Writing as a Cure for Boredom

Stitches (short story)

October 5, 2011 at 10:41 pm (Uncategorized) (Creative Writing, Henry James, Isabel Archer, Short Stories, Writing)

Stitches      

            Kate was startled by an unexpected knock but when she opened the front door she was not surprised to see her mother on the other side of the threshold because she had expected some form of meddling.  Kate wanted to regret that she had shared her plan with her mother, but how could she have done otherwise?  After all, her plan was a significant undertaking; she couldn’t simply disappear without a word.

             “I know you don’t want any interference from me, but I have something for you.  It was very useful to me.”

             Kate stared at the gift before her on the porch, and recognized in an instant the smallish, brown leather suitcase with used-to-be-white stitches. She remembered waiting with her mother to board a bus at the Greyhound station downtown. This very suitcase must have held all of their belongings.  Looking at the suitcase now, Kate thought that it appeared so much bigger to her when she was five.

             “Mom, this suitcase is too small!”

            “That’s what I told your grandmother years ago when she gave it to me, but I discovered that it holds more than I thought it would.”

             Kate thanked her mother, said goodbye and carried the gift of the seemingly empty suitcase to the foot of her bed to begin packing her things.  She hesitated for a moment to wonder about the significance of the old, ordinary leather case.  Her eyes followed the lines of used-to-be-white stitching that held together the pieces of worn, brown, dusty leather.   It seemed to Kate that the suitcase must be full of secret recollections and hoarded wisdom collected from all the places to which it had been carried by her mother and her grandmother. She noticed several spots where stitches were missing, just like the missing stitches in life, she thought.  Kate imagined, then, that she was a bit like Henry James’ analytical heroine, Isabel Archer, who had spent so much time defining life but so little time living it once she became trapped in its definition. 

             The ticking of the clock on the wall reminded Kate that fifteen minutes had gone by and she was still standing motionless at the foot of her bed, as if she were waiting for the suitcase to rescue her, to share its wisdom.  She finally opened the worn, dusty lid. The seemingly empty compartment appeared to Kate as if it were full of stories stitched into its lining and too small to hold much more.  One by one she stacked her folded pants and shirts into the suitcase. When she closed the lid she felt dizzy; her conscience began to tug at her resolve, reminding her that she had made a promise and was now choosing to break it.  She thought about the cyclical nature of these things and remembered that when she had defined her life by her promise she had thought her plan had been so original. 

           Gripping the worn, dusty handle, Kate was propelled across the threshold by a sudden and overwhelming fear that she would analyze herself right back into the confines of her principled life, just like Isabel had.  She closed the door behind her, knocking the corner of the suitcase on the door frame, loosening a few more of the used-to-be-white stitches. The suitcase grew heavier and heavier as she clutched the stitched leather handle.  Kate felt the weight of independence, and the heavy burden of freedom.

 ***

            Spring was somewhat delayed; the sky was gray and seemed to contemplate sprinkling rain on the attendees of the graduation ceremony, most of whom carried umbrellas to the outdoor event.  Kate took a chance that the sun would soon appear and left her umbrella in the car.  She scanned the continuous rows of white folding chairs that quilted the green grass with thick, white stitches and found the seat next to her mom.  Kate had long since forgiven the interference that day so many years ago when her mom had brought the gift of the old, brown leather suitcase.  

             “Where is she, Mom; do you see her?”

             “Right over there,” Kate’s mother answered, pointing at the college graduate.  Kate waved enthusiastically and proudly at her daughter who waved back with a giddy smile.

             Kate hoped as she watched her daughter receive her diploma that she wouldn’t need the old, brown leather suitcase with the used-to-be-white stitching.

 

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