Biscuit's litter box. Her cat refused to use it anymore. That had been the last straw.
No matter. For the past five years, the crossword puzzle in the Times had been her life. Not doing it, understand: deciphering it. She read it like tea leaves to discover her destiny, her responsibility.
Her only respite was on weekends. Saturday and Sunday, for some reason, she was allowed to live her life normally. Whatever that meant.
She sighed. She wasn't prepared to do this again today. Her apartment was in shambles. The duty of her curse had led her to become a hermit. The meager income she received from her alimony and the trickle of money from her mother's trust fund were all that she had to live.
Shirley hugged herself closely, and petted Biscuit as she made her way onto her lap to steal the crumbs from the almond and honey scone.
Having had enough of self-pity and reflection, Shirley reached for the paper. It was inevitable, inexorable. She couldn't resist, so why try? Resigned, she flipped to the social section and discarded the rest on the floor near the table. Biscuit jumped down and retreated to the dingy, unmade bed. It was time for Shirley to face her responsibilities, even if she didn't understand why.
As she turned to the crossword section, so familiar and drawing such mixed emotions, she read it. There in the morning crossword, plain as anything, was the phrase "ROGER PETERSON HAS TWO WEEKS TO LIVE." She took a bite of her scone.
Biscuit let out a lonesome mewl. She knew Shirley had to leave now. Two weeks was a long time. Plenty of time. More time than she had Thursday when Vivian Mahoney had had four hours to live. It was just lucky that the subway entrance was only two blocks from her apartment. But, the burning question was who was Roger Peterson? And how exactly was Shirley supposed to keep him alive? And, perhaps, more importantly, why?
For two of these three questions answers would be revealed as she researched and found poor Roger. But, for the past five years she had never discovered why. Shirley picked up the crossword and carefully ripped it from the newspaper. She put it in the front of her trousers. She poured some food in Biscuit's bowl, lifted the lid on the toilet, turned on the electric heater, grabbed her coat, her purse, and her keys, and then left the apartment, headed to the closest library.
Sweet Tea
(Or, The Revenge of Barnard)
Whenever Mister Wegner mowed his grass, my dog Barnard would become inconsolable. Barnard is a black lab and is usually very playful and energetic. But as soon as our neighbor fired up his Toro, he would lie whimpering on the basement floor.
One sweltering hot June day, I visited Mister Wegner as he poured gasoline in the tank of his mower. It was at least a few years old, but Mr. Wegner kept it in great shape. Its bright red paint glistened in the sun. Mister Wegner’s mower was a masterpiece of modern mowing technology. He was quite fond of it.
“Howdy, Mr. Wegner!”
“Good afternoon Lance. How’s your father?”
“Not bad, now. Doctor said that he needs to stay out of the sun for a few weeks. I guess he wasn’t drinking enough water, my Mom said.”
“Well, I hope he gets better. You know, if he needs to borrow my mower for you to finish the job, you’re welcome to it. Just fill her up before you give her back.”
“Welll…that’s sorta what I wanted to talk to ya about. You see, Mr. Wegner, Dad started using that old manual push-mower a couple of years ago when I got Barnard.”
“Yeah? Sure is a nice dog. Black lab, right?”
“Yeah. The point is, Mr. Wegner, using the push mower is important to us because poor Barnard is scared silly of mowers.” I hooked my thumb over my shoulder, indicating the wooden-handled monstrosity in our drive, “We’ve been pushing that dinosaur of a mower around our back yard because, if we didn’t, Dad says we’d pay a fortune in doggy psychologists for Barnard.”
“Heh. Pretty funny. Doggy shrinks are hard to find, I am sure. Didn’t know that Barnard had post-traumatic mowing syndrome. Heh. Well, what does that have to do with us, Lance? I sure hope you’re not here to ask me to stop mowing my lawn.” Mr. Wegner wiped his forehead with his white handkerchief. The June sun was affecting us both.
“Of course not. You know, I often will notice you out here starting to mow and I’ll take Barnard for a walk in the woods up on the hill behind our house. Once, I tried taking him through the neighborhood and I guess it was a good day for mowing. I ended up carrying him home, the silly psycho.”
“I sure am sorry, son. I don’t know what to do.”
“Well, I was wondering if you could use the push mower. Save you on gas,” I offered, hopefully.
“Lance, I’m 62 years old and I need this self-propelled Toro for me to finish the lawn in one day. I’m not going to heave some heavy push mower around. Doc Quora would be billing me overtime for the back medicine.”
I could see I wasn’t going to get very far unless I did something myself. I looked at his mower and then back over to my lawn where I had put the push mower out by the sedan in hopes that my conversation with Mr. Wegner went well.
“Well, sir. I have an idea. My Dad usually pays me ten dollars to mow our lawn. I’ll mow yours for free, if you’ll let me.”
He looked at me then with I don’t know what—respect, surprise, pity. Before he could answer, his wife, Elaine poked her head out the screen door.
“Clem, do you want some sweet tea? How come you ain’t started? Oh, Mr. Blevins. Good to see you Lance. You interrupting Mr. Wegner’s honey-do’s are ya?”
“Something like that.”
“How’s your pa?”
“Doing great.”
“Good. Well tell Nell that I loved her pecan pie at church Sunday. I need that recipe.”
“I’ll tell her.”
“Elaine, I’ll come in shortly and get some sweet tea and some of your shortbread cookies before I start.”
“You will NOT have that much sugah before you start mowing the lawn in this heat, Clem William Wegner! You will drink that tea and be on with your work. I’ll let you boys be now.” She shut the door quietly and glanced over her shoulder as she receded into the house. I could see her silhouette quietly move inside.
Mr. Wegner was looking at me. I wiped some sweat from my forehead with my sleeve and sighed.
“Well, what do you say? You let me mow your lawn or you let my dog continue suffering?”
His head was beaded with perspiration and he squinted and looked forlornly over at the push mower. He stuffed his handkerchief into his khakis and smiled thinly.
“I’ve thought it over some. But I haven’t made up my mind.” He looked up at the sky. “You know, I see some storm clouds rollin’ in. Maybe I’ll postpone this chore until Saturday. I’ll see that Elaine understands. She’s been hounding me about re-arranging Jeff’s old room to accommodate her crafts. That’ll take her mind off of this confounded yard for a day or so.”
“I appreciate your consideration, Mr. Wegner.”
“I’m not making any promises, Lance. I just need to look at all the sides of this problem. I am just not sure that it’s my responsibility.”
Well, that decision was put off until the next day. I glanced out the front door when I heard scuffling footsteps on the porch. The mailman had come around two; had taken the obligatory ice tea and gossip exchange with my mom, Nell. So, I figured, this particular visitor was surely Mister Wegner. And sure as rain, he had showed up wearing crisply starched white cotton pants and a button up short-sleeve blue and white striped shirt. Inexplicably, he wore his thick-rimmed reading glasses and a pair of loafers as if he just woke from reading the morning paper and had shuffled over to discuss the Tide’s new quarterback or the rising price of gasoline.
Barnard had been curled up next me as I watched This Old House on PBS. He was content to lay his chin on my feet, patiently waiting until we could run an errand into town so he could let his tongue flap in the wind like a college pennant. My 1956 Ford 1
50 pickup truck could only roll the window down half way on the passenger side, but Barnard loved to keep his paws up on the rear view mirror, anyway.
As soon as he smelled Mister Wegner, he whimpered and fled for the confines of the kitchen. I suspected that he was headed ultimately for the basement, but with my theory confirmed that indeed Mister Wegner had arrived, I was excited to let him in.
Before he could ring the doorbell, I opened the screen door with a smile.
“Mr. Wegner. Thanks for coming by.” Strangely, he didn’t return my smile or the offer of a handshake. I tried to cover up the awkward moment by retracting my hand and smoothing out my hair. I had taken to growing it out since I was only home for the summer until college let back in. Mister Wegner straightened up and looked me in the eye.
“Let me see Barnard.” He sounded serious.
“Why?” I asked, confused.
“I want to talk to him.”
I stood there, perplexed, or stunned. I wanted to say something smart, something maybe even a little hurtful. But, I couldn’t bear to do it. Mister Wegner looked so serious there in his reading glasses, his white shock of hair deliberately quaffed to appear as it probably did when he was serving in Korea. And, there was something in his stance, something in the set of his mouth that made me withhold any comment whatsoever.
“OK,” was all I could manage. “Come on inside, Mr. Wegner, I’ll get mom to set you out some tea.”
“Won’t be comin’
The Vagary Tales Page 5
