The Knitting Circle: The uplifting and heartwarming novel you need to read this year. Ann Hood
never join a knitting circle.
The next Tuesday night, when she finished her second skein of yarn and, Mary realized, an entire scarf, she thought about what she would make next. The scarf ’s stripes moved from that original purple all the way through blues and greens and browns and reds, ending in perfect pink. Excited, Mary wrapped it around her neck and went to show it off to Dylan.
He sat in bed, watching CNN. He was addicted to CNN, Mary decided.
“Ta-da!” she said, twirling for him.
“Look at you,” he said, grinning.
She came closer to show off the neat rows.
“Do you wear the needle in it like that?” he asked.
“Until I learn to cast off, I do.” She sat beside him, close.
“How will you learn such a thing?” Dylan whispered, stroking her arm.
Mary closed her eyes.
“I joined a knitting circle,” she said. “It starts tomorrow night.”
Dylan pulled her into his arms. It was dark out, the television their only source of light.
The knitting shop looked different at night. The parking lot was very dark and the store seemed smaller against the sky and trees. Tiny white lights hung in each window, like bright stars. Mary could clearly see the women inside, sitting in a circle, needles in hand. She considered driving away, going home to Dylan, who would be in bed already watching the news, as if he might hear something that would change everything.
Sighing, Mary opened the door, her scarf with the needle dangling wrapped proudly around her neck. If Alice was surprised to see her, she didn’t act it.
“Find a spot and sit down,” Alice said. “Beth brought some real nice lemon cake.”
Mary sat on the worn sofa beside a woman around her own age, with long red hair and dramatic high cheekbones.
“You finished!” Alice said. “Hey, everybody, this is Mary’s first project.”
The women—there were five, plus Alice and Mary—all stopped knitting to admire her handiwork. They commented on what a natural she was, how even her gauge, the depth of the color, and the length of the scarf. Mary realized that in this world, she could talk about these simple things and keep her grief to herself. She was anonymous here. She was safe.
“What size needles did you use?” the woman across from her asked.
“Elevens,” Mary said, pleased with her certainty after so many months of uncertainty.
The woman nodded. “Elevens,” she said, and returned her attention to her own knitting.
“That looks complicated,” Mary said as the woman maneuvered four small needles like a puppeteer.
“Socks,” she said. “The heel is tricky. But otherwise it’s just knitting.”
“What size are those needles?” Mary asked. “They’re so tiny.”
“Ones,” the woman said, blushing slightly.
“Ones!” Mary said.
“You’ll be making those in no time. But first let me show you how to cast off,” Alice said to Mary. “Then we’ll get you started on something else. Maybe another scarf, but you can learn to purl.”
Mary unwound her scarf and handed it to Alice. “No purling yet. I need to bask in my success for a bit.”
“I hear you,” the woman beside her said. Even though Mary felt uncomfortable among strangers, she liked her immediately.
Alice kneeled next to Mary and demonstrated casting off. “Knit two stitches, just like you know how to do. Then the needle goes in the bottom one and you pull that loop over. See?”
“Pull the stitch out?” Mary shrieked. “After all that hard work keeping them all in?”
“Pull it out,” Alice said, laughing.
Mary watched as a neat finished edge began to appear.
“Now you do it and I’ll find you some fun yarn,” Alice said.
“The way I learned,” said a woman in her sixties with a salt-and-pepper bob, “was you start with scarves, you only do scarves. Start with sweaters, you learn how to knit.”
She was knitting a sweater with a pattern across the bottom. Mary saw all the colored threads of yarn hanging from it and shuddered. Maybe the woman was right and she would be making scarves for the rest of her life. Maybe she would start a scarf business. Maybe she would never leave her house again except to buy yarn and she would stay inside and knit and knit her scarves.
“Nice job,” the red-haired woman said.
It took a moment for Mary to realize that she was talking to her. The scarf, free from the needle, lay in her lap.
“It’s like having a baby, isn’t it?” someone said, and Mary’s heart lurched. Babies and children were the last thing she wanted to discuss.
“Except it’s fun,” the woman knitting socks said.
Mary didn’t look up. Instead she concentrated on her scarf.
“Tonight,” Alice said, standing right in front of her, “you’re going to learn how to cast on and you’re going to make a scarf with this beautiful yarn.”
Grateful for the change of subject, for the start of a new project, for the feel of this yarn in her hands, Mary could only nod.
“Tell us who you are first,” the red-haired woman said to Mary.
“Mary Baxter,” she said.
“Have you ever eaten at Rouge?” Alice asked Mary.
“Of course. It’s great.”
“Well, she’s Rouge.”
“But most people call me Scarlet,” she said. She patted the woman in the chair next to her. “This is Lulu. And that’s Ellen,” she added, pointing to the sock woman.
Mary tried to remember, to put the name to something about each person. Scarlet was easy with all that red hair. Lulu, with her short hair dyed platinum above black roots, her cat glasses, and dressed all in black, looked like she’d been dropped here from New York City.
Ellen reminded Mary of someone from another era. The forties, she decided. Her dirty blonde hair fell in long waves down her back. She wore a faded vintage housedress in a red and white pattern. Bare legs and black Mary Janes. Her face was what Mary’s mother would call horsey, and her head seemed too big for her small, thin body. Yet the overall effect worked, all the elements coming together in an interesting combination of sexiness and innocence.
“I’m Harriet,” the older woman with the salt-and-pepper hair said, all matter-of-fact and slightly sour.
Harriet the sourpuss, Mary thought.
“And this is Beth,” Harriet said almost possessively. “Beth can knit anything. She’s amazing. See that little knit bag she’s practically finished with? When did you start that, Beth?”
“At lunch,” Beth said.
“Today!” Harriet said. “Isn’t she something?”
Everyone agreed that Beth was something. But Mary took in her shiny dark hair, styled and wisped and sprayed; her full makeup, the carefully lined eyes and glossy lips; her color-coordinated outfit, the sweater and those shoes the same beige, the creased plaid pants, the amber earrings and matching necklace. Mary took it all in and thought, She’s something all right.
“Do you remember how to get started?” Alice was asking