The Knitting Circle Rapist Annihilation Squad Read online

  “Please note that their possible status as poets does not diminish their danger to society. We are advising all citizens to avoid coffee houses, independent bookstores, and most especially, any venue advertising an ‘open mic.’”

  Suzie and Jasmine sit in a coffee shop. Three long lines of tired young men and women snake across the room and out the door. The people’s faces are pale, their eyes half-lidded. At the head of the first line a woman hands over a wad of cash, and says, her voice and body shaking, “Hit me hard, will you?” The barista loads a cup with coffee sludge so thick she has to try twice to force in a spoon. Suzie and Jasmine politely look away while the woman takes her first hit, and when they look at her again, she is no longer shaking. She straightens. Her eyes brighten. The second line is for the more serious junkies; here they dispense with the cup and the sludge and snort straight powdered coffee beans (although at some of the lesser establishments the blow is cut with other, weaker stimulants, like cocaine). The third line leads to a small booth where an RB (registered barista) sits each customer down, adroitly draws up a sleeve, applies a tourniquet, finds a vein, slips in a needle, and helps the customer mainline 100 percent pure Colombian.

  Suzie and Jasmine, only recreational users, are sipping coffee and nibbling brownies. Each has her computer open in front of her. Suzie’s computer is smaller than Jasmine’s, which is in turn smaller than Suzie’s, which is of course slightly smaller than Jasmine’s.

  Suzie says, “Analog propaganda never works. Time to get serious.”

  Jasmine responds, “Blogging phasers engaged.”

  “Bomb every forum!”

  “Activate text networks!”

  Suzie and Jasmine begin typing furiously.

  On TV that night, Chet speaks with the certainty of one who has never been unemployed. He says, “We now believe that the group of killers is based in Nigeria, and is funded primarily by the widow of a reputable Nigerian banking official who has been transferring money to the bank accounts of trusted accomplices.”

  The Knitting Circle does not rely solely on digital propaganda, but continues to spread the word in the physical world.

  Picture this: Mary and Christine perch precariously atop the fencing on a pedestrian highway overpass. They hang a banner that’s visible to the speeding cars below. It reads: “STOP RAPE

  OR FACE THE WRATH OF THE KNITTING CIRCLE.”

  Or picture this: A train pulls up to a crowded metro rail platform. On the side of the train graffiti reads: “STOP RAPE OR FACE THE WRATH OF THE KNITTING CIRCLE.”

  Or picture this: Mary, wearing her floppy hat, pilots a small plane. People standing on the street look up to see writing in the sky: “STOP RAPE OR …”

  And picture this: You are standing in front of city hall. Flowerbeds have been planted such that the peonies and chrysanthemums spell out: “STOP RAPE OR FACE THE WRATH OF THE KNITTING CIRCLE.”

  CHAPTER 3

  And so the Knitting Circle Rapist Annihilation movement burst onto the sociopolitical scene with the force of a ripe watermelon hurled from an apartment-complex roof onto a summer sidewalk.

  Everyone suddenly clamored to be part of it. Some joined for the cachet. Some joined for the glory. Most joined to kill rapists. With the strength of a powerful movement behind them, women refused to take any more abuse.

  Picture this: a taxi stops at a curb. A woman pays and tips the taxi driver, then exits the car. She begins to walk through a city park. She appears cheerful, swinging her handbag jauntily, smiling at passersby.

  She smiles at a man sitting on a bench. He flicks his tongue at her suggestively. She frowns. He stands and grabs his crotch. He demands, “Come over here and suck my dick!”

  The woman, angry now, stops and stares at him. Then she says, “You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me?” She looks around, then back at the man. She continues, “Then who the hell else you talkin’ to? You talkin’ to me? Well, I’m the only one here. Who the fuck else do you think you’re talkin’ to? Oh yeah? Okay.”

  She pulls knitting needles out of her sleeve. He backs off, terrified. She smiles and steps toward him.

  It is mascarpone week at the cheese factory, and the air smells as sweet as the breath of baby hummingbirds. The six original knitting club members circle the table, but this week they are not alone. Women pack every available bit of floor space in the room. Outside the door, the crowd spills onto the street.

  The next day, Brigitte and Nick share a table at a café. The café is empty in a three-o’clock-in-the-afternoon-and-we’re-not-in-a-trendy-part-of-town-and-our-business-is-barely-holding-on sort of way, and Brigitte and Nick are sitting there being eyed by a waiter in an I-wish-they’d-buy-more-since-they’ve-been-sitting-there-for-so-long-but-nobody-else-needs-the-table-and-I’ve-seen-them-before-and-they-tip-well-so-I’ll-keep-going-over-to-see-if-they-need-anything sort of way. Brigitte is finishing a piece of tiramisu. Nick is sipping water with lemon. In front of him is some untouched cannoli.

  He says, “You must take me with you to the knitting circle.”

  “What knitting circle?”

  “Don’t play coy with me, Brigitte.”

  “I don’t play coy,” Brigitte says coyly. “Do I feign modesty? Yes. Am I coquettish? You bet. But I never play coy.” She bats her eyelashes.

  Nick continues, “I think I know what’s going on, and I want to help. I share the wrath!”

  “Do I look like a wrathful woman to you, Nick?”

  “Please bring me to a meeting!”

  “Since when have you been interested in knitting?”

  “Since it became so much more than scarves and sweaters. I want to do something meaningful.”

  “And meet women.”

  “Of course. But for that I could have joined the knitting circle any time. Right now I also want to make a difference. I want to help.”

  Brigitte says, “You’re being so serious I hardly recognize you. There’s more melodrama here than in Gone with the Wind.”

  “You know I’m the man for the job,” Nick says.

  “I’m not sure any man is the man for this job.”

  “Ah. So you admit you’re up to something?”

  “I admit nothing more than that if you’re not going to eat your cannoli, I want it.”

  “You’re not going to give in, are you?” Nick says.

  Brigitte responds, “Not yet. I have to maintain my reputation for coyness.”

  Brigitte and Gina walk toward the cheese factory. They can tell from blocks away this will be a stinky cheese day, already detecting the delicate scent of overripe durian mixing with stale onion and even more stale sweat socks. They can also tell from the wrinkled noses of the crowd milling outside.

  Brigitte sighs. “I’m having a problem with Nick.”

  “I’m sorry. What’s wrong?” Gina responds.

  “He wants to join the knitting circle.”

  Gina bursts out, “That’s great!” Then she stops walking, thinks, says, “Isn’t that great? Oh. It’s not great?”

  “Definitely not great. I don’t want him to.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m afraid it’s going to destabilize our relationship. Or rather, our beautiful nonrelationship. I love the guy; he’s awesome. He’s fun. But I don’t want him invading my life.”

  “Would it necessarily mean that?”

  “We have a great thing going. It’s strictly limited. We hang out. We watch movies. We laugh. We have fabulous sex. But that’s it. We don’t have endless boring conversations analyzing our feelings. We don’t police each other or ask questions about what we do when we’re not together. We have all of the fun, with none of the stupid drama that makes relationships such a pain in the ass. It’s perfect.”

  “How would that change if he came to a meeting?” Gina asks.

  “First he comes to a meeting, next he’s telling me what to wear and to make him a sandwich. Gradually it escalates until I’m checking in with him
before I go to the bathroom. I don’t need a damn boyfriend telling me what to do.”

  Gina looks closely at her dear friend. “It’s not going to go like that. Not with Nick.”

  Brigitte is having none of it. “I already know how it goes. Brigitte gets lost and it becomes all about ‘we.’ ‘We hated that movie.’ ‘We plan to buy a house in the suburbs.’ ‘We decided that Brigitte’s soul was superfluous so we sold it and used the money to expand Nick’s Dictators of the World action figure collection.’ Fuck that.”

  “But Nick seems to value his freedom and independence as much as you value yours,” Gina says.

  “He says he does, but I’ve heard that song before. As soon as a man gets his claws into you, it starts. He wants to change you, tone you down, shape you into the image of his ideal.”

  Gina says, “It doesn’t always happen. Lawrence lets me be myself.”

  Brigitte ripostes, “See? He ‘lets’ you. That’s exactly the trap I want to avoid.”

  “It’s not like that. He appreciates who I am. I don’t feel trapped at all. I love Lawrence.”

  “And I love Nick. I just prefer to love him at a distance. I love giraffes too, but I wouldn’t want one following me around everywhere I go.”

  They arrive at the community center. Despite the eye-watering cheese fragrance, the place is packed. After a few preliminaries and pleasantries, the women get down to the businesses at hand: knitting and stopping rape. Christine continues with her lovely socks, Suzie struggles with her boa with sparkles, and Jasmine works on a pair of knitted gloves to wear instead of her mittens. The women begin talking.

  “So have we seen a decrease yet in rates of rape?” Gina asks.

  Suzie begins, “I’ve printed out some reports …”

  At that moment Marilyn pushes her way into the crowded room. Gina clears her throat to alert Suzie, and Jasmine blurts, “Incoming!”

  Suzie spots Marilyn and attempts a save, “Um, reports from the American Knitting Association on dwindling surplus yarn supplies …”

  Marilyn says, “Mom. We need to talk.”

  Gina says, “Oh, Marilyn! I’m so glad to see you! We were just talking about the latest knitting research. It’s fascinating. And so important, now that knitting’s bursting in popularity.”

  Marilyn says, “I know what you’re doing.”

  “Making absolutely gorgeous sweaters?”

  “How could you?”

  “Talent and creativity?”

  “How could you respond to violence with more violence?”

  Gina says, “It’s not the same.”

  But Marilyn says, “It is! You’re operating on their level! You’re becoming just like they are!”

  Brigitte snorts, and Gina shoots her a look.

  Gina says, “No, Marilyn, my darling. I’ve never raped anyone. A woman who kills a rapist—not that anyone here has ever done such a thing—does not become a rapist.”

  Everyone can see Marilyn’s next statement coming.

  “Violence is wrong.”

  Gina responds, sensibly, “I agree. And that’s why we’re putting a stop to it. Permanently.”

  Soon after, Marilyn storms into her house, slams the door and calls out, “Dad? Dad!”

  He responds from the living room, “Hi, honey!”

  “Dad. You have to do something about Mom. It was bad enough when we thought she was a poet. Now she’s a murderer!”

  Lawrence becomes stern. “Marilyn, don’t say that about your mother. She has never been a poet. And ‘murderer’—I don’t know if that’s exactly the word I would use. That seems a little harsh to me.”

  Marilyn is nearly in tears. She says, “What if everybody finds out? How will I hold my head up in school? My mother, the murderer. I get good grades. I show school spirit. I’m in the marching band. And now Mom has wrecked it all by becoming a serial killer! How could she do this to me?”

  “Wellll …”

  “She’s so selfish. She’s ruining my life!”

  Having bought time with several Ls and some ellipses, Lawrence has an answer.

  “Selfish? Marilyn, do you really think she’s doing this for herself?” He pauses, then says, “She’s doing this for you.”

  “For me? But I don’t want her to do it!”

  He asks, “Have you ever walked alone down a dark street and heard footfalls behind you?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Were you afraid?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Have you ever been alone in a subway car late at night and had a strange man sit too close, and look at you in a way you don’t like?”

  Marilyn says, lower lip pouting, “Your point is?”

  “Did that scare you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  Lawrence continues, “Did a boy ever say he’d drive you home from school, and you refused because you weren’t sure he wouldn’t take you someplace else?”

  Marilyn’s face closes off. She says, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Lawrence concludes, “That is why your mother is doing this. She’s doing it for you, so you don’t have to be afraid.”

  Marilyn sputters, “Oh, Daddy, I hate it when you do that!”

  “Do what, darling?”

  “When you talk sense to me like that! It makes me so mad.” She glares at him.

  Lawrence thinks a moment, then says, “Well, if you want to talk to someone who won’t talk sense to you, maybe you should go talk to—”

  “Yes! I knew I should have gone to Brigitte in the first place. I’ll go see her tomorrow. Parents never understand anything.”

  It is a bright early afternoon. Marilyn strides up Brigitte’s walk and knocks on her door. She hears strains of Bollywood music coming from inside. No answer. She knocks louder. No answer. She pounds on the door, hard. She shouts, “Brigitte! Brigitte! Open up!”

  The door opens. Loud music pours into the street. Brigitte peers out. She’s wearing a sparkly belly dancer’s outfit.

  “Marilyn, what a pleasant surprise! You can join me in the dance! Come on girl, let’s recalibrate our chakras with a little booty-shaking magic!” Brigitte starts belly dancing and takes Marilyn’s hands, pulling her inside.

  Marilyn is reluctant and annoyed. She pulls her hands away. She shouts over the music, “I didn’t come to dance. I came to talk to you.”

  Brigitte responds, “Vigorous dancing makes any problem more manageable. I’ve read studies.”

  “Not. In. The. Mood.”

  “Oh, good. Grumpiness helps a lot.”

  Marilyn says, “See? This is exactly the problem. You don’t take things seriously enough. You’re frivolous.”

  Brigitte smiles ingenuously. “Thank you.”

  Marilyn insists, “It’s not a compliment!” She looks past Brigitte and notices that the television is on, and the music comes not from a CD, but a DVD. She notices that the people singing are wearing green uniforms and carrying guns. She says, in that tone of voice with which anyone who knows a teenager is so familiar, “What the hell?”

  “What? This is a movie about the indigenous Naxalite rebellion in India. What’s wrong with that?”

  “But … they’re singing.”

  “And revolutionaries aren’t supposed to sing and dance and make love? A revolution without songs is like a catfish without whiskers. It’s like a great grandmother without liver spots. It’s like an egg without a yolk. It’s like cheese without …”

  “I get it! Stop!”

  “Just because George Washington’s dentures didn’t fit, we think revolutionaries are supposed to be sourpussed old farts. But revolution can be fun, and I’ve got the DVDs and CDs to prove it!”

  Marilyn tries to interject, “Brigitte!”

  Brigitte turns off the TV, then dashes to her CD holder. She says, “Would you like to hear Show Tunes of the Wobblies? No? How about Love Ballads of the Spanish Anarchists? Still no? Maybe The Tibetan Armed Resistance Movement Sings Show Tunes from Hello
Dalai? How about, Just Say No to Opium and to the Running Dogs of Capitalism and Empire, by The Boxer Rebellion Boys? Mend Your Heart and Mend the Land (and Kick Out the Fucking Oil Companies), by The Movement for the Emancipation of the Niger Delta Full Men’s and Women’s Choir? No?”

  Brigitte suddenly stops. The room is silent. Finally she says, “Call me psychic. I sense that something is bothering you. I’ll get some tea.”

  Marilyn: “No tea.”

  “Coffee?”

  “No coffee.”

  “Cola? Juice? Cocktail? Water? Herbal infusion? Milk?”

  “I’m not thirsty!” Marilyn cries. “I have an issue here! I’m trying to talk to you!”

  Brigitte sits, folds her hands on her lap, and says, “I’m listening.”

  “Finally!” Marilyn says. “I’m worried about what you’re doing with the knitting circle. You’re putting my mom in danger.”

  Brigitte shakes her head, says, “I’m not doing any such thing. We’re eliminating danger.”

  Marilyn throws up her hands in an exasperated flounce: “You’re killing people! My mother would never do that on her own.”

  Brigitte is matter-of-fact: “It’s an activity best done as a group.”

  Marilyn stares, says, “You’re a bad influence.” Brigitte says, calmly, “That’s untrue. If anything, it’s the other way around.”

  “What? How so?”

  “Well,” Brigitte answers. “I’m a go-getter. I get things done. I get bad things gone. Your mother is, shall we say, not as proactive. I won’t say stuffy. I won’t say stodgy. I won’t say blah. She is my best friend, after all. But if anyone’s a bad influence, a drag on the fun and rambunctiousness of our little group, it’s certainly not me.”

  Marilyn puts her hands on her hips. She says, “Listen. I understand that rapists are bad people and we don’t want them walking among us, menacing everyone—”

  Brigitte interjects, “Women.”

  “What?”