Wait. Walter went to the basket, taking what was a gray sleeve, drawing it out fro the middle of the heap. Oh, He said. He held the shapeless wool sweater to his chest. Joyce had knit for months the year Daniel died and here was the result, her handiwork, the garment that would fit a giant. It was nothing more than twelve skeins of yarn and thousands of loops, but it had the power to bring back in a flash the green-tiled walls of the hospital, the sound of an ambulance trying to cut through city traffic in the distance, the breathing of the dying boy, his father staring at the ceiling, the full greasy bucket of fried chicken on he bed table. I'll take this one, Walter said, balling up the sweater as best he could, stuffing it into a shopping bag that was half full of the books he was taking home, that he was borrowing.Oh, honey, Joyce said. You don't want that old scrap.You made it. I remember your making it. Keep it light, he said to himself, that's a boy. There's a use for it. Don't you think so, Aunt Jeannie? No offense, Mom, but I could invade the Huns with it or strap the sleeves to my car tires in a blizzard, for traction, or protect our nation with it out in space, a shield against nuclear attack.Jeannie tittered in her usual way in spite of herself. You always did have that sense of humor, she said as she went upstairs. When she was out of range, Joyce went to Walter's bag and retrieved the sweater. She laid it on the card table, the long arms hanging down and she fingered the stitches. Will you look at the mass of it, she exclaimed. I don't even recall making it.'Memory -- that strange deceiver,' Walter quoted.
Jane Hamilton