Giovanna's 86 Circles: And Other Stories

Unraveled

Unraveled W hy Mrs. Natoli knitted in the cellar, poking away with those needles just to let it unravel was beyond me. When her knitting got as far as her lap, she started all over again with the same loopy yarn. Watching her rip it out was like seeing someone yanking a bandage off. I stayed with Mrs. Natoli most days because she liked the company and my big sister, Lisa, didn’t. Once when I was five, my mother made Lisa and her friend play Barbie dolls with me. No sooner did we open up our cases when they dangled a leopard mink stole in my face and told me I could have it if I left them alone. Before I could say anything, they pulled out a matching leopard purse, so I took them both and left. It was worth it because nobody around here carried a purse that matched just one outfit. I haven’t played Barbie dolls with Lisa since, and I’m ten now. The twins my age on our street are never home because they swim in the river all the time since you don’t have to pay like you do at the swimming pool. So I can’t play with them or my sister. Don’t know anybody else except Mrs. Natoli next door, being we just moved here from across the river. Besides, Mrs. Natoli’s cellar is like a cave that feels way inside. The door is so thick, you can’t hear any outside 24 25 noises, at least the kind I don’t want to hear—the twins giggling on their way to the river every morning, rolling a gigantic inner tube. They take turns with it, relay style. I wish my mom heard the part about them sharing because then maybe she’d let me go with them. She’s always telling me and Lisa that she can’t afford to buy two of everything no more. Nobody can since they shut the mirror works down. For the longest time, I figured Mrs. Natoli only knitted with one ball of yarn because nobody left the house to buy her more. She was a widow who lived with her daughter, Rosetta, and son-in-law, Harold . I knew for a fact G.C. Murphy’s sold yarns and threads across from the goldfish, but nobody in the Natoli family got out much because none of them had work. Every day, Mrs. Natoli knitted in her cool, dark cellar until the ball got smaller and smaller like a bar of soap melting so slow you couldn’t see it happening. Rosetta, who smelled of baby powder, was hoping to get pregnant. She rested on the couch with tea bags over her eyes and the radio on so low all you heard was static that made her knees jiggle. Harold called himself a science teacher, but my sister said he was a milkman until he smashed the delivery truck. Anyway, he practiced his science lectures with goggles on in front of the bathroom mirror and made me his audience. With every word he spoke, I fixed my eyes on the dribble in the crack of his mouth, waiting for him to swallow or spit it out. He pretended there was a camera in the medicine chest to record his every word and move. He even shifted me to the side once when I stood in his way. Said I was in the camera’s view. Harold told jokes about lab safety when he lectured. His favorite one went like this: “If you burn yourself, remember do not put butter on it. Do you know why? Because your finger is not a piece of toast.” I was so sure Mrs. Natoli only had one ball of yarn, but when I snuck a peek in her knitting tin while she was getting me a glass of mint ginger ale, I saw at least five more of the same color blue—as pale as toothpaste. Then I thought she had to do everything just perfect and kept ripping out her rows until the edges were measuring-stick Unraveled even. When I got a good look though, I noticed some rows were trampoline tight and some were as loose as the brown hairnet my mother wore to bed every night. I thought it might help if I knew what her...