by Joyce Magnin
I heard a rap on my front door. "Is that the killer, Lucky? He's on our front stoop. I am certainly not answering that door."
Another rap, a third, and then I thought I heard Rose's yoo-hoo.
"Now, I hate to do this to you, boy, but you're going first." I took him by the collar and dragged him into the living room. I opened the door with Lucky in front of me.
"Rose, it is you." I grabbed her arm and yanked her into the trailer. "You better get inside. I heard gunshots."
She smiled like nothing was wrong. "You all right?"
"I'm fine."
Two more blasts echoed outside. "What in blue blazes is happening?"
"That's why I came over. Thought you might be a little freaked out seeing how it's your first time."
"First time?"
Rose filled the coffeepot with water. "Just Old Man Hawkins down the road. He's a trigger-happy World War II vet and every so often he goes off and starts shooting at things—usually a possum or raccoon. Sometimes he shoots up trash cans he mistakes for the enemy. One time he made a citizen's arrest on the mailman." She gave Lucky a rub behind the ears. "He'll go home in a few minutes."
"Isn't that dangerous?" I placed two cups on saucers. I liked using real china in the morning.
"I just love your little cups and saucers," Rose said. "I love the little daisies around the rim. Got any Danish?"
"Inside that cake cozy."
More blasts ricocheted outside.
I ducked. "Shouldn't he be stopped? How can you stay so calm?"
"He's harmless. Everyone takes cover. Guess folks believe that leaving him alone is the best we can do. Hate to see him go to jail—or worse, a mental hospital. Sometimes he rides that horse he keeps behind his trailer down the streets hollering that the British are coming. The British are coming."
I laughed.
"Not much Danish left," Rose said. "I'll cut this in two."
"That's fine. I'm not that hungry. But Rose, sometimes I think I moved into a crazy town. I mean, really, that man could hurt someone while he's killing phantom Nazis."
"We all have phantoms that show up now and again. Should we all go to jail?" Rose nodded toward the percolator."Coffee's ready. Even Asa has his ghosts. With him it's pain. Even though his arm is gone, he says it still hurts some days like it was still attached."
I sipped my coffee and my mind brought up an image of Herman. Even though he was gone, some days, most days, I still felt a pain deep inside my heart and stomach and even way inside my muscles. A pain not so much of his dying, but now that he was gone and I could start to confess, pain from when he was living. But I swiped that cobweb away.
I rubbed my hands and looked out the window. "It's really a pretty little place. I'd like to meet the rest of the residents, you know."
Rose looked out the window. "You will. Folks warm up slowly around here."
A thumbnail-size chunk of white icing dropped off my Danish. I dabbed it with my index finger and ate it. "That's kind of sad. I would think a place like this would be different."
"If you mean community sing-alongs and barbecues, Paradise isn't the place." Rose looked pensive a moment."Now, there is Marlabeth Pilkey and what she calls Marlabeth Pilkey's homegrown remedies. She's pretty friendly and likes to be sociable."
"Remedies?"
"That's right. Marlabeth has an herb or plant or seed to fix everything from headaches to menstrual cramps and liver disease. She makes teas and ointments and even old-time poultices for just about any ailment you have."
"Is she allowed to do that."
"Allowed? You mean like is she a doctor or something?"
"Well, yes, something like that."
"Nah, she doesn't claim to be one, and nobody I know ever had a problem with any of her concoctions. She's helped me."Rose rubbed her left arm. "She gives me this special cream for my scars and tattoos to keep them soft. Sometimes my skin feels tight like elastic bands are wrapped around me. Feel this."Rose took my finger and rubbed it against the inside of her forearm. It felt bumpy and tight, the skin irreparably broken, yet soft and pliable as new skin. "You might think it would bother me more than it does, but with Marlabeth's ointment, I can keep my skin supple and nice. She calls it Rose Cream, made just for me. She says it has rose hips in it, whatever they are."
I smiled. I liked the sound of Marlabeth Pilkey. "Wonder if she could help my stiff joints."
"No doubt," Rose said. "She has teas for stiff joints and arthritis, I'm sure."
We grew quiet a minute and sipped our coffee as I waited for another gunshot, but the park had quieted down so much I thought maybe Rose and I were the only ones left alive and that kook had gunned everyone else down.
Rose rubbed her arm and looked around my trailer. "This place is really starting to shape up. I like the way you decorated it. But I was meaning to ask you about that big old trophy over there. Was it Herman's?"
I burst out laughing. "Herman? That's a joke. The most athletic thing Herman ever did was shave his face. That's my trophy."
"Well, if that don't beat all. What was it from, bowling or tennis or—"
"Softball. I played softball before I was married."
"No kidding. Were you any good? Must have been, I suppose, to win a trophy that big."
I felt a warmth wash over my body. "Everyone got a trophy the year we won the regional championship. But now when I remember those days, I mostly think about how great it was to have friends like that, you know, through thick and thin, a team."
Rose's twinkly eyes grew even twinklier. "I just got a wild idea," she said. "You should start a softball team. Here. In Paradise. The women would love it. Of course, it would be all women. Asa might want to coach, and it would be a great way for you to meet everyone."
"Wait a second. Me? Start a team? I haven't played in years. Plus, how can you be sure the women around here would even want—"
"Because I know. I think it's a great idea. A softball team could be just the ticket to get Paradise out of its slump."
"I don't know."
She grabbed both my hands. "Come on, you know you want to. I saw the way your face lit up when I mentioned that trophy."
"Let me think about it." I leaned back in the chair. "I'll just think about it."
Rose finished her coffee. "Okay, you think, I'll pray, and I bet we have a team by morning."
I imagined Rose in a cheerleader uniform with pompoms and a megaphone.
"I'll do it, Rose. I mean, what's there to think about? If you think it's good idea. I'll coach the team if you help me find players and—"
"That's the ticket, Charlotte. I'll help however I can. You could start by hanging a sign on that notice board near Fergus's trailer."
"Good idea. And I could make a . . . a whatchamacallit . . .a flyer and put it in their doors."
"Yeah, just watch for dogs and guns and boiling oil when you do."
"Oil?"
Rose chuckled. "I'm just kidding, but some of the folks around here don't like it when strangers come to call. But not everyone. Now look, I got to get going. I need to do some serious praying today."
I missed Herman some mornings, even though for the life of me I couldn't tell you exactly what I missed. His bluster? I don't know, maybe. I guess Midge was right, folks get used to certain things in life and when they're gone it takes some doing and time to get used to the new way, or the new quiet or the new noise. Whatever the case, I would allow myself a few minutes to think about him and the way he just all of a sudden died. I mean, it came like a dynamite blast or lightning bolt. Bam! Herman's dead. I think you would have to be pretty conceited not to imagine the same thing could happen to you, so I made certain to think on it whenever the notion hit and then thank God, or whoever's concern it was, that I still had breath in me.
After a minute or so I pushed Herman's memory to the back of my brain and thought about building a softball team, something Herman would have never approved.
I found a nice black Flare
pen and a pad of lined writing paper tucked between a couple of magazines stuffed in a drawer. The paper was blank except for the Fuller Brush logo in the corner. A remnant of Herman, I thought, as I sat down to write out the flyer. But the phone rang before I could even get the first word written.
"Charlotte, it's your mother."
"Hi, Mom."
"You were supposed to call me yesterday, Charlotte. You said you would."
"I guess I've been busy getting things moved in, Mother. I was going to call you a little later." I looked around the trailer. The kitchen ceiling still had stains and bulges and needed replacement. I didn't dare tell Lillian DeSalle that I was still repairing the trailer.
"When are you going to invite me up there, Charlotte? I'd like to see where you are living. A mother's got a right to know where her child is living."
"Soon. I just need to get settled and . . . Mom, guess what?"
She fell silent a moment and I could see her grab my father's picture and hold it to her chest like I was about to give her bad news and she didn't want to take it alone.
"I'm starting a softball team. Remember after the funeral—"
"What funeral?"
"Mother. You know perfectly well. Remember, you asked me where that girl who could throw a ball like a boy was? Well, she's back. I'm going to start a softball team here in Paradise."
She laughed. "Don't be a silly goose. You can't just start a softball team."
"Sure I can. I am going to start a softball team right here in Paradise. My new friend Rose thought it would be a great idea."
"You can't be serious. You are too old to be playing games. I meant you needed a career, something to occupy your day. Something with meaning. Something like I had."
"You bought men's underwear for John Wanamaker, Mother. Not exactly the cure for cancer."
"Furnishings. I bought men's furnishings and it was full of meaning. It was something I could be proud of."
"But Mother, softball has meaning. The women around here need something like this. I think this is the reason I—"
"Charlotte, you are just talking nonsense. Now look, I just called to make sure you were still alive. I have to meet the girls for mahjong."
"Mahjong? Since when do you play mahjong?"
"Since Harriett Feinberg made me an honorary Bubba even though I don't have any grandchildren."
"Mother. Don't start."
"Fine, Charlotte, have your silly team. If that's what will make you happy. You know I only ever wanted your happiness, even when you were married."
7
Later that morning I ventured outside. The mid-March air felt crisp and cold and tickled my cheeks and the sun shone bright and happy, and for the first time in I don't know how long I felt a spring in my step. This was the first real opportunity I had had since we finished the major trailer overhaul to walk around Paradise. I went out in the Galaxy to purchase groceries and mail letters and such, but I had never taken the time to see the entire park.
Every now again I saw children running around outside, but even they didn't seem to stay out very long. Once I heard Fergus Wrinkel holler over the public address system, "Mrs. Crabtree, get your dang blame brats out of the fountain area immediately before I call the dog catcher out again."
Now, there was no fountain that I ever saw, just a circular space of cement painted blue with a pipe sticking up from the middle. I suspected that was the fountain area and figured at one time or another it actually flowed water.
Lucky and I walked down nearly every street in the park and I only saw one person, a youngish woman hanging clothes on a line strung between two poles. She was scrappy looking, wearing a spotted dress and a thick tangerine sweater. Second base, was my first thought. Scrappy is good for a second baseman.
"Hello," I called. I made sure to smile wide and even waved, but she never looked my way. "Hello," I called a second time and she turned around.
"I'm Charlotte Figg. I just moved in on Mango Street."
The woman pulled a clothespin from her mouth, turned her back to me and secured a wet tee shirt with a rip in the collar to the line.
I took a step closer. Lucky clung close to my side. "Hello," I called again. By now I was starting to feel annoyed, but persisted until she finally spoke.
"That's nice," she said. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."
I reached out my hand in a gesture of neighborliness. She took it and shook with a powerful grip. "Clara Kaninsky." But there was no real howdy-do in her voice and she went back to her laundry. Still, I took down a mental note that possibly I had found a player. The woman had big hands and strong arms—probably from carrying all that wet laundry out of her trailer.
I heaved a sigh and went back to my walk. Paradise didn't have what you would call sidewalks or pavements, only the roads that wound around the trailers like a deep, black river. Lucky and I walked down Coconut Lane until we arrived at Moonlit Bay Road—Rose's street.
"She said her trailer is the very last one," I said.
There were fewer trailers on Moonlit Bay than the other streets—fewer trailers and larger yards, more space for cars and kids. Lucky ran on ahead like he'd been there before, barking and yapping, happy that we were finally going to Rose's house. Now, I had considered Rose to be what they call eccentric and I gave her a lot of latitude by way of honoring her artistic sensibilities and not wanting to disturb the universe that was Rose's. But no amount of latitude could have prepared me for what I encountered when I stopped out in front of her trailer.
"Lucky, will you look at that? Did she make it?"
Lucky barked and sniffed around the large sculpture in Rose's yard. A giant hand, bolted to the ground and rising about eight feet to the sky with a huge open palm, stood in her yard just as natural as any old birdbath.
"Now, I've seen some strange lawn ornaments in my day, but this . . . well, it certainly broadens the meaning of the words palm tree, Lucky."
He barked and then circled under the hand until he collapsed into a nap.
"What in the world would inspire a person to have this in their yard?"
"Charlotte," Rose called. "I saw you out the window from the kitchen. Welcome. Welcome to my home. I am so glad you finally made it up here. I know it can be a bit of a walk, but there's shortcuts I can show you. If you don't mind traipsing through Hawkin's backyard."
I couldn't take my eyes off the hand. "Rose, I . . . I . . . " I glanced over in time to see Asa come out her front door."Rose, did you know you have a giant cement hand in your front yard?" I said without even acknowledging Asa.
She laughed and moved closer to me.
"Isn't it spectacular?" Asa said. "Rose told me she saw it at a rundown amusement park clear over in Montvalle. Took a few days but we finally tracked down the owner and convinced him to let Rose have it. That was three years ago."
Rose chuckled. "Yes. He didn't want to just hand it over to me."
I shook my head. "How many times have you used that one?"
"It comes in handy," Rose said.
I decided to quit while Rose was ahead.
Asa, obviously bored with the many puns, continued the story. "So I drove my truck up there—me and my cousins Studebaker and Ed—and we hauled it back to Paradise. Took us nearly the whole day to get it situated. After we bolted the last bolt, Studebaker and me and Ed climbed up and ate Full Moon Pie by the light of a million stars in the hand of God."
Full Moon Pie. Now that was a curiosity what with me being a pie baker and all. "Never heard of Full Moon Pie, Asa."
Asa rubbed his belly. "Studebaker brought it from Bright's Pond. Fella named Zeb makes it—most delicious lemon meringue you'll ever sink choppers into."
I made a mental note. Learn more about Full Moon Pie.
"Well," I said. "Back to the situation at hand."
Asa cracked a smile and then peered into Rose's eyes in the way that only true friends can. "She said this hand would be her Ebenezer."
Ebenezer? Th
e only Ebenezer I knew was Ebenezer Scrooge and that couldn't be what she meant. But I just let it go, figuring Rose or Asa would get around to explaining it to me later on.
"That's right," Rose said. "Asa helped me secure it in front of my trailer. I liked that it was a huge upturned hand, kind of like a giant offering to God. I still love the way it collects the rainwater and how the birds come and flap around and bathe."
"But that ain't all," Asa said. "Rose painted everyone's name, everyone in the park, on it. Bible says God has each and every one of us in his palm. That's why she did it. Poor Fergus about had a conniption fit when he saw it. Tried to make her remove it, but Rose won out."
"Is my name up there?"
"Not yet. Haven't gotten around to painting it on. I will though. I've been trying to decide if you are a periwinkle or more of a burnt umber. I'm leaning toward periwinkle."
Lucky couldn't help himself—he promptly peed on it as Rose spoke. "Sorry, Rose. He can't help it."
Rose smiled. "It's natural."
I shook my head, amused. "I think I found our second baseman. Woman named Clara Kaninsky."
"Pinky," Rose said.
"Pinky? She said her name was Clara."
"No, her name is written on the pinky finger."
I couldn't help but glance over and try to find it.
"How many names do you have on that thing?"
"Ninety-seven names, so far. You'll make ninety-eight."
Imagine that. My name written on God's hand. It made my knees wobble.
"You want to come inside?" Rose asked. "It's chilly out here."
"Nah, I think I'll head back. I just wanted to let you know that I'm not having much luck finding women for the team, except Clara, and she didn't even appear all that neighborly or interested."
