by Keziah Frost
Lorraine’s chin jutted forward and her eyes sparkled. Margaret wondered for a fleeting moment if she were being set up.
Carlotta continued. “And before I could run up to you—I mean, her—I saw that she was flirting—flirting! —with that poor dim young bank manager, Ernest, I think his last name is. Oh yes. She was cackling and flirting. The poor young man didn’t know where to look—and neither did anyone else in the bank. Which was packed at the time, for some reason. She was laughing this crazy laugh I’ve never heard before, and so I knew it couldn’t be you. Unless, as I said, you’d gone mental. Then, she turned her head in my direction, and I saw that she had a noticeable birthmark under one eye, so at that point I was sure it wasn’t you. Well, she was carrying on like some kind of burlesque entertainer. I just got out of there as quick as I could.”
Birdie, swirling a bit of Blue Windsor into a sea of white on her palette, said dreamily, “And you didn’t mention it until now, because…”
Carlotta shot a look at her that Birdie didn’t seem to perceive, and snapped, “Because I’d forgotten about it! Anyway!”
Margaret stood transfixed, paling, and looking back and forth between Birdie and Carlotta. This couldn’t be a set-up. It was too detailed.
Birdie then intoned, “I saw her, too, I think, riding a bike down Main Street…maybe?” and drifted back to her painting, seeming to hear no more.
Margaret sputtered, “Riding a bike? I haven’t ridden a bike since Eisenhower was president! Is this woman my age?”
It was bad enough to have a scandalous double, but to have a scandalous double who was in better physical shape than oneself was really too much.
Lorraine lobbed the ball. “People in their eighties can ride bikes, you know. Carlotta rode her bike here today. Of course, Carlotta’s unusually vigorous for her age.” Lorraine considered, standing back from her canvas and squinting her eyes at it. “Skin tones are so tricky…. Well, I wasn’t going to mention this, but I guess I saw her too.” Lorraine continued painting as she spoke. “Last night she was stumbling out of the Alibi Bar and making a scene all down Main Street.”
Margaret let out a squeal.
“You weren’t going to mention it?”
“Well, Margaret,” Lorraine looked around furtively at the non-Club members in the class, and then said in a hoarse stage whisper, “I thought she was you. I was gonna talk to you alone about it when I got the chance. As a matter of fact, I was surprised to see you walk into class this evening all recovered, looking like you hadn’t been out carousing last night.”
Carlotta and Lorraine exchanged glances.
“But who is this woman?” cried Margaret at last.
Lorraine and Carlotta answered together: “Mabel?”
“But where did she come from all of a sudden? This is a small town. She wasn’t here before! Is she a tourist? What if people think she is me? Wearing a bathing suit to the bank and getting drunk at the Alibi?”
Margaret caught a twinkle in Lorraine’s eye and a twitch at the corner of Carlotta’s mouth.
“Is this a joke?” she demanded, her blue eyes flashing fury.
Instead of answering directly, Carlotta reassured her oldest friend: “Don’t be upset, Margaret. We’ll get to the bottom of this. This—Mabel—or whoever she is—can’t just come into town and turn your reputation upside down. We’ll make a plan. In the meantime, try not to think about it.”
“What kind of a plan?” asked Norbert.
“Well, I don’t know. That’s why I said we’ll think of one.” Carlotta looked annoyed.
“Well, Margaret,” said Norbert, “everything dark eventually comes to light. That’s what my Aunt Pearl used to say.”
Margaret hoped that Norbert’s Aunt Pearl was right, and that this Mabel person would come to light quickly. She didn’t know how much more of this she could take.
-4-
Wednesday afternoon at one o’clock was Birdie’s Watercolor Class. Because of Birdie’s hands-off and absent-minded style of “teaching,” this was a class that struggled with enrollment. Only the core Club members signed up dutifully, every six weeks. Today, Margaret did not attend.
The Club was feeling guilty. That is to say, Lorraine and Carlotta were feeling guilty. Birdie’s feelings were always a mystery.
Margaret had left the art studio last night serious and silent. Was she fighting back tears?
Should they tell Margaret they’d just been kidding her? But how could they go back now, after evading her question about whether the whole Mabel story was just a prank? Or was the truth that they did not want to go back yet—that they were still having fun with it?
Lorraine wiped the sleeve of her smock across her brow, leaving a streak of terra verde paint. “Margaret is not an imbecile.”
Carlotta lowered her chin and peered at Lorraine over the top of her glasses.
“Well, OK, maybe she is. But she did know we were just joshing her.”
Carlotta twisted her mouth and gave her brush a vigorous swish in the coffee can.
Lorraine continued. “Or at least, after thinking about it, she would have to realize we were kidding. The stories we made up were too crazy to believe.” Lorraine picked up a bit of Lemon Yellow paint from her ceramic tray. “Anyway, I, for one, refuse to feel guilty about having a sense of humor. I refuse.”
Carlotta saw the guilt and defensiveness fighting each other under the green stripe on Lorraine’s forehead.
“We could tell her the truth now,” said Carlotta.
Birdie, seeming to rise up from the mists of her alternative universe, asked, “The Truth?” They could hear the capital “T” in her “truth.”
Lorraine and Carlotta, as often happened, had forgotten that she was there—or that she could hear them.
“Yes,” said Carlotta patiently, “the truth. About Mabel. That she doesn’t exist—or at least, none of us has seen her. That truth.”
“Oh. Really?”
Lorraine burst out, “Oh goddam it, yes, really, Birdie. None of us saw Margaret’s double. We were only joking!”
Birdie, stripping away the tape that had been securing her watercolor painting to the table, seemed to be concentrating on music only she could hear.
“I swear, that woman’s on a never-ending acid trip,” murmured Lorraine to Carlotta as she ran the faucet over her brushes.
Norbert popped his head around the door frame.
“Kolaczkis, anyone?”
-5-
Norbert enjoyed giving advice. It was what he did best, as he had discovered late in life. It was only recently that people had begun listening to his advice, after Carlotta and her Club set him up as a fortune-teller. The arrangement was meant to be a temporary solution to his financial crisis. It turned out that at seventy-three, he’d at last found his true calling: sitting tête-à-tête with a customer (or “querent,” the term used in the fortune-telling book he’d memorized) and offering guidance in confidential tones. He’d gone from being a person that others talked over to being the wise man of the town. People made appointments to consult with him, and paid him one dollar per minute. His money worries had dissolved, and he had never had more fulfilling work, as he counseled tourists and residents alike on their personal concerns big and small.
Coming up the stairs with his trademark box of Polish pastries, he’d heard Lorraine’s outburst. It sounded like the Club was in need of counseling.
Birdie said, “Norbert! It’s as if you were sent at this very moment by the Universe!”
Lorraine said, “What Universe? He works downstairs in the frame shop, Birdie. And yeah, I’d love a kolaczki. Sugar calms my nerves.”
Norbert gave her the box. “Anything I can do to help? Sometimes talking things through…?”
Carlotta laughed her tinkling laugh. “Oh, Norbert. I have everything under control.”
Birdie said rebelliously, “Read our cards, Norbert. Carlotta and Lorraine have made a mess, and now they don’t know how to fix it
.”
“A mess, Birdie? Of all the ridiculous things to say. I have never ‘made a mess’ in my life. And I’m certainly not about to consult the cards about it. You know I don’t believe in fortune-telling,” Carlotta said as she sat down at the table, and held out her manicured hand for Norbert’s deck of cards. “You are so entertaining, the way you misunderstand everything. But, yes, Norbert. Just for fun. You may read our cards.” She smiled benignly upon him, like a queen bestowing a great honor on a commoner.
Lorraine, Birdie and Norbert sat down, too. Norbert drew his deck of playing cards from his inner vest pocket and handed the deck to Carlotta, who began to shuffle and give Norbert the required seven cards one at a time. Norbert placed them in the horseshoe spread.
Four heads regarded the cards in grave silence.
And then Norbert began.
“We have here the Nine of Spades, the Ace of Spades and the Three of Hearts. The message is very clear: your own recklessness leads you into danger. Try to learn from this. You must take care to avoid a disaster that has been building.”
Carlotta laughed a short, dismissive laugh, but continued to furrow her brow at the cards.
Norbert continued. “Five of Clubs. Handle issues delicately or they might explode. Now, here is the Queen of Diamonds, a charming and controlling woman.”
“That’s you, Carlotta!” said Birdie excitedly. “I mean, the charming part, of course.”
“Next to the Queen, which I do feel represents you, Carlotta, as Birdie says, we have the Five of Diamonds. A personality clash, and a power struggle. You may be shocked by someone’s ingratitude. Whatever the unpleasantness turns out to be, your best course of action will be to walk away. You’ll be glad you did.”
“Such a depressing reading,” said Carlotta lightly, trying not to show how seriously she really did take it.
Lorraine said, “But there’s one more card: The Seven of Hearts. Hearts are always good, aren’t they? What’s that one mean?”
“In this case, it’s not so good. It’s yet another warning. Strife between friends. You should focus on your common goals. You should remember that you really are on the same side as your opponent.”
“Opponent!” scoffed Carlotta. “What opponent do I have? No, Norbert, I’m afraid your reading is completely off. But it is such fun, isn’t it?”
Lorraine said, “Cut the crap, Carlotta. Once again, Norbert’s reading is right on, and you know it. I don’t know who your opponent is, though. Maybe it’s Margaret. But she’s not an opponent; she’s more of a victim.”
“A victim? Now that is going too far. A victim of what, I’d like to know? And don’t act like I’m the only one to blame here. You’re as bad as I am. Every bit as bad.”
Lorraine, ignoring this, asked Norbert, “Can you tell us something we don’t know, Norbert? How do we fix it?”
“And the problem you need to fix is…?”
Birdie and Lorraine filled Norbert in on their practical joke-turned-sour.
“Ah. I was beginning to wonder myself what was going on here.” Norbert studied the cards, searching for the solution. Not finding it, he was forced to ad lib. He had become good at this. “Honesty is always the best policy.”
Carlotta said, “But--”
Norbert continued, “But in this case, you can’t just tell Margaret outright that you’ve been lying to her and enjoying a big joke at her expense.”
Birdie asked, “Because?”
“Because if you did, you would be exposing how gullible she is.”
Lorraine said, “So?”
“So, try this. Why don’t you keep exaggerating the stories, really go all out? Make the actions of this Mabel character so far-fetched that Margaret will have to see that it’s all a joke. That way, she can call you out. She gets to save face. She’ll pretend that she knew it was a joke all along. You’ll admit that you’ve been making it all up, and everyone will have a good laugh together.”
Carlotta and Lorraine exchanged glances.
“It’s as if you’re channeling the guardian angels of wisdom,” said Birdie, looking around as if hoping to see them there in the art studio.
“Or,” offered Carlotta, “as if you’re suggesting that we do what I had already decided to do. Thank you anyway, Norbert.”
-6-
Tuesday night at six, Carlotta’s Oil Painting Class convened again.
Instead of revealing the joke for what it was, Carlotta and the Club found that Mabel was becoming a person in her own right, and they were now powerless to stop her.
Birdie’s mystified voice announced, “I talked to Mabel today in Edwards Cove for five minutes before I realized she wasn’t you, Margaret.”
“Oh, really,” snapped Margaret. Her jaw was set, the corners of her mouth turned down. She seemed to be on to the joke, and hurt that she was the butt of it. “Five whole minutes, Birdie, and you didn’t notice the huge mole on her face, after knowing me for over fifty years without a mole?”
“Mole?” asked Birdie, maddeningly.
“Yes! Mole! Mole! Carlotta said she had an enormous mole under her eye.”
Birdie said wonderingly, “I didn’t notice a mole. It could have escaped my attention.”
“Most things do,” agreed Lorraine.
“Well,” moderated Carlotta, “I wouldn’t say it was an enormous mole. It was more of a beauty mark, you know, just below the outside corner of one eye.”
Before the mole could be examined further, Lorraine interjected, “I saw Mabel, too. In Gibbons Corner. She was in the back seat of a squad car, singing hymns.”
“Hymns?” asked Margaret.
“Yes, you know, ‘Nearer to Thee,’ that sort of thing. I’m sorry to add: she was not completely dressed.”
Before Margaret could fully envision this scene, Birdie supplied, “I think I might have seen Mabel on the local TV channel.”
“What?” cried Margaret.
“Or maybe,” added Birdie, “I didn’t. I wasn’t paying attention at the time.”
“This woman is impersonating me on TV now?” cried Margaret. “Someone has to stop her.” She looked around at her best friends.
Carlotta and Lorraine locked eyes in a desperate stare.
The more they exaggerated, the more Margaret panicked.
Norbert’s advice wasn’t working.
-7-
On Saturday afternoon, Norbert and the Club gathered in the Gallery downstairs for Lorraine’s semi-annual show. The door to the street swung open, bringing in a summer breeze with each potential customer.
Norbert, Margaret, Birdie and Carlotta were at the gallery, as they were for every show, to support their friend, Lorraine the Local Artist. Lorraine’s colored pencil pieces were realistic portraits of children and animals, and on this day she had sold three of them, making the show a great success already. It was her personality that helped clinch the sales.
Lorraine had a circle of tourists around her. Norbert liked Lorraine. She had a way of pointing her chin at people as if challenging them to make a wisecrack. As a result, people always tried to say funny things to her. She made a surprising impression as an artist, coming across more as an interactive and improvising stand-up comedian. Lorraine created amusement around herself, the way Carlotta created inspired action, and the way Birdie created mist.
Sometimes Norbert had the impression that the Club now partially believed in Mabel—all to varying degrees. Even Carlotta, who started the whole thing, had told him that she found herself scanning the sidewalk on both sides of the street as she drove, looking for a woman who looked like her friend, but with a “beauty mark” added to her face. Each time she did, she would say impatiently to herself, “Oh, don’t be silly!” Lorraine had said that she’d begun to peer into busses and cars and shop windows, wondering what outlandish thing Mabel would try next.
While Lorraine held court with kolaczki-eating art buyers, Norbert stood at the back of the gallery with Margaret, Carlotta, and Birdie.
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Looking directly at Carlotta, Margaret said, “I went to the bank and spoke to Michael Ernest.”
Carlotta’s bright smile waned. Margaret, pulling herself up to the fullest length of her petite-ness, went on.
“I asked him if a lady about my age had been in the bank flirting with him.”
Norbert saw the look of horror in Carlotta’s eyes and guessed that she felt caught out for some reason unknown. He turned his attention to Margaret and her story. Birdie, while physically present, may have been focused instead on fairies flying around Margaret’s white curls.
Norbert asked, “And?”
“And,” answered Margaret, “unfortunately he cannot talk to me about other clients of the bank, or so he says.”
Carlotta’s smile returned, and her shoulders relaxed.
“But he did say,” resumed Margaret, and Carlotta tightened again, “that an older woman had come in and said she was in love with him because his name was Ernest, and then she said something about being wild. He said it was pretty awkward. I asked him what the lady looked like, and what her name was, but then he clammed up and said he was sorry, but he really couldn’t say any more, and probably had already said more than he should. Then he just went on about how happy he is to serve our community.”
“Well, of course he can’t talk about patrons of the bank!” exclaimed Carlotta.
“Yes,” agreed Margaret, “But I think if I go back there and word it just the right way, he’ll tell me. That crazy talk sounds exactly like something that Mabel-person would say. He seemed to want to talk about it.”
Norbert squinted nearsightedly to peer out onto Main Street.
“Is that her?” murmured Norbert to himself. A tiny white-haired woman in a yellow dress was marching away through the meandering shoppers down Main Street. Was she Mabel? For a moment, he too had gotten caught in the illusion. Even he had forgotten that Mabel did not exist, and therefore could not be walking down Main Street. He grabbed Margaret’s elbow and steered her to the storefront window, murmuring discreetly, “Look Margaret. I think I see Mabel.”
