Charlotte Figg Takes Over Paradise

by Joyce Magnin

  Ginger shook her head. "No, no, no, Charlotte. Let's go today. Right now, in fact." Her voice rose an octave higher."While I have some nerve."

  I took a breath. She was a feisty little thing and I had this funny image of Ginger and Fergus going a round or two in a boxing ring. I figured it would be like the elephant and the mouse. Fergus wouldn't have a chance.

  "You know she's right," Rose said. "We only have a couple of days to get everything organized."

  "I know, I know. Well, if you think God cares a lick about softball, you might want to toss a prayer or two. I think I'm going to need it." I could hear Herman hollering at me, "Don't put off for tomorrow what you can do today, Charlotte, that's what I always say. Better a bird in the hand than two in the bush." I shook him from my mind.

  "Of course, I'll pray," Rose said. "Now go on down there and—"

  "But he might not be home."

  "So you go back later if he's not. But you need to go—now. It's the only idea we have."

  Ginger zipped her coat. It was still odd to see her tiny hands and foreshortened arms.

  "You sure you can swing a bat?" I asked.

  "Sure," she said. "But you'll have to get me a small one, little league size."

  I made a mental note to check on that. Softball leagues had many regulations concerning legal and illegal bats. But I didn't want to say anything to Ginger, hoping they'd make an exception considering her size.

  "Think I'll bring Lucky," I said as I opened the door.

  Rose went out after Lucky. "Stop by and let me know how it went. I'll be home."

  I think I might have grunted. I was not looking forward to facing Fergus Wrinkel.

  Lucky bounded on ahead of us and treed three squirrels in a matter of a few seconds.

  "One of these days he's going to catch one and I shudder to think what he'll do."

  "You think he'll kill it?" Ginger asked.

  "No, I think the squirrel will win that battle. Bite his snout or ear. Lucky is really very sensitive and I think the emotional scars would be pretty deep. Call his manhood into question and all. Imagine being beaten up by a squirrel."

  Ginger shook her head. "You're a strange woman, Charlotte Figg. But I know God loves you. I know he's got his hand on you, so I'm going to hang on for the duration just to see where he leads."

  The Wrinkel trailer appeared closed up tight, just like always. Fergus's truck was parked on the cement pad. My heart palpitated. I quickly scanned the bay window for a peek at Suzy, but the curtains were drawn closed.

  "Ginger, I think this is a big mistake. There is no way in the world Fergus Wrinkel will sponsor our softball team."

  Ginger grabbed my hand and forced me to stop walking."You just hold on, Charlotte. You never know anything until you try, and he likes to be in control so much he might like the chance to sponsor the team and advertise Paradise, you know? Like I said, maybe he can unload a couple of the other empties he's got scattered around."

  I swallowed and started walking again. "I don't know. After the way he treated me over my trailer, the way he cheated me and I don't know how many others and the way he treats Suzy—"

  "Now, hold the phone again," Ginger said. "You don't know he's treating Suzy any way. Could be she's just shy."

  "Yeah, shy with black eyes? Come on, Ginger, why are you taking his side?"

  "I'm not. And if that's what you think, then you can just go see him yourself."

  "Aw, Ginger, I'm sorry. I—"

  "Come on. Let's go talk to him. I refuse to accuse any man of any crime until I have facts. Just makes sense to me."

  I looked again for any sign of Suzy at the window. None.

  "So go ahead," Ginger said. "Suck it up and knock on the door. He is not going to shoot you."

  I wasn't so sure.

  A whiff of pine tickled my nose as I approached the door. I took one step and then another, slowly. I could feel every muscle in my body tense. Fergus Wrinkel was a bad man. I knew that sure as I knew how to peel and slice apples. But there was no way I would let the Angels down.

  After two or three swallows I banged on the door. My knees shook. Lucky sat as close as possible as I waited a couple of minutes.

  "No one is answering," I called to Ginger, who all of a sudden decided to hide behind an azalea bush.

  "Knock again." Her little voice was barely audible.

  I knocked. And then I waited. The door opened a crack. The smell of cigarettes rushed up my nose and down my throat. I coughed.

  "What do you want?" It was Fergus's voice.

  "I want to speak with you, Mr. Wrinkel."

  He pulled the door open. I couldn't help but try and see past him into the trailer, hoping to get a glimpse of Suzy. Fergus stepped outside, closing the door behind him.

  "If this is about the Vindar, I—"

  "No. No. It's not. It's about our softball team."

  He laughed. He threw his head back and laughed with a sound that seemed to come from a deep cave.

  "Why are you laughing?" I asked.

  "I heard about that stupid team of yours. Rube Felker told me. He couldn't stop laughing when he told me. Imagine that, bunch of trailer trash women playing ball."

  Trailer trash? Never in my life had I been called such a thing. I ignored the remark but made a mental note to think about it later. "Mr. Wrinkel. I'll have you know"—I pulled myself up to my full height, which brought me just about eye-to-eye with him—"The Paradise Angels are a good team. Championship caliber, if you ask me." I imagined Fergus in a Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit with knickers and lace cuffs and that settled my nerves a little.

  He lit a cigarette and let the acrid smoke linger between us.

  "So why should I care?" he asked. "What's it got to do with me?"

  I took a breath, even though I didn't want to suck smoke into my lungs. I had no choice.

  "Well . . . I, we—" I looked around for Ginger. "Come on out, Ginger. We need to do this together."

  Fergus looked in Ginger's direction. He laughed even louder. "What the— You mean that pipsqueak is on the team? Get out. She can't play ball."

  "Can too," Ginger called as she made her way near us. "I can hit and run and—" she stopped talking. "Just listen to what Charlotte has to say."

  "Okey dokey," Fergus said. "What does Charlotte have to say?"

  I closed my eyes a second and pictured Fergus in a body cast. "Well, in order to join the league we need a sponsor and we thought you—"

  He spit past my head. "No soap. I ain't laying out my hardearned cash for some chick softball team. You're out of your minds. No way, no how."

  "But, Mr. Wrinkel. It would be good for Paradise." I hoped he hadn't noticed that I kept my eyes trained on the trailer hoping to see Suzy, wishing she'd come to the door.

  "Yeah. In what way?"

  "Advertising," Ginger said. "The team would wear the name Paradise Trailer Park on our uniforms and everyone would know that you sponsor us. Might help sell off a couple of them buckets of nothing you got around the park."

  Fergus dropped the cigarette butt on the ground and squashed it beneath his heel. "I don't know. Do I have to do anything?"

  "No," I said. "Just give us money, I suppose."

  "You could come to the games," Ginger added.

  He laughed that evil-sounding guffaw of his and then stopped. It was Suzy's voice that stopped him.

  "Fergus," she called. "You out there?" The door opened a crack and I got a look at Suzy's whole face. She was so young and pretty. Maybe a mite thin, but her hair cascaded onto her shoulders in thick waves and made me think, goodness gracious, she can't be more than twenty years old—a babe.

  Fergus turned around. "It's nothing. Just go on inside, honey buns." Fergus's voice took on a gentle tone, but there was something fake about it, placating. "I'll be right inside as soon as I—" The door closed.

  "Look," he said to me. "No soap. I don't have that kind of money. But hey, if you want to use the Paradise Trailer Park name
on your uniforms, go ahead. I won't mind."

  "Of all the nerve, Mr. Wrinkel. No, thank you. We'll find someone else."

  "That creep," I said once we were far enough away from Fergus.

  "Well, we had to give it a shot. But now I'm afraid we're out of ideas. The girls are going to be so disappointed."

  Lucky, who had been romping through some tall grass near the defunct fountain, scooted next to us.

  "How long has it been since the fountain worked?" I asked.

  Ginger glanced over. "Years. Fergus turned it off one day and it's been getting more and more run down. It was working when I moved here. I used to like the sound of the water at night. I could hear it from my trailer. It was like a concert with the water running and cicadas trilling and crickets chirping and birds singing. I miss it."

  "Maybe we can get it flowing again."

  "Don't count on that. Fergus doesn't care a lick about aesthetics or pleasing people. Not really. He just collects the rent."

  "But he owns this land. You'd think—"

  "Who told you that?"

  "I assumed because—"

  Then I stopped short. "Then who?"

  "Nobody really knows."

  "Come to think of it," I said, "when I bought my trailer I had the cashier's check made out to a company called Biddy Properties. I just figured that was him, you know."

  Ginger skipped to catch up with my wide strides. "Could be, but like I said, nobody knows for certain. We just give him our rent money every month and all is well. Or nearly well. Asa does all the work around here. Fergus doesn't do diddlysquat."

  "I like the idea of a fountain. The sound of flowing water. Let's talk to Asa about getting it hooked up again."

  "Fergus'll just turn it off again and complain about the electric and water bill."

  I paused a minute and imagined Paradise with that pretty little fountain flowing with bright, clear water. Maybe a light trained on it at night.

  "Maybe someday."

  The sun was about gone when we reached Rose's trailer. Ginger and I stood near the giant hand. "You think she put Fergus's name up there? I didn't see it."

  "Sure she did. God loves him too, Charlotte."

  Lucky circled a minute under the thumb and then curled into a hairy heap, yawned, and closed his eyes. He knew we were staying a little while.

  Rose opened her door and a waft of turpentine blew out."Well?"

  "Nope," I said as we made our way inside. "He said no soap."

  Rose wiped her brush and then tucked herself into her favorite rocker while Ginger and I plopped onto the sofa."Guess that puts us back to square one," I said. "And we only have until day after tomorrow if we're going to make the summer league."

  "So now what?" I asked. "What do we do now?"

  "We pray," Ginger said. "God has someone in mind. It's our mission to find out who that someone is."

  "If only one of the husbands would inquire at the elastic factory," I said.

  Ginger chuckled. "No way. Those boys are still not sold on the idea of their wives playing ball. Most of them are just waiting for their women to fail, get tired or fed up, quit, and go back to making pot roasts on Sunday afternoons—not pop-up fly balls."

  I looked out Rose's window at the woods. The ball field lay just through the trees. It saddened me to think that without a sponsor the team would never play there.

  "There's just no way. I don't think. I could try but I'd hate to—"

  "What are talking about, Charlotte?" Rose asked.

  "Sorry. I was just prattling around in my own head again. I was wondering if I could afford to sponsor the team myself."

  "You aren't a business or corporation," Ginger said. "And what if we played next year too? It's too expensive."

  "I have my pies? Maybe I could—"

  "Sell pies?" Rose said, the doubt in her voice evident. "You couldn't bake enough pies to make a dent in what it will cost to keep the Angels afloat. Zeb might take some down at the Full Moon, but not enough."

  "I'm just thinking, Rose. That's all."

  "Listen, Charlotte," she said, "your pies are good and all, scrumptious, in fact, but you'd be baking all the time and I'm not even sure it's legal to sell pies out of a trailer home, you know?"

  Another bubble burst. "I guess you're right. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea." My heart sank into my shoes. "Maybe we simply can't afford to be a team."

  "Now, I won't hear any of that," Ginger said. "We can still be a team. We'll just get out there and play and see what happens."

  I twisted my mouth and chewed on that a second. "No, Ginger. These women need to be a real team, playing real games and winning and losing and—"

  "Then you'll find a sponsor," Rose said. She opened a jar of pink cream and slathered some on her arms and rubbed it in. "I've always found that when you really need something, I mean really need something, it has a way of coming around."

  15

  Hazel Crenshaw was in her front yard the next morning tending to her bird feeders. She wore a cape the color of a concord grape and a lavender felt hat with a peacock feather sticking out of it. A long, wooly scarf was wrapped around her neck. I saw her when I let Lucky out for his morning routine. That poor maple tree had been getting the worst of it all spring long.

  "Lucky," I called. "Maybe you need to find another place to pee. That poor tree is getting drowned." But he only smiled.

  I thought I saw Hazel look my way, but she was so covered up I couldn't really be sure. The air was still unseasonably cool. She looked like a big, purple, wooly sheep ripe for the sheering. So just to be certain, I moved down the walkway a little, pretending to check my lights along the way. I looked again and sure enough I saw Hazel wave. She appeared to be waving me over to her side of the street.

  My first thought was that my imagination had gotten the best of me on account of all the stress with the team. I waved back and she waved me on, this time with a bit more assertiveness."You stay here, Lucky."

  I crept slowly across the street, looking all around. For some reason I didn't want anyone to notice me. Hazel Crenshaw had a mystique about her. I couldn't for all the tea in China figure out why she wanted me.

  "Hello," I called.

  She beckoned me closer. The closer I got, the easier it was to see that she was old and hunched over, and I believed that cape of hers was a feeble attempt to hide a dowager's hump the size of bowling ball.

  Hazel grabbed a cane with a carved goose head on the top and started toward her door. It was a little like being beckoned into a cottage by a witch.

  My goodness gracious, but the inside of her trailer defied the outside. The first thing that struck me was the overpowering smell of orange blossoms. She had some of the finest, prettiest furniture I had ever seen, all of it real wood, all of it antique, probably older than she and covered in a quarter inch of dust that itched my nose. I spied a large, tricolored cat resting on the sofa with a wide Cheshire grin.

  "Don't mind Smiley," Hazel said. "You aren't allergic, are you?"

  "No, I'm not allergic. I like kitty cats."

  "Good, good," she said as she unwrapped herself. I helped with her cape and hung it on a solid oak coatrack carved with tiny, intricate flowers and stems and buds. I got a good look at her hump. I tried not to notice, but it was pretty pronounced.

  I sneezed.

  She hobbled her way to a large chair. "You're sure you're not allergic?"

  "I'm sure."

  "Then it's the dust." She plopped down and giggled. "You might have to help me out of this chair," she said. "Some days it takes me five minutes or more. Osteoporosis, you know." She craned her already crooked neck closer to the hump.

  "Oh, I . . . I hadn't noticed."

  "Don't lie, child."

  "Sorry."

  She coughed once, and it seemed to hurt. "Make sure you drink your milk."

  "Can I get you something to drink? A glass of water or milk?"

  "Water would be nice. I could drink a w
hole cow and it won't help me now, and while you're in the kitchen will you put the kettle on? A nice cup of tea would suit me fine, child."

  As I made my way to her kitchen, I regretted not bringing her a pie. I made a mental note to bring Hazel Crenshaw a deep-dish Dutch apple sometime soon.

  Hazel's trailer was about twice the size of mine. Her kitchen was almost as big as the one I left back home. She had cabinets and drawers and places to hang pots and pans and even a tall double-door pantry that made me envious. I suspected it would be full of canned vegetables, cat food, pasta, and probably the tea bags I was looking for. So I pulled open the doors, and what I saw surprised me so much I busted out laughing. She had not stuffed the shelves chock-full of food stuffs. No, Hazel had stuffed it with hats. Floor-to-ceiling hats. Hats with feathers, wide brims, fruits, veils, no veils, you name it, she had a hat to match it. I shut the doors thinking it might help contain my laughter. It didn't.

  I lit the fire under the kettle and then filled two tall tumblers with cold water.

  "Here you go," I said.

  She took the glass and drank. "Water is good for the body and the soul."

  "It is. I'll get your tea as soon as the kettle squeals."

  I helped her place the glass on the table on a rattan coaster.

  "You have a beautiful home, Hazel—may I call you Hazel?"

  "Thank you, Charlotte."

  "Is that your husband?" I asked, pointing to a picture of a man in military uniform on the table that held her glass.

  "Mm hmm. That's my Birdy. Birdy Crenshaw. Dead twenty some years now."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Understand you recently lost your husband."

  How did she know? "That's right." I felt my eyebrows rise."Just a couple of months ago."

  "Been hard?"

  I looked away from her. "Some days."

  "Um. You have a story to tell, child."

  The kettle squealed and I went off to make two cups of tea."I can run back to my place and get pie," I called. "Would you like pie, Hazel?"