Baby Geisha Read Free Page B

folding a sweater out of respect for this remarkably comfortable knittery, I peered under the bed and saw a sweater bunched up, collecting dust bunnies.
    It was the middle of winter but it was time for spring-cleaning. I’m sure people who are used to winter often clean in the cold, that this is not a novel idea. But I’d never had gray skies for months straight or considered so often what to wear. I needed more sweaters than I used to. I felt like I’d just moved to Antarctica, though I’d only moved cross-country. I couldn’t then bear to part with any sweaters, because their warmth reminded
me of the golden sun. I drank some pomegranate juice to prep for major sweater folding.
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    After folding ten, I wanted an icy shot of vodka to cheers myself for surviving winter. I looked to the clock; only noon. I don’t take vodka shots that early; I’m too paranoid about getting drunk in winter daytime. People in northern countries are notorious for passing winter in drunken stupors, and I don’t want to fall prey. But what else is there to do, when it’s dark half the year, than to toast the melancholy sky until it disappears?
    I put on some Cajun music, chugged two glasses of water instead of vodka, and aimed to work until all sweaters were hidden from view. I hadn’t heard Cajun music in a while, but it always gets me fired up. It made me want to sit on the porch, stare at alligators, and sweat. It sizzled. I took two aspirin with two more glasses of water. I stretched. I wanted to kill the headache induced from my noticing the sloppy sweaters. Then I put quite a few more away.
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    Humming along to Cajun songs, folding sweaters, and shoving them into drawers, I left the curtains tied open to let in what little daylight existed. Halfway through the job, I looked to the window and noticed an old woman staring in. She squinted, head leaning in, not quite pressing against the glass. Was she admiring my sweater collection? I went to the front door and opened it.
    â€œHello, ma’am,” I said. She was shivering under a scrawny black shawl.
    â€œHello, little girl,” she said, even though I am mother-aged.
    â€œAre you okay?” I asked.
    â€œI am cold,” she moaned. “Old, and cold. Could you spare a sweater, my dear?” She had an overbite, and yellow teeth peeked over her bottom lip as she talked.
    â€œOf course,” I said. I would survive minus a sweater. “I’ll be right back.”

    It seemed a trap. But I’d expect more a trap taking something from a stranger. She wasn’t giving. I opened my bottom dresser drawer and chose a black one. There were three other black sweaters and, besides, this one made me look gaunt. I walked over to the door, opened it, and stepped out.
    â€œHere you go,” I said. “I hope it fits.”
    â€œBless you, my child,” she said, pulling it immediately on. I said goodbye and closed the door.
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    â€œDon’t you think it’s odd that I just happened to be putting sweaters away, and this woman peeped in and guilt-tripped me into giving her one?” I said to my best friend, Elise, on the phone the following week.
    â€œPeople get cold where you live,” Elise said. “There are lots of old women there who need sweaters.”
    I nibbled a bagel chip. “What’s she doing with that sweater now?” I mused, picturing it bundled with string on a chalked-out pentagram in the dirt, deep in the woods.
    â€œShe’s probably wearing it,” Elise said.
    â€œShe’s doing more than wearing it,” I said. “Trust me.”
    â€œCall the police,” Elise said. “A woman is wearing a sweater.”
    â€œShut up,” I said, noshing another chip. “I’m going to find out what she’s up to.”
    The next day the lady returned. She peered in the same window, through light snowfall, squinting with her hand as a visor. I didn’t