Page 14 of Flint’s Strike

“In my defense, that was an excellent argument.”

Marlene shakes her head and tugs another length of yarn free. “It was a felony against nutrition.”

Ruth laughs hard enough to lose count and start her row over. Marlene looks pleased with herself.

Not one to abandon a point just because the conversation wandered away from it, Betty stares me down. “None of that changes my original assessment, Eliot.”

I shake my head and work the next cable in the blanket.

“Long week?” Ruth asks.

“Somethin’ like that.” I don’t elaborate, and no one presses me for more. They never do. It took a while, but eventually, these women learned the difference between asking and prying, and I learned I could sit at this table without having to explain myself.

The discussion wanders from yarn to grandkids to a local restaurant that somehow managed to fail three health inspections in a single month. By the time Jean finally arrives—carrying a bakery box and complaining about traffic—I’ve finished nearly a full row, and lost every argument I’ve participated in.

I listen more than I talk, working another four repeats before my back starts to lodge a protest over sitting still too long.

As I finish my last row for the night, Marlene reaches over and lifts the blanket from my lap. I don’t stop her. She’s been inspecting my work for six years.

Spreading it across the table, she studies the cables running down the center. Around us, the conversation rolls on. Jean’s telling Ruth about a church fundraiser. Betty’s complaining about the thermostat. Nobody pays much attention to the blanket beyond a passing glance.

“Where’s this one going? The women's shelter on Bell?” Marlene asks.

I nod. “They’re so small, they don’t get a lot of donations.”

Her expression softens. Nobody here treats what I do as anything extraordinary. They don’t tell me what a good person I am. They don’t make a production out of it. Knitting’s just something I do, and the blanket’s going somewhere that needs blankets.

Marlene folds it neatly, careful not to let any of the stitches slip, and hands it back. “Your last three have all been navy blue.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “And?”

“Kids need blankets too, Eliot.”

“Last I checked, navy doesn’t card anyone at the door.”

Now it’s Marlene’s turn to stare me down. “You’re remarkably closed-minded for a man who spends his free time making blankets.”

I open my mouth. Close it. The woman once convinced a city councilman to sponsor a fundraiser with nothing but a plate of brownies and a list of statistics. There’s no version of this where I win.

Five minutes later, I’m standing in front of a shelf of yarn in colors harsh enough to make my eyes water. Electric blue. Yellow that rivals the brightness of the sun. A green I’ve never seen outside a box of crayons.

Marlene pulls down skein after skein and holds them out like this is already decided.

“A kid is never gonna be able to sleep under this. You can see it from space.”

“Kids like color,” Jean calls.

“Kids also like eating dirt. And playing with matches. Neither of those are good life choices.”

“Eliot.” Marlene plucks a fourth color from the shelf. Hot pink. “Don’t argue.”

With a sigh, I hold out the basket. Marlene’s smile tells me she knew exactly how this would end. I was only delaying the inevitable.

As I pay for the painfully bright yarn, Ruth drops a plastic container into my project bag.

“No,” I say, though it won’t do me a lick of good.

“No one says no to my chocolate chip cookies. And you look thin.” She clucks her tongue and starts folding her scarf.