Page 125 of The Goat Next Door

“All right, that’s enough,” Dotty says, standing up from her folding chair with the assistance of a cane. She points the tip of the rubber stopper straight at my nose. “Brooks Lawson, you are disrupting the focus of this circle. We are trying to prepare forty winter scarves for the county children’s home, and your massive, thick-headed presence is ruining the atmosphere. Get out.”

“I’m staying,” I say, not moving an inch.

“You are not staying,” Bernice orders, her voice rising. “You don’t knit, you don’t purl, and your attitude is entirely toxic to the creative process. Go back to your garage.”

I don’t look at Bernice.

I keep my eyes on Ember, who is watching me with her head tilted, her lips pressing together as if she’s trying to calculate exactly how crazy I’ve actually gone.

I reach into my pocket, pull out the yellow legal pad, and slide a black pen out of my uniform sleeve. I sit down on the empty, cold metal folding chair directly across from her.

I look up at the circle of old women.

“I’m taking the minutes for the safety committee,” I announce. “Proceed.”

Hazel lets out a loud, dramatic groan, dropping her head into her hands. “He’s like Kevin the goat. You can’t push him away once he decides to stay.”

“He’s a nuisance,” Dotty agrees, sitting back down with a scowl. “Ember, ignore him. He doesn’t know anything about wool.”

The knitting starts up again, but the rhythm is tense, the needles clicking like a cage full of crickets.

I sit there for twenty minutes, my yellow pad balanced on my knee, writing down absolutely nothing while I watch Ember’s fingers.

She pulls a fresh loop of yellow yarn through the needle, her fingers tangling in the fringe, and she lets out a small, frustrated breath through her teeth.

She yanks the thread to tighten it, but her hand slips, and the entire metal needle slides right out of the yellow wool, leaving forty loose, unraveled loops hanging in the air like a row of falling dominoes.

The whole thing deflates into a massive, tangled knot in her lap.

Ember stares down at the yellow ruin of her scarf, her shoulders dropping, her fingers still holding the empty aluminum needle.

For a second, she looks like she’s about to cry, her lower lip trembling just a fraction.

“You know,” I say, “if you’re trying to impress me with your knot-tying skills, you’re doing a hell of a job.”

Ember’s head snaps up, her eyes wide.

“I’m serious,” I continue. “I’ve seen some pretty complicated tangles on the job, but that right there? That’s horrible. You’ve got at least three separate systems failures in that pile.”

I nod toward the mess. “If you let me anywhere near that, I’m going to need a hard hat and a pair of industrial shears. Honestly, it’s impressive.”

A sharp, sudden snort escapes her nose, followed by a reluctant, jerky exhale that sounds a lot like a laugh she’s trying to swallow.

“It’s a design choice. It’s supposed to be… abstract.”

“Right,” I say, risking a small, lopsided smile. “Abstract.”

The grandmas stop their needles, all of them looking from Ember to me with expressions that suggest they’re trying to figure out if they should be annoyed or smug.

Ember looks down at the tangled yellow mess in her lap.

“You are such an idiot, Brooks,” she whispers.

“I’ve been trying to tell you that.”

She doesn’t look back up at me. She starts picking at the loose yellow threads, her movements gentler now.

⋆ ✦ ⋆