The Afghan
fiction
C. Ellington Hill
Charlotte’s crocheted afghans were deadly. No, she didn’t soak them in some exotic poison that killed on contact, nor did she infect them with a murderous microbe. She didn’t know what it was, at the mechanistic level. She just knew that if she was in the right (or some would say, wrong) frame of mind while her fingers looped and knotted the yarn, the recipient of the finished product didn’t have long to live. Of course, she only had two instances to go by. This one would be the telltale throw.
Third time will prove the curse works, she told herself as she worked on the lovely dove gray wool intended as a gift for the chairwoman of the Millville Zoning Board of Adjustment, Josie Pignatelli.
That witch with a capital B will never see it coming. I’m sure I sweet-talked her enough after that disastrous meeting. But she should know she can’t ruin people’s neighborhoods without consequences. Oh, yes, there will be consequences.
The hard part would be getting her to accept the afghan. Charlotte pondered exactly how to word the gift card while her fingers flew, propelled by the rage in her heart.
How dare she grant that variance? Can’t she see that Zimmer Estates will be the end of the neighborhood? All those lovely trees across the street will be gone, replaced by a hundred-twenty identical houses jammed together with only a narrow strip of lawn between. Why do they build them so close together? Oh, the noise! Dogs barking at midnight. Horrible children with their bikes and basketballs all over the place. And the comings and goings all hours of the day and night. Intolerable!
But the deed was done. The variance had been granted thanks to the chairwoman’s tie-breaking vote, and the development would proceed. Charlotte could already hear the racket of heavy earth-moving equipment. There was nothing left to do but exact her revenge.
I’ll probably have to move before it all drives me crazy. But I just can’t right now.
Her little bungalow was too comfy to leave. Mixed hollyhocks grew tall and colorful in the beds out front, with purple clematis climbing the columns beside the front door. Pink floribunda roses graced a rectangular bed along the right-hand rail fence, and deep red ones along the left. Behind her brown, shake-shingled house grew her herb and vegetable garden. After twenty-five years, the annually composted soil had ripened until it was so rich she could count on a bountiful crop every year.
No, they’re not going to make this old gray head leave town. She emphasized her resolve with a little nod, then released the yarn to straighten her stiff fingers and pat a stray wisp of hair back into place. She knew she looked the part of a sweet old grandmother to those who knew her casually.
People take advantage of my good nature, she told herself often. That’s why one must always speak up. And if that doesn’t stop them, well, then it’s time to get even.
This credo had guided her through more than seventy years of struggles and injustices. She had achieved vengeance in many ways, some big, some small. Those horrid little girls who had given her daughter so much grief in middle school found themselves subjected to intense parental scrutiny and strict curfews. She had simply made a couple of anonymous phone calls to their mothers reporting improper behavior with boys behind the Sweet Shoppe. And that teacher, Mr. Wilson, who dared to give her son a failing grade. Well, all that took was a call from the payphone outside the Community Pharmacy. The police had been very interested to hear about his alleged improper behavior with young girls behind the Boys’ and Girls’ Clubhouse.
As far as Charlotte could tell, no one had ever suspected her of planting the false rumors. She didn’t look the part.
* * *
The gray afghan was done, just in time for the next monthly Zoning Board meeting. Charlotte lightly steamed it, pushing and patting the lacy wool into a neat rectangle, and folded it into a white tissue-lined box. Next, she penned a note to be inserted between the tissue and the afghan. She’d given much thought to the wording.
My dear Mrs. Pignatelli,
It is my sincerest wish that you accept this token of the esteem in which I hold you, and further, that you grant me the favor of forgiving any unintentional rudeness in my remarks to the Board last month. Your long hours of service to the community have had great effect, and I know many people neglect to offer you their appreciation.
Please accept this gift in the spirit with which it is given and may it grant you and your family warmth in the coming cold months.
Sincerely,
Charlotte Bert
Oh, she loved the hidden meanings, especially the reference to cold months. Winter was at least three months away, but if the afghan curse worked, soon there would be bitter cold in the Pignatelli household.
***
Charlotte had her proof in only two weeks. The Daily Sentinel headlined the obituary:
JOSEPHINA PIGNATELLI, 42, CIVIC LEADER
Josephina Pignatelli, aged 42, departed this world suddenly on Sunday, September 2nd. She is survived by her husband, Salvatore, and her son Joseph, three brothers...
Charlotte didn’t care about Mrs. Pignatelli’s relatives nor the lengthy enumeration of her civic involvement. And she certainly wasn’t interested in attending the viewing and the graveside service. She had all the information she needed. The afghan worked.
She settled back in her chintz-covered chair and raised her feet onto the matching ottoman. The cat stretched and shifted position in order to keep up with the rectangle of late summer sun crossing the carpet. The newspaper drifted from her lap to the floor while she considered her success.
She felt no qualms, no remorse, not even a twinge of regret. That woman had ruined her life and it was only fair that she had paid a heavy price.
She reached into her yarn basket and selected a lovely crimson wool for the background of her next project.
* * *
The wind had a sharp bite as it swept the fallen leaves from the gutter into a dust-devil wannabe, yanking loose hairs from the bun at the nape of her neck and whipping them into Charlotte’s eyes. She had to lean hard to shut the sturdy front door against the bluster.
The mail was mostly campaign flyers, scarcely worth the trip to the mailbox. Everything about the upcoming election enraged her. A cursory glance confirmed the same old political drivel. When would they ever change?
“Well,” she told the cat, “they can’t do anything to affect the outcome anyway. I’m taking care of it today.”
She tossed the junk mail into the recycle bin then returned to the task she’d interrupted in order to collect the mail.
In her best flowing Parker penmanship, she addressed the label for the parcel.
Mr. President
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW
Washington, D.C. 20500
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C. Ellington Hill was raised in New Jersey and educated at Rutgers, where she studied biological anthropology. She has two grown sons, two grandsons, and six rescued cats. After teaching biology and anthropology courses, working as a legal secretary, as an analyst in contract management, and as an avid knitter and gardener, she is now looking for success as a writer of science fiction and "weird" short stories.
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C. Ellington Hill was raised in New Jersey and educated at Rutgers, where she studied biological anthropology. She has two grown sons, two grandsons, and six rescued cats. After teaching biology and anthropology courses, working as a legal secretary, as an analyst in contract management, and as an avid knitter and gardener, she is now looking for success as a writer of science fiction and "weird" short stories.
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