Robert Butler - From Where You Dream - The Process of Writing Fiction

In Vulcan, there's a glass-blowing plant at the far west end, about a mile past anything else on Highway 20. There is a library, and a police station, and some shops downtown that sell candles and knickknacks. My favorite shop is Aunt Dee's Quilts. The sign in the window says that the quilts are hand-stitched and inside it always smells like apple pies, so much so that I expected Aunt Dee to offer someone, me or one of the rare customers, a slice. I finally figured out the smell was coming from the potpourri burners on the little table at the back, where she sold some picture frames and candles. Aunt Dee doesn't offer me anything. She was nice to me the first time I came in, cooing over Gracie, but after that she watched me like I might try to stuff one of the quilts up my T-shirt or pull out a can of black spray paint and start running up and down the aisles turning all of her pretty quilts black.

The quilts are pretty and Gracie and I like to go in if Sophia is working instead of her stepmother. Sophia is three years older than me and goes to the same school Sheila goes to. She's a little fat and never wears shorts, even when it's over ninety degrees outside, like today. She always wears T-shirts with the names of bands I've never heard of and her hair always seems greasy. But she's nice and I think she's smart but it's kind of hard to tell.

Gracie and I like to look at all of the nice colors in all of the pretty patterns; my favorite is a double wedding ring mostly in blues. My sister is supposed to pay me for babysitting at the end of the summer, and I'm going to take that money, it'll be just enough, and buy that quilt. I always look to make sure it's still there.

I like to pretend I'm shopping for my own home. When I get older I'll have a beautiful home and Gracie will come over in the afternoons when she's a teenager like I am now and ask me for advice and tell me about how she can't get along with her mom and I'll listen but of course I won't say a word against my sister. Gracie won't talk about killing herself because she'll know she always has my house to come to and me to listen to her. She's smart and she'll know that's enough. In the quilt store Gracie pats her hand against the air, wanting to feel the fabric like I do but I won't let her. I don't let her drool or get anything on the quilts.

Sophia is working today so we go in. She's reading a book behind the counter. I park Gracie's stroller and sit on the stool beside Sophia. She keeps reading her book. I watch a woman in jean shorts and with dark wavy hair pulled back in a ponytail running her fingers lightly over the fabrics. I sit up higher on my stool so I can see her long bare legs. The wood floor creaks beneath her feet as she weaves between a dark blue quilt with tiny yellow flowers in a starburst pattern and the crazy quilt, this king-size riot of reds and oranges and yellows, with gold and shiny strips and silk and velvet, like a costume I'd seen once in a school play — the guy was an old poet or something and would just come onstage and say outrageous things and then be gone. The other characters never really talked to him, not even to tell him to shut up, mind his own business; I didn't get it.

She comes up to the counter and tells Sophia that she wants the crazy quilt and Sophia goes over with a ladder to pull it down from the rod that hangs from the ceiling. The woman watches her for a minute. I can smell her perfume over the apple pie smell. She smells golden. I make myself busy getting the squirming Gracie out of her stroller and trying to get her to play with one of her plastic books or the ring of big plastic keys. The woman smiles at us but I pretend not to see her. Sophia calls me over to help her fold up the quilt and I start to put Gracie back in the stroller but the woman asks if she can hold her. She coos and bounces Gracie while Sophia and I struggle to fold the quilt down into a manageable size. Sophia makes faces at me while we stand across from each other, bringing our hands together and then apart, the quilt growing smaller each time.

The woman hands me back the baby, telling me that I have a beautiful daughter. I don't correct her. When she's gone, I tell Sophia I'm going to miss that quilt. Sophia motions for me to follow her to the door of the back room. She flings the door open dramatically and I see boxes stacked five feet high with quilts just like the ones hanging up front perched in plastic on top of each. Even the crazy quilt has boxes and boxes of more just like it. I say, "I thought they were hand-stitched," and Sophia says, "Yeah, in Pakistan," when she shuts the door.

"Why didn't you just get one out of the back then?"

"She wouldn't even want it then, dummy."

Gracie starts crying in her stroller, kicking her feet furiously. She doesn't like for me to be out of her sight for even a minute. I pick her up and quiet her down while Sophia goes back to reading her book. I tell her we've got to go and she just grunts, waves a little without looking up when we're going out the door.

Gracie is looking around like she's lost something and won't stop crying. I put the pacifier in her mouth and she spits it out. Sometimes I think it would be a lot easier if I just had to stay gone for a few hours but without the baby. Sometimes I picture leaving Gracie on one of the benches in the town square and finding her in the exact same spot, two hours later, still sleeping. It'd be nice to have a locker to put her in where she'd be safe and a pause button so she wouldn't get scared or bored.

We pass the pharmacy. A woman walking out looks at me like I've been beating the baby to make her cry. I stop outside the pharmacy window and pull Gracie up out of her stroller. Shut up, I hiss in her ear. She looks at me for a second from her wet, red face and stops, like she understands me and then she starts in again louder, bouncing her body like she can bounce away. I pinch her calf. I ought to stuff you in a trash can, I whisper. She slumps against me, cries against my shoulder like she's lost her last friend. I feel bad. I relax my grip, hold her gently and say Gracie, Gracie, Gracie over and over in her ear, as soft as I can.

She stops crying, drawing a few sharp breaths after the tears stop. I look into the pharmacy, through all of the posters and displays. The only person in there is the woman behind the counter. I've already read all of the cards in there. I imagine buying one, "Thinking of you," for my mom. But it seems like a lie. I think about buying one for Sheila, "For a GREAT! sister," but she's not great anymore. Maybe it would guilt her into being at least a good sister again.

I take Gracie into the library, which is the best place as long as she's quiet. If I let her taste the books she doesn't cry. We stay in the back aisles and I rotate the books in her hands so none of them get too soggy. She drops them a lot and it used to make me mad. All of the people here are nice. I got a library card last week so I check out some fairy tales for the baby and a book called Zami for me. The cover is orange and has a woman standing between an island and a city. I look at Sheila's watch: 4:00, too early to go back but I'm tired. I want to go home.

When we get back, Paul's station wagon is still there. It's unlocked. I think about putting Gracie in the backseat. She's falling asleep. I've put the books in the dirty blue canvas seat of the stroller and I'm carrying her; she's still cranky and her face starts to ball up when I try to put her down. Her little body is hot and sticky and heavy. I could sit in there with her and read or just lock the doors and go for a walk by myself. I'm not sure I want to go upstairs now. What are they doing?

The baby sighs. She doesn't know we're almost home. I have a key. I park the stroller, leaving the books at the foot of the stairs. I grab the diaper bag from the back and walk quietly up the stairs. Gracie starts to whimper but I hush her. Maybe they're in the bedroom and we can just sneak in. I open the door and tiptoe in, glancing to the left. I can see down the hallway just far enough to see the bedroom door is closed. I put the diaper bag on the kitchen table and Gracie starts crying again.