by Joyce Magnin
Her eyes lit up, and she dropped the books into the blue, metal depository.
“Thanks, Mildred. Always on time. I’m heading down to the café. Want to walk with me?”
“Sure, why not.”
We took a few steps, and I mentioned Ivy's dog-naming contest. Mildred looked thoughtful a moment.
“I’ve got the perfect name for that canine criminal: Al Capone. He wasn’t that easy to catch, either.”
I smiled. “Make sure you enter.”
The café was full as usual with folks stopping by for early supper. Mildred added her choice of name to the shoebox sitting near the cash register.
Studebaker spotted me. “It's here,” he said. “The sign. It arrived this afternoon. It's already up on the interstate. Me and a couple of the boys are gonna install it over the weekend.”
“What? No fanfare? No unveiling?”
Stu looked downcast a second but he brightened. “Nah, I think the radio show kind of stole the thunder, you know? And that's okay. The sign is all that matters, and I hear tell that Filby has been working steadily on the statue.”
My heart skipped a beat—always did at the mention of that silly statue. “Oh, Stu, I hate that idea.”
“I know you do, Griselda, but we’ll make a big deal of that unveiling for certain. Right on Memorial Day.”
I found Cora and asked her to make up two large chocolate milkshakes. After enduring the last couple of days Agnes and I deserved something special, and Cora's milkshakes were something special. Thick and delicious. You had to eat them with a spoon until they melted a bit, and then you wanted to slurp the last tiny of bit of chocolaty goodness from the paper cup through a red and blue striped straw.
Cora was moving a little more slowly than she had been, and her face looked pale and maybe a little drawn like she hadn’t been sleeping.
“You feeling all right?” I asked.
She brushed her hair back with the back of her hand. Her fingers were covered with chocolate ice cream clear up to her elbows from dipping in so deep. The container was pretty much empty. “I’m fine, Griselda. Just a skosh tired lately.”
“Maybe you should see Doc.”
She rang up my shakes. “Yeah, I’ve been considering it.”
I saw the shoebox. Ivy had made up a sign that said,
NAME THE DOG.
WIN PIE FOR A MONTH!
No other explanation was needed.
“Lots of folks have been dropping names in there,” Cora said. “I think Ivy is going to have a hard choice.”
I was partial to Al Capone but kept it to myself.
The next time I saw Cora was on Good Friday when Cora dropped by to see Agnes. She looked so skinny in her little pink dress. I saw her coming up the street when I opened the drapes for Agnes.
“Looks like Cora's coming to see you, Agnes.”
“Good.” She adjusted her clothes, and I scrunched the pillow behind her neck.
“Comfy?”
“It's about as good as it gets. Why don’t you go let Cora inside?”
I opened the door and Cora was still on the bottom porch step.
“Are you all right?” I asked walking down to her.
“I’m feeling tired, Griselda. Steps have become kind of a nuisance.”
I was afraid her heart had started to give out again. I took her hand and helped her up the steps.
“You been to see Doc?”
“Went yesterday. That's why I came to see Agnes. She's my only hope now—once again.”
“Oh, Cora, I’m so sorry.” I helped her into the house and with her coat and hat.
Agnes took one look at her and started to pray that once again the Almighty Hand of God would reach down and touch Cora and heal her heart. But it wasn’t to happen.
Cora Nebbish died later that day. From all accounts she left Agnes, went home, sat down in her living room where she was surrounded by photos of her children and grandchildren, closed her eyes, and went home.
The funeral, one of the saddest I had ever attended, took place down in Wilkes-Barre two days after Easter Sunday. Cora's son, Stanley Junior, had come for her body and drove it to the mortuary in the back of his family's car.
I drove down to the service with Zeb, Vidalia, and Ruth. Studebaker, Boris, and several other members of the Bright's Pond Chapel of Light and Grace, including Pastor Speedwell, who did the graveside ceremony, came in separate cars.
Even Eugene Shrapnel made an appearance at the graveside. He hung back from the assembled guests, but I could feel him glaring at me and I had to wonder why in heaven's name he came.
Zeb fought back tears like a valiant soldier until Pastor mentioned how she loved her work at the café. Then he broke down like a little boy and sobbed in my arms. Vidalia, who looked proper in her black dress, black-veiled hat, and black shoes handed him a white hanky.
“You were my friend,” Zeb said, as he laid a pink rose on Cora's casket. “I love you.”
I pulled a rose from the large spray and set it next to Zeb's. “I’ll miss you,” was all I could muster through the ache in my chest.
Eugene stopped me on my way to the car. “I told you. I told you something like this was going to happen if your sister kept playing with the devil.”
Ruth stamped her foot. “Eugene. How could you?”
“You make no sense, Eugene. Agnes can’t keep people from dying. Never said she could.”
“Mark my words. A new page is being written.”
“You are the rudest man on the planet.” Ruth wiped her tears with an already soaked hanky.
“I just come to warn you, that's all.”
When I got to the car and opened the door I took one last look and saw Eugene lay a rose on Cora's casket. “What a mixed-up little man.”
Ruth cried and cried from the minute she sat in the car until we got back to the café. Zeb closed it to regular customers but opened it to anyone who wanted to stop by for pie and coffee in Cora's honor.
“I’ll never forget when Cora first started working here,” Ruth said. “She couldn’t keep nothing straight. Got everybody's orders mixed up. She was a mess.”
Zeb laughed as he poured my coffee. “She sure was. Remember that time she was carrying four pies—two Full Moon, a pecan, and an apple—to the case, and Herm Detweiler spun around on his stool and stuck one of his big feet out and accidentally tripped her?”
“Yeah, I was there,” I said.
“You sure were,” Ruth said. “You ended up with Full Moon pie all over yourself.”
Zeb smiled and loosened his tie. “I think I’ll name a sandwich for her, you know. Something real special.”
“Unique,” Vidalia said.
It took a while but finally Zeb concocted the Cora Nebbish Special. It was thin-sliced turkey and ham on whole wheat, with a slice of American cheese, or Swiss if you preferred. Then it was battered and deep-fried, and he served it with maple syrup or raspberry preserves. No one had the heart to tell him that the sandwich had already been invented and called a Monte Cristo.
Studebaker was the only one who wondered out loud how come the miracle wore off. But no one had an answer. I simply said, “Stu, let's be thankful that God saw fit to give her a few more weeks.”
“Wasn’t that nice of him?” Ruth said as she chewed pie.
But Stu appeared thoughtful, worried even, like maybe some miracle reversal had started in town.
“She was old, Stu. She had a bad heart and high blood pressure.”
He didn’t say a word.
I walked home with Vidalia. The air had turned warm, the sky cloudless. The mountains had grown greener, and an occasional wind gust blew our hair.
“Isn’t it kite month?” Vidalia asked.
“No, last month,” I said.
“Oh, yeah, March. I loved to fly kites when I was a kid.”
“Me, too. I guess all kids liked it. Wonder why?”
Vidalia looked thoughtful. “It's like dreaming while you’re awa
ke, you know what I mean? Didn’t you want to fly?”
“Sure, still do sometimes.”
“That's what flying a kite is like. It's like flying. Holding on to the string, feeling it flap and pull and soar and dip. Remember that, Griselda? Remember that feeling in your arms and legs? It was like you were the kite, soaring to the heavens.” Vidalia practically danced. “Let's do it.”
“Do what?”
“Fly a kite.”
“I’m game. Let's get Ruth and go up on Hector's Hill, like we did when we were kids—that's where we flew them, Vidalia. The winds come up real good there.”
That afternoon, Vidalia and I walked into Gordon's and came out with a Hi-Flier kite and enough string to fly it to the sun.
“Remember how to build it?” Vidalia asked.
“Sure. Let's go back to my house. We’ll need a tail.”
“Right, and let's get Ruth on the way.”
Agnes donated one of her old housedresses for the tail. The fabric was light and pretty and pink.
“Like Cora,” Vidalia said.
“Make sure it's balanced,” Agnes said. “And don’t rip the paper or you’ll be sunk.”
“How long should the tail be?” Ruth asked. “I don’t remember.”
“Long enough,” I said.
After a few minutes I held it up. It was bright green with white stripes.”
“It's a real Hi-Flier,” Agnes said. “The same we had when we were kids.”
“That's right.” I looked at Agnes looking at the kite. “I wish you could go with us.”
She closed her eyes and laid back. “You go on and enjoy yourselves. Fly it for Cora.”
“I will.”
The three of us drove to Hector Hills in my truck with the kite safely secured in the bed. It took six tries, but then the kite caught a wind and started to pull. Up. Up and away. I let the string out more and more as it pulled, getting further and further into the sky. I felt the tugs in my shoulder as it swooped.
“Watch it,” Vidalia called. “Don’t crash.”
Finally, our kite settled into a current of air.
“Let me hold it,” Ruth said.
We made the switch flawlessly as the kite soared higher above the trees and out over the town.
Vidalia took her turn, and after a few minutes, we stood together—all of us in black—and watched our kite dance, a sparkling emerald against a pale blue sky. I took hold of the string with my hand touching Vidalia's, and then Ruth grabbed on and we sailed it together.
“For Cora,” I said.
“For Cora,” we all echoed.
20
About a week after Cora's death, a blanket of peace and routine had settled over the town. Cora's family put her house up for sale and moved out any furniture worth keeping, donated nearly all her clothes to the needy, had the electric turned off, stopped mail delivery, and closed her curtains.
The season changed. Spring pushed winter away, quiet at first, with just hints of color—purple and yellow crocuses. The forsythia bloomed in all its yellow best. But something else took hold of Agnes.
It was the end of April. Hezekiah had finished Ivy's fence with some help from Fred Haskell. It was one of those silver chainlink jobs that stretched around her entire backyard. Both Ivy and the newly named Al Capone were getting used to the idea.
Mildred was thrilled to have won the contest. It might have been one of the few times I ever saw the woman smile. The winner was announced at The Full Moon Café the second Monday after Easter. Ivy chose that day because it was after the holiday and most of the folks who entered would be enjoying the Monday meatloaf special.
I arrived about 4:30 after locking up at the library. Ivy got everybody's attention and then made her announcement.
“Now before I announce the winning name, I want to thank all of you for taking part in this little old contest of mine.” She cleared her throat. “I owned that dang dog for going on nine years and never bothered to give him a proper handle.”
Some of the folks laughed.
“Well I just couldn’t come up with a fitting name, and I believe all God's creatures, especially the ones we love and consider family, should have a proper name, you know, one that fits.”
Studebaker Kowalski walked in right then, excused the interruption, and sat near me at the counter. He whispered. “Hey Griselda.” I smiled and sipped my coffee. Zeb hired two of the high school girls to take the place of Cora. Babette Sturgis was one—a pretty, tall, dark-haired girl with good grades and a pimply complexion. She poured coffee for Stu.
“Anyway,” Ivy said, “I made my choice and I think it's a good one.”
Zeb walked out of the kitchen and made a drum roll on the counter with two wooden spoons.
“The winner is Mildred Blessing, who suggested the name —” the drumroll grew louder “—Al Capone.”
A collective sigh of pleasure swelled up in the little café that night. There wasn’t one person who didn’t think it was the absolute best name for that troublemaking mutt.
“Hear, hear,” Jasper York said a mite louder than he needed.
Eugene, who was sitting by himself at a booth hollered, “First sensible thing this town's done in years, fencing that canine miscreant hoodlum.”
Ivy steadied herself. I could see she was holding back from giving Eugene what for, but there was happy business afoot.
Harriett, Jasper's now constant companion, beamed. “Al Capone was that famous bootlegger. My daddy, God rest his soul, actually met him in Chicago back in ’21. Lit his cigar for him. Al Capone flipped him two bits, and we ate supper that night, we did. Ate supper on account of Al Capone.”
Well, that riled a few of the more straightlaced women in the group, including Darcy Speedwell, who had brought the boys in for meatloaf and milkshakes. She expressed her shame that Harriett's father had anything to do with a criminal.
“My daddy did what he saw fit during the Depression,” Harriett said. “He was a good daddy. Fact is, Daddy went to work running gin down Canal Street for Mr. Capone. We ate good after that.”
That was when Jasper, in a surprisingly lucid moment, reached out and took her hand. “Sing it, sister.”
Darcy was so shocked she bounced out of her seat. “Harriett, my boys are at an impressionable age. What would Jesus say to you?”
Then she marched those boys right outside without paying the check, which was sitting on the table.
Zeb slapped me on the back. “Al Capone, imagine that, having ties to Bright's Pond.”
Harriett stood up and sighed. “Jesus weren’t there. Not in those days. He was off taking care of others, because I remember before my daddy went to work for Mr. Capone he prayed every day and every night for work. There just wasn’t a job to be found.”
“Your daddy did what he saw fit,” Studebaker said. “Don’t you go feeling like you got something to be ashamed about.”
Harriett smiled and sat down.
Mildred was on patrol that afternoon and missed the big announcement. She showed up just as I was leaving. A round of applause erupted when she entered.
“Congratulations, Mildred,” Ivy called. “You’re the winner.”
A smile as wide as Wyoming burst across Mildred's otherwise poker face. “Me? I won the dog naming contest?”
“That's right,” Ivy said. “Al Capone it is. I’m going to see Boris tomorrow and get him a license and everything.”
For a moment Mildred looked sad. The chase was over. “About time that dog got legitimate,” she said when Zeb handed her the first of what would be several slices of free pie.
I headed home with two meatloaf specials.
“This town is sure gonna miss Cora,” Agnes said staring into her meal. “She always put in extra.”
“I know, it's going to take some time to get used to her being gone.”
A couple of days later I parked Old Bessie on top of Hector Street and tuned into the Rassie Harper Show. I hadn’t dared listen since I
kicked him out of the Full Moon, but the urge struck that morning. I figured I was about ready to take any insults he might sling, but I hoped that the whole Agnes ordeal had blown over and he had forgotten all about her.
“Budweiser, the king of beers,” Rassie shouted over the airwaves. It's funny how my impression of him changed now that I knew what he looked like.
“Vera Krug will be up in just a few minutes with an exciting announcement about the upcoming Pearly Gates Singers coming to Bright's Pond.” I turned up the volume. “That's right, boys and girls, Bright's Pond. You remember them. They tossed me out of The Full Moon Café for calling a fat woman fat. Hey, it's a free country.”
Well, I can say this, my timing is impeccable.
“And here she is now, that winsome woman of the airwaves with all your small town news and gossip, Vera Krug.”
Vera's lead-off stories were about a farmer named Mike Micklin, who discovered one of his ewes gave birth to a two-headed lamb, and a pitch for the brand-new Dairy Queen opening in Shoops.
“Now the announcement you’ve all been waiting for,” Vera said. “Our own Rassie Harper has made it possible for the Pearly Gates Singers to appear, in person, at the Bright's Pond Chapel of Faith and Grace Wednesday night at seven o’clock p.m. Tickets will be sold at the door, so you better get there early, friends. Those folks down there are expecting a crowd.”
I dropped the gearshift into drive and started down the hill to the library where I would spend a relatively peaceful morning among my books.
Lunchtime rolled around, and I made my way home where I found Hezekiah up on the garage roof. He had torn off all the old shingles and some of the wood underneath.
“I’ve been giving it some thought, and it's probably best to replace the wood,” he called. I watched him yank out nails. “That wood is all waterlogged and sagging down so far it makes no sense to keep it.”
“You’re the boss. I’ll go get lunch ready.”
“I’m starved, Griselda. Didn’t get breakfast this morning.”
I threw together ham and cheese sandwiches while I warmed condensed tomato soup.
“Here you go, Agnes,” I said, as I carried her tray to her. “I’ll go call Hezekiah.”
