He had this rule. More like a tradition, or a sort of ritual -every third Sunday would be a knitting sunday. Prior to that, he'd prepare. He'd go to his local yarn store, and pick some soft, fluffy yarn with the pattern in mind, of course. He'd remember it by heart, as always, from the materials section to the last stitch, and he would never get anything extra - just the things the pattern said.
He was a very organized guy, and some would label him a creep - at school, he remembered, the people were pretty rude. calling him a psycho, and all that, just for having order. His pens would be lined up, his notebooks exactly next to them, his textbooks lying neatly on the desk, spines meticulously arranged alphabetically, or -if he was in a good mood - chronologically, by schedule.
Does the love for having everything in order make one a creep, he wondered. His ma told him he was unique, and probably he was. He was a straight A student, he graduated with flying colors, he learned to knit, crochet and paint in a week, and was quite good at that. He was obedient, precise and polite, he was momma's good boy - and yet, he lacked something. His mother was never sure what it was- but deep in her heart, she knew her boy was peculiar. His emotions just weren't there, somehow. He did everything she told him to, but his heart wasn't quite in a right place.
He seemed too organized for a child. He wasn't cruel, but sometimes it looked as if he didn't understand what cruelty was, in the first place.
'It's gonna blow over' old doctor Keane would say, reassuringly, ' Kids these days, they are all a bit weird. Just try not to trouble him. Leave him be, Miranda'.
And so she did. He was her special boy, and besides, he never cared about parties, other kids or the stuff them kids like. He preferred his books, he would spend the week studying or working (to her delight, he got a nice job at the yarn store), and each weekend they would spend together.
Saturday was the reading day. They'd sit in the living room, have tea and scones, and read aloud to each other. Simple, but absolutely charming. Straight out of novel, she thought.
When her eyes gave way to age, reading days were her only delight. An avid crafter in her youth, she couldn't knit as well as she used to, so he developed a way for her, knowing how nimble her fingers were with needles and yarn.
That's how reading Saturdays turned into pattern reading Saturdays, and Sundays were even more enjoyable. They would knit together- quilts and afghans, potholders and pillowcases, cardigans and hats - and when the county fair came by, they'd have a ton of things to sell.
Years went by, he turned thirty, and their routine never changed. One Sunday in June they were working on a new project - a great cuddly teddy bear for her grandniece- when the needles stopped clicking.
He looked at her, and thought at first, that she'd fallen asleep. This had happened before, of course. But there was something weird about it, and he realized, with horror, she wasn't breathing.
He called the doctor.
'I'm sorry, sir, ' the man said, briefly examining his mother 'She is gone'.
The rest passed him by in a blur. The church , the people, the flowers, the funeral. Kindly neighbours, offering condolences, help and food. Relatives, trying to talk him into selling the house. He felt numb, so they failed at coercing him.
'He was always a weirdo ' his aunt sighed, leaving ' This house is too big for a single man'.
'He might get married,' his other aunt said 'he's a handsome fella '
'Who needs a freak?' His cousin budged in 'he knits, didn't you know?'
'Nothing bad in that, shut up' aunt n1 said. Shushing off several more cousins, she waddled up to him, and he smiled. He always liked her- she reminded him of Jemima Puddleduck.
'Auntie'
'Listen, sweetheart, if you wish me to stay, just say so. Miranda would hate you to be alone. Should I stay?'
He weighed her offer. He thought. Then he thought some more.
'There will be no need, auntie. I'll be fine. But I'd appreciate if you could call weekends '
'Sure, dearie' she agreed, relieved ' I shall. Please take care. I love you.'
She was gone. A faint lavender scent trailed behind her for a minute, and soon enough it vanished too, taking the swirm of cousins and aunts away. He remained alone.
I love you, she said. It should've felt nice, but it didn't. And it dawned upon him, that the only person who ever meant it, was his mother. And now he had no-one in the world who would care this much.
This was the first time he cried.
****
First couple of months, he was trying to get himself going again. It was hard, coming home to an empty house so he took a cat in.
She reminded him of his mother, so he called her Miranda. She'd sit in his mother's favourite armchair, listening to him benevolently as he talked her through the patterns and yarn choices. She liked being talked to, this tabby.
His auntie would call, and they would talk, for ten or eleven minutes, and she'd hang up, being absolutely sure he was alright.
And he was. Kind of.
He tried making friends, and it worked. There were always women in the store, and they adored him for his taste, politeness and good looks. He clearly loved this job, they thought. And so they took to liking him as much as they liked nice yarn and comfortable accessories.
First, there was Amanda. A freckled, shy young woman with brilliant green eyes. There was something catlike about her, and when he told her that, she laughed and agreed. She told him she knitted kittens and cats of all shapes and sizes, and donated them to local hospitals and hospices. It was touching. He told her about knitted Sundays and Miranda. She asked if she could join him. He said he'd be delighted.
He cooked. He cleaned. He prepared everything. Miranda was in a good mood, and even allowed a newcomer to occupy the armchair.
He marvelled at how fast she knitted. She noticed he looked sexy when he unravelled the yarn. Out loud, she said he had beautiful hands. He returned the compliment, saying she looked like a fairy in the soft sunlight. She smiled. He offered her some pie and tea. She reached out to him, and to his surprise, she kissed him.
Next morning he woke up with her by his side. She looked radiant. He smiled and told her she definitely looked like a kitten in her sleep. She smiled back and pulled him closer.
She moved in.
They'd knit together, they'd read and take long walks to the beach. She looked radiant. He was a bit aloof, she noted, but perhaps it was simply his character. There was nothing sinister there. He was caring, he was polite...He did what she hinted at. Wait. He never said he loved her. It's been over a year, and no sign of love there.
She asked him that night. He looked at her, puzzled. Love? Well, she's a wonderful woman, and he feels much better now. She is a great knitter, too. He likes being with her. And the thing they did in the shadows of his room, well, he kinda liked it too.
Yes, but do you love me?
He could've said he did. But he felt nothing. He liked her, they lived together, wasn't it enough?
She looked sad. Did he say something wrong?
She said, she'd better leave. He managed to make her stay till Monday. They were working on that castle for the orphanage, a mouse castle. She agreed. The thing was huge, after all, a ton of work. She promised to get it done in two weeks. So she stayed till it was finished.
The castle was ready, sooner than expected. She knew he kept working through the week, and it made her think she mattered. Plus, he was much more caring now. He didn't seem cold or distant. And, sex was even better than before. It was love, she thought.
****
The concept of love was yet strange to him. He knew, from the books, that he was supposed to feel something in his heart, but the only thing he felt was the heartbeat. But he doubled his efforts anyway. She was nice, yes, but...There was something about her. Something that irritated him.
By Saturday he figured it out. She was better than he was. She was a quicker knitter, and she could experiment, while he was good at following the patterns. She had a lesser yarn intuition, and she could never see which yarn was best for the things they did together , but she was more efficient.
And he bought almonds.
The cake was delicious. She didn't feel a thing. Usually her allergy worked as a radar, but that day luck was on his side. Wine seemed to have done its job too. She got relaxed, she had a couple of glasses, and she had two slices of cake. Then she got funny, and even called him slow, as a joke. That made him wince.
She'd tease him on, her laughter becoming high pitched, and her face was no longer pretty. He left the room to put the kettle on again, and thought to himself that a drunk Amanda was even worse than a sober one.
When he came back, she was unconscious. He carried her to the bedroom. She was still breathing. Her hair was a mess of tangled yarn. Her breath smelled of almonds and wine.
You disgust me, he thought. In half an hour she came to her senses, and got sick. He carried her to the bathroom, washed the vomit off her. He changed the bed sheet, he brought her another slice of cake and a cup of tea. She felt nothing. She didn't have to - she never saw the bottle, after all - and he was generous with thallium.
That time, sex was great.
Her hair was beautiful. He cut it off, and spent the entire night spinning it. This, he thought, would make a fabulous shawl. Or a wrap.
He took the body to the beach. There was an old shack there, its floor all damp and sand-ridden, its walls caving in. He had put her under the floorboards, all dressed up and covered with a blanket he knitted for her birthday.
***
Then there were the others. That's how the tradition was established. Every third Sunday was a knitting Sunday. He would choose the pattern beforehand, and it would be a nice one. He was especially keen on wrap and turns. If a pattern had them, he'd know that was the day.
He would come home with the yarn, and everything that was necessary. He would get the dinner going, and wait till his new friend arrived. Everything would be ready.
They'd chat, and watch a movie. They'd have dinner. They'd sit down to knit. The friend would always be a knitter. Always.
Then the show would begin.
It would always be after the third wrap and turn. The third. He had this fascination with number three, he realized.
He'd be nice. He was always nice. It would always be the dinner. Or the dessert. Or the wine. She would always have long, beautiful hair. He would always take her to the beach.
He had to stop at thirteen. The shack was almost dilapidated by then. He had to find something else.
****
And he did. For he was his momma's special boy. He was s-m-a-r-t.
He got into men's knitting retreats. He'd make friends with the lonely. He'd never invite them over - they were too suspicious, even the loneliest.
They would meet at motels, they would have a pizza and some wine, or he would bring his special cakes. They would knit. Or they wouldn't.
But the sex was always good.
That's how he realized he was gay.
When he met Adrian, who insisted on being called Hadrian, he knew it would be the end. The boy was smart. The boy was handsome. He had long, artistic fingers, he was slender and muscular. He was an addict once. He was desperately lonely.
And he had glorious hair that ran past his buttocks.
The boy was a god. He fell in love.
The evening was fabulous. The night - glorious. In the morning, Hadrian left- with the money, knitting supplies and three locks of hair, safely hidden in the pattern book.
He remained in bed, his long hair strewn over the pillows, his id in his coat. He must've overdosed, the police concluded. So young, and a junkie, what a shame.
The pathologist, sadly, was too tired that day. Otherwise he would've noticed the traces of thallium. He would've noticed much, much more- but he never bothered to check the ID.