By ten thirty, everyone but me was drunk. That wasn't the unusual part, though. All dozen of the ladies had brought their yarn and needles, and they were actually knitting. Someone started a drinking game: if you dropped a stitch, you had to take a shot of whiskey. Naturally, this led to more dropped stitches and more drinks. Nobody seemed to notice that I was neither drinking nor knitting. I had my trusty ball of yarn, and I wound it partly onto one hand loosely, the way I'd seen others do, then wound it back onto the ball. Jeffrey had finally ventured out and sat on the coffee table, smack dab in the middle of the living room, watching all the wiggling strings he wasn't allowed to play with. For him, this knitting wake was either heaven or hell, or maybe both. I kept my mouth closed and my ears open as people related their personal stories about Voula. Barbara told the same anecdote she'd shared with me in the basement, about Voula locating the money her ex-husband had squirreled away.
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