieked out at her. From Hartford, where he
had gone that evening to meet a man who was "looking