At this point Pearl Herron’s life she can knit a sock with her eyes closed. This assessment is not an exaggeration of her skill. On multiple occasions, with her eyes too tired to stay open a second longer and her brain unable to shut down, Pearl let her eyelids slide shut without dropping a stitch. Every movement of her aching hands is a long memorized routine. Pearl relaxes her eyes and sits perfectly still, sometimes listening to nothing but the click, click, click of the needles. In her mind she can escape.
She learned to knit on November 24, 1941. Her first feeble attempt was a vest, the pattern taken from Life magazine. She dutifully sent the lumpy wool sculpture across the ocean, figuring it would be bound to fit someone despite not measuring up exactly to any of the sizes on the pattern chart. The next pattern Pearl tackled was a specially designed army sock. Wartime knitting had regulations: socks for soldiers had to be knit in olive or blue wool yarn. She made two, then four, then eight, and then sixteen, and then she couldn’t put the needles down.
Pearl’s socks are more colorful these days. No two socks are the same. She tries to use at least three colors in each one. The living room appears to be drenched in a fuzzy rainbow. The new socks never leave this old house, after all.
In the middle of the room a wispy fluff of grey white hair peeks over the back of a pink armchair. For a millisecond the clacking pauses, the fluff of hair disappears, and a sharp tug drags more yarn from the wicker basket beside the chair. The single ball of yarn curled close to the edge of the basket gives a slight sigh and folds in on itself. Oblivious, the determined knitter goes on clacking, her shiny needles keeping pace with the music coming from the television.
The television program turns over to a post-war propaganda piece. Pearl’s eyes narrow in their lime green cat-eye glasses. “And what about after the war?” a woman asks on the television. A female factory worker stops riveting and turns to the speaker, “Well, this job belongs to some soldier, and when he comes back, he can have it!” she says, as cheerful as anything. Before the first woman can say “that’s swell,” a single sock flies towards the TV and slaps it with a slight squish, then slides statically down the screen.
Pearl grumbles to herself and gropes around the coffee table for more ammunition in order to further express her displeasure at the television program. She doesn’t have to look far. The entire room is covered in socks. Socks are draped on lamps. Socks are settling in bookshelf corners. Socks are even stuffed in the good china teacups gracing the walls. These are not pairs of socks. Pearl gave up years ago trying to knit a matching pair of socks. It always seemed that a certain color or combination of colors were only suitable for one sock and by the time that sock got knitted a new series of colors is already forming in the back of her mind. Besides, if a sock is never worn it doesn’t need a pair anyway.
Finding a sock tucked inside a tissue cozy that must have been empty of real tissues for quite some time, Pearl scrunches up the impeccable stockinet stitch and flings it at the television. This time her aim is wide, lightly brushing the poster above the television instead. She grunts and settles back into her chair. Just as well the sock hit the poster. The poster is the reason for the sock, just as the TV program seems to be the reason for everything else. Pearl holds her hands up in front of the poster, the knitting needles and half finished sock perfectly matching the depiction on the wall. “Knit your Bit” it says.
Pearl settles her hands back into a comfortable knitting position and once again drags on the yarn. To her surprise, the yarn gives easily, bringing a dangling end left to trail on her lap. She sighs in exasperation, shoving the knitting, needles and all, into the wicker basket. Planting each foot firmly on the ground she grasps each arm of the chair, concentrates, and stands up, her knobby elbows shaking unsteadily. The first stop is to turn off the television with a deft flick of the wrist; the second to turn the old, steadfast radio on with a careful, testing turn. The same music playing earlier once again fills the room. Her lips melt into smile.
Pearl shuffles over to the spinning wheel. After peeling off a handful of wayward socks, and promptly lobbing them into the darker recesses of the room, Pearl plops down on the stool and readies the roving. Expertly setting up the wheel and spindle, she begins to calmly spin, nodding along with the music.
Suddenly radio static abruptly cuts off the music and a man begins to read out an urgent broadcast. The man speaks so fast, in a voice so terrified Pearl only catches one word: Aliens. Without missing a beat of spinning, she whips around to stare at the radio, as if expecting it to show pictures like on the television. Shaking her head at strange science fiction nonsense, she closes her eyes wearily and waits for the program to end.
“This is not a hoax!” the man cries through the radio, his voice becoming hoarse.
Pearl’s eyes snap back to the radio just as her fingers begin to drift dangerously towards the sharp spindle. Unaware of her drifting hands, Pearl pricks her middle finger on the spindle.
The prick is not particularly painful. Pearl had pricked herself on the spindle a number of times previously, especially when she was just learning. So, when the pain in her finger did not lessen after a few vigorous shakes of her hand, Pearl begins to worry. Instead of dissipating, the pain seems to spread: up her finger, into her knuckles, and from there down the wrinkly veins of her hand and into her wrist.
As the pain drains from her wrist into her elbow, her shoulder, her chest, Pearl starts to waver on her stool. Her vision doubles, then triples, and then as quickly as she had pricked her finger, goes black.
A rather loud snore wakes Pearl up; one that she can assume was her own. Feeling very refreshed but not remembering why, it takes Pearl a half a second to realize that, for some reason, she has been sleeping on the floor. She rolls over, pushes herself up, and stands.
It takes another few minutes to register what she has just accomplished.
Staring down at her knees in awe Pearl slowly does a grand squat. And stands back up. And squats again. And jumps up. And jumps again. She jumps a few times more before knocking her calves against the spinning stool and nearly overbalancing. Pin-wheeling, Pearl catches her balance and stands staring at her finger, memories flooding back.
The spindle.
Pearl kneels down – how good it feels to kneel again! – and lightly presses her finger against the spindle. Nothing happens. She collects her newly spun yarn from the bobbin and brings it back to her chair. In her haste to begin using this magic yarn she ties the old and the new together in a knot, leaving the ends for weaving in later. So she knits. Except now knitting is easier than before so she knits faster. And faster. And so fast there doesn’t seem to be a limit. She is a veritable knitting machine! By this point watching her hands move the yarn across the needles becomes superfluous, as they are nothing but a skin, wooly, and metallic blur. Pearl looks around the room, wondering vaguely if she should consider building an addition to the house to hold all the socks that will spring from this newly acquired ability.
The slack of yarn curled on her lap quickly runs out and Pearl drags on the end as usual. Only this time not only does the yarn leap to her bidding, but the ball as well. The force of her tug sends the homespun yarn flying across the wall where it ping-pongs between the wall and the television, eventually falling behind the television’s heavy wooden stand. Pearl slides the nearly finished sock off her lap and gets up, free of preparation. Kneeling down next to the television she fishes around for the escaped skein. Unfortunately it seems to be out of her reach.
Standing, Pearl sizes up the television set. Squatting slightly, she wraps her arms around the television and strains to lift it up, only to discover it is light as the yarn she just threw across the room. She hefts the television off to the side with one hand and picks up the ball with the other, casually setting the set back down when she is done.
She settles back into her chair in a slight state of shock. An ad for marvel comics flashes across the screen. Young boys crowd around the newest issue, exclaiming overdramatically about Superman’s latest feat. Pearl flexes her own arm muscles out of curiosity. A new bulge she has never seen before appears; one that is definitely not the usual flab of fat.
The television cuts again, this time to the news. An abandoned field with a gigantic blue growth flickers fuzzily on the screen. A voiceover begins to explain the images: “Stange noises were heard today, coming from the outskirts of town at the site of what appears to be a crash landing. That’s right, a crash landing here in the United States. By some craft that is unknown to man kind. It is believed the strange noises may signify activity in the pit….”
The television plays the recorded sound emanating from the dark twist of metal. As the grating, growling sound gets louder and louder, a slow, impish smile spreads across Pearl’s face.
Pearl wastes no time on excessive pondering or worrying and instead gets straight to spinning. She spins throughout the day and night. The atomic kitty clock, hanging brightly above her spinning wheel, counts the minutes with its tail. With her freshly spun bundle of wool she knits a gauge swatch in record time. Then, taking each side of the swatch in hand, she stretches and strains against the fabric until, with a loud rip, it breaks in two. She dumps the swatch into the garbage, deciding the wool is simply not strong enough.
The next day a large package arrives in the mail. Pearl tears off the top and digs through the packaging to reveal a shiny, new skein of yarn. “Penis Pink” the friendly printed label reads. Smaller letters underneath the title announce the yarn as, “Strong as a man! This atomic, indestructible yarn is made out of 100% acrylic!” Pearl dumps the yarn into her basket and knits. Gradually a violently pink jumpsuit takes shape.
In between knitting sessions, Pearl tests the limits of her muscles. She does pushups. She does pushups with claps. She does one handed pushups. She has yet to find a limit.
When the jumpsuit is finished Pearl blocks the piece creatively. Deciding mere water is not good enough for immortal acrylic yarn; Pearl finds a jug of flame retardant and gets to work.
As the jumpsuit is drying, pinned to the table, she ventures into the garage for another project. Taking two pieces of metal, Pearl heats and pounds them into shape repeatedly to fit around her forearms.
As the metal cools, Pearl tries on her rather stiff jumpsuit and finds it fits perfectly, although the stitches are a little lumpy after being blocked in flame retardant. She tests it by sticking her arm in the torch flame. Thankfully, it is a success.
In her new jumpsuit, Pearl straps a pair of goggles over her glasses and welds the arm guard pieces together. She clips one on: again a perfect fit!
With the fireproof jumpsuit and metal vambraces, Pearl steps out to her backyard with a stack of comics. Flipping from one page to another she mimics the various poses of Superman, Batman, and the other heroes. She kicks and punches mightily. She flicks out sharpened needles from inside her arm guards and swings them around dangerously. She even ties two needles together with an extra piece of yarn and whirls them above her head.
And the atomic kitty clock’s tail ticks on.
Morning dawns on the 10th day after Pearl pricked her finger on the spinning wheel and she finds herself sitting in her armchair, doing exactly the same thing as always; with an ever growing pile of finished socks leaning precariously off the side table. If a crisis did not occur soon she will need to find a new place to stack socks.
As if on cue, the television flickers back to the abandoned field. Pearl leans eagerly forward, soaking in every detail. The spaceship has opened! Immediately Pearl snatches her purse up – a significantly heavier purse with metal arm guards stashed inside – and dashes to her car.
She drives to the crash site, past all the cookie cutter houses and up to the otherworldly crater. The space ship is about twice as big as her car, with a tiny dome open on its hinges at the top. Something stirs inside. A heaving, scaly, green mass unfolds itself out. The alien – there is no doubt that this creature is, in fact, alien – gradually rises until it looms above her. The alien’s black eyes seem sightless. It has no ears, no nose, but instead has great scaly, ever expanding wings. Wings like a dragon.
Pearl’s mouth opens slightly in awe, her eyebrows disappearing underneath her hair. But she quickly gains control of herself. A quick press of a button on her vambraces shoots out US size 50 steel knitting needles; one for each hand. The dragalien half slithers, half flies down the side of the spaceship. It lands on all four feet in front of her. When the dragalien straightens up to its full height it is about as tall as Pearl herself. The dragalien opens its mouth, takes a deep breath, and blows a truly impressive amount of fire that entirely consumes Pearl.
Pearl merely closes her eyes and braces herself against the heat searing across her body. To her relief, the fireproof knitting does not fail her. When the dragalien is done spewing flames, it stops and looks curiously at Pearl. Clearly it is not accustomed to creatures living after being hit with the fire blast. Being within spitting distance of the dragalien, she realizes it is no taller than her. Pearl crouches in a fighting stance, and grins.
The dragalien’s claws flash out of its talons, growing twice in size. It lunges at Pearl, aiming a three claws at her chest. She dodges to the left, grabbing hold of the dragalien’s body part equivalent of a human wrist, and plunges her elbow into the soft underbelly. The dragalien growls and sweeps her off her feet. Pearl lands flat on her back, the slap of her arms breaking her fall.
Again, the dragalien attempts to slice a claw through her, but Pearl traps it between two needles, a hairsbreadth from her face. Twisting out of the hold, she slashes the dragalien across the face with the other needle. The dragalien cries out, stumbles backward, and clutches its eye. Pearl kips up into a crouch.
Glaring at her through one eye, the dragalien turns and runs. After a few steps, it launches into the air to make its escape. Pearl braces herself, unhooks her boomerang from a utility belt, and expertly flings it after her target. The boomerang, with a long stretch of atomic yarn behind it, attaches itself to the dragalien’s leg. The dragalien slams into the ground.
Pearl gathers her strength and drags the yarn toward her. The dragalien tries to fight the inevitable, and manages to tangle itself in the yarn. A particularly wild swipe catches loops the yarn around a single claw. Eyeing this loop, the dragalien pokes another claw underneath and passes the strand of yarn over the first claw. Entranced by this new activity, the dragalien proceeds to make more loops around all four claws on a single hand. Pearl stares, stunned by the fact that the dragalien invented finger-knitting entirely on accident. She takes a step closer. The dragalien glares, holding the yarn away from her as if worried she would confiscate it. Pearl sits down next to the dragalien, pulling more yarn out of her belt and watches as the dragalien starts to knit a four stitch i-cord.
Hours later Pearl drives back home. She is driving rather noisily back home. The metallic scraping and grinding coming from behind her car is the sound of the spaceship being dragged against the street.
Months later Pearl once again sits in her old familiar place, happily knitting and humming along with the radio. Curled at her feet, with a custom made, multicolored sock on every claw is the dragalien. The dragalien playfully paws at a spare ball of yarn, looking decidedly content at its new lot in life.
And outside, attached to the roof of the newly modified track house, is a repaired and gleaming spaceship, with a few socks peeking out of the top hatch.
