Charlotte Figg Takes Over Paradise

by Joyce Magnin

  "I'm going to church, Lucky." I patted his head and then I slipped him a Milk-Bone. He was appreciative and, I thought, impressed that I was even going.

  Church was not on my weekly routine, and hadn't been for a long, long time. The last time I set foot inside a church building was, well, I was a young woman, unless you count my visit with Pastor Herkmeier to arrange Herman's burial, but that wasn't church. It was business. Today it felt sort of good to get gussied up and put small dabs of perfume, Sweet Impulse, on my wrists and behind my ears.

  On my way out of the door I spotted my pad with all my notes and doodles about the Angels. I flipped through the pages thinking there might be opportunity at church to get some business done. Maybe talk to a couple of the players and schedule a full-fledged practice now that all the papers were signed and we were ready to go.

  I grabbed my handbag, and a cherry crumb pie with walnuts, said goodbye to Lucky, who was looking terribly proud of me, and set off. The sun shone bright in the blue sky. Birds chirruped and called to each other. It was a perfect spring day as the trees budded with new life and I discovered yellow daffodils along my wooden walk. Funny the beauty that springs to life right under your nose sometimes. But just as I set foot off the walk, gunshots rang out. I ducked and scurried back toward my trailer, tripping on one of Lucky's bones. I nearly went head over teacups again as my pie went sailing into the sky and then SPLAT! onto the ground.

  I looked out the kitchen bay window and saw my pie upsidedown on the lawn in a puddle of red cherry juice. There had been no time to try and save it. It was more important to save myself, so I left it there, wounded and alone. Who said that lunatic did no harm? A perfectly fine cherry crumb gone to the crows. I heard another shot, and sure enough there was that crazy guy with his rifle shooting at some trash cans. I heard two more shots and saw a trash can go flying into the air about ten feet and a raccoon plummet to the ground in a great tumble of paws and fur and then take off across the street into Hazel Crenshaw's yard.

  "That guy is nuts."

  I kept low in case he pointed that rifle in my direction. But fortunately Asa met up with him and took the gun from the poor old guy. Asa tucked the gun under his armpit, and then lead Dalrympal Hawkins back toward home. I caught my breath, and fortunately a second cherry crumb was available so I took it with me. This time I made certain the coast was clear. I set the cherry crumb on the passenger's seat and kept one hand on it as I backed off the cement parking pad. I was just about at Rose's when I realized I had forgotten my notes.

  A small but tidy group of Paradise residents waited by the giant hand like they were waiting to either go on a field trip or back to the asylum. I spotted Ginger and Rose, of course. Greta Lundy stood closest to the street, holding the basket with baby Ruth. Gwendolyn held hands with a very large man wearing cowboy boots, jeans, a striped shirt, and a turquoise belt buckle the size of a grapefruit.

  "Charlotte," Rose said. "I'm so happy you came. The bus will be in here in a minute."

  "Bus?" My stomach tightened.

  "Just an old school bus. Studebaker drives around and picks folks up. We're his last stop and then we drive into Bright's Pond for church and then he drives us back. Usually we all have lunch together at my place."

  "You mean we all get on a bus? I have my car. I can—"

  Ginger piped up. "It's more fun to bus to church. Sometimes we sing songs."

  I wasn't so sure and would have backed out of the deal if I hadn't seen the yellow school bus chugging down the road. The bus had to be fifty years old the way it chugged and rumbled to a stop.

  "Bus is here," Marlabeth Pilkey called. "Everyone line up." I watched her grab a small boy by his collar. "Get in line, Warren Pilkey."

  Warren did as he was told. But he was not very happy about it. I grabbed the cherry crumb from the car. "I brought this, Rose, but now I—"

  "Bring it along," she said. "They'll keep it for the fellowship time after the service. But be careful, Zeb Sewickey makes his famous Full Moon Pies, so you might catch a few odd looks. Folks in Bright's Pond like their Full Moon Pie."

  "Then maybe I should leave it behind."

  Rose smiled. "No. Bring it along. It might be a hit, and then you can make it for their next potluck."

  "Potluck? You mean one of those dinners where people bring food? I don't want to attend any potluck."

  "Me neither. I don't care if I ever eat another lime Jell-Ocottage cheese-and-macaroni surprise."

  I laughed.

  "It's true," Rose said. "Pastor Speedwell's wife started making it just this year. She's a strange one. That's why your pies will be so welcome."

  My ego swelled a tad, but I squashed it back down and said, "I suppose I could make a few and drop them off."

  The bus was not exactly packed, but there were a few people on board, including an older woman in a black coat and a black hat with a black veil. Maybe she thought she'd boarded a funeral bus. She sat with her legs pressed tight together and her hands palms down on her knees and stared straight ahead with wide eyes like we were truly on our way to a funeral. There was a young couple sitting so close together they could have been sewn up the sides. The young woman looked to be about twenty years old and seven, maybe eight, months pregnant. And other sundry folks who looked like farm people and their children—well behaved for the most part—laughed and chatted.

  Marlabeth Pilkey stopped on her way down the bus aisle near the pregnant woman and smiled. "How you feeling, Fleur de Lee? Still have morning sickness? Baby kicking your ribs?"

  Fleur de Lee craned her neck. "Hi, Miss Marla, I'm fine and no, ma'am, that drink you gave me did the trick. I ain't vomited in two days now and you got that right, this baby sure can kick."

  "He's gonna be a football player," said the young man.

  Marlabeth took his chin in her hand. "That's right, Jaster. A fine, strapping football player, unless of course you have a little girl." She gave him a loving pat on the cheek. He touched the spot and smiled.

  "Oh, Miss Marla, I'll love her just the same," he said. "Fact is, a little girl as pretty as Fleur de Lee would be fine. Just fine."

  "I'll come by on Tuesday and check you," Marlabeth said."Won't be long now."

  "Nine weeks, three days," said Jaster.

  I sat with Rose. She took the window.

  "That young couple," I said, "are they—"

  "Yes. They live over at Haven House—kind of a group home for folks who can't exactly be on their own but want to be independent. It's a good setup."

  I looked back at them. "Don't know when I have ever seen a happier couple."

  "You'll like Bright's Pond," Rose said. "The pastor is a little odd, but nice."

  She rubbed her hands together like they were cold, but it certainly was not chilly that day. It was the third week of spring, and already the temperature had risen above fifty degrees two days running.

  "Are you okay?"

  "Not sure," she said. "I've been feeling a little achy."

  Of course my mind shot directly to softball. "You'll still be able to play ball?" I wished I could have shoved the words right back into my mouth. I just couldn't understand what had gotten into me. "I'm sorry, Rose. I was just worried you might be coming down with something and we have to get as much practice in as possible."

  She smiled and then pointed out the window. "Look at that." A great blue heron soared past the bus just about at eye level. It was streamlined and gorgeous like a jetliner. Silent. It flew so close I could see its eye.

  "Goodness gracious," I said. "I've never seen anything like that."

  "Probably on his way to Bright's Pond. Lots of wildlife there."

  "It is pretty around here," I said. "Very different from back home."

  "So much of God's creation to take in." Rose closed her eyes for a long second. "I mean God's creation, not that cement and steel they have in the cities. I mean just plain old nature— God's Glory."

  Before I knew it, Studebaker had pulled the
bus along the curb in front of a small white church. It had the ubiquitous red door and a bell tower that stood separate from the church building. A small wood sign read: BRIGHT'S POND CHAPEL OF FAITH AND GRACE. Welcome. I thought that was kind of nice— understated for a church, but nice.

  We filed out of the bus, each one of us thanking Stu on our way out the door. I carried the pie in two hands, not wanting another disaster.

  "Come on," Rose said. "I'll introduce you to Pastor Speedwell if I can catch him in time."

  "That's okay." I had to skip a few steps to keep in stride with Rose. "Did you hear that old man shooting up the park again this morning? Scared me half out of my mind and made me drop the other pie."

  Rose looked back. "I thought I heard his ricochet."

  "This is the second pie. I'm sorry but I won't have one for lunch."

  "That's okay," Rose said. "I have a box of Tastykakes on hand."

  The church lobby was small, with a long coatrack and a doorway on one side. I could see steps through the small window. The children all ran through the door and clomped up the steps.

  "Sunday school," Rose said. "The children all go to Sunday school up there while the adults have a regular service in the sanctuary."

  A tall, skinny woman approached us. "Hello, Rose. See you brought a visitor."

  "Hello, Edie. Yes, this is Charlotte and this"—she took the pie—"is for after the service. Best pie you'll ever eat."

  "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Charlotte. Are you just visiting?" She took my hand and patted it.

  "No, well, not exactly. I mean, I am just visiting your church, but I moved permanent to the Paradise Trailer Park. Leastways I think it's permanent."

  Edie smiled with tight lips. "I'll just take this to fellowship hall. Find a nice doily to set it on."

  Rose pulled me away. "Let's see if he's in there. He usually likes to greet folks before the service."

  She brought me through the crowd and into a large room lined with folding chairs. She dropped my hand. "Don't see him."

  People filed in, taking bulletins from a woman in a yellow dress.

  "It's okay, Rose. I'll meet him later." I took a bulletin and smiled.

  "I guess," Rose said.

  We sat in a chair toward the back along with the rest of the Paradise people. Fleur de Lee and Jaster sat up front.

  A few minutes later the sanctuary quieted down as a large woman in a flowery dress and white hat released a minor key note from the organ that echoed around the small auditorium. The music swelled and carried along the rafters and a cocoon of serenity wrapped around the building. My chest felt heavy at first and then light like meringue with golden dewdrops. I sighed and reveled in the sensation.

  Three men filed out of what amounted to a secret opening on the side of the room.

  "That's Pastor Speedwell, the tall man with the round glasses in the middle."

  Not what I imagined.

  The pastor took the podium. "Good morning. Welcome. This is the day the Lord has made."

  And everyone said, "We will rejoice and be glad in it."

  The service continued pretty much how I remembered church services to go, with singing and money collecting and preaching and more singing. I sat and listened as best I could but found myself distracted by so many things that at one point, my brain all of a sudden became so full of Herman that I started to cry. Rose offered me a hanky, baby blue with white lace edging. I wiped my eyes.

  After the benediction we all filed out and I had an opportunity to meet the pastor.

  "So pleased you came today," he said. He took both my hands and held them, didn't exactly shake them like a handshake, but held them and spoke into my eyes. He was taller than me by almost four inches.

  "Charlotte is a new widow," Rose said.

  "I am, indeed, so sorry to hear that," he said, still holding hands. "Jesus be your comfort and your guide. Jesus fill the empty spaces in this woman's heart. Jesus." He pronounced the last syllable of Jesus—SUS—with gusto. Then he let go and I felt awash with a kind of peace that started in my ears and ended at my waist.

  "Thank you," I said, fighting an almost irresistible urge to confess that I didn't actually listen to his sermon because I was preoccupied by softball and my grief for Herman, a man I was starting to think I never knew and who never knew me.

  We spent a short time chatting with folks in what they called their fellowship hall, which, if you asked me, looked more like a recreation room at a women's prison—not that I ever saw one, but I could imagine. There were tables spread out with treats and paper coffee cups. A large silver urn cranked out the coffee. I was impressed that they had real cream in tiny pitchers set about. There was lemonade and fruit drinks for the children who were busy chasing each other inside and outside. But no one seemed to notice or mind. A large lime Jell-O mold with bits of pineapple and elbow macaroni on a pink plate wiggled near my nearly gone pie. I surveyed the room and spotted six people with cherry pie. It did my heart good. But I will confess I searched for women who might be ball players. That's when I spotted Fleur de Lee all by herself in a corner. She had one hand on her protruding belly and the other held a chocolate éclair.

  "How are you, Fleur de Lee?" I asked. "My name is Charlotte Figg."

  "I know all about you, Charlotte Figg," she said. "Miss Marlabeth told me and Jaster that you are fixin' to make a softball team. I sure wish I knew howta play softball."

  I couldn't resist the urge to touch her belly. "Under the circumstances, Fleur de Lee, I think it would be best to wait until next year."

  She laughed. "That's right, Miss Charlotte. I should wait but maybe . . . maybe I can come watch."

  "We would love that, Fleur de Lee."

  Jaster came back into the room drying his hands with a brown paper towel. "I'm sorry if I took too long, Fleur de Lee."

  "That's okay, Jaster." She gave him a bite of her chocolate éclair and then wolfed the remaining quarter down.

  Rose stood quietly near the door. This surprised me because I thought she would be swarmed by people. She always seemed so sociable at Paradise. She sipped coffee and took small bites from a bear claw. Folks spoke with her, but mostly she seemed disinterested, like she had other things on her mind. She wore her long-sleeve sweater with the high collar turned up, hiding her tattoos and scars, and for the first time I saw that she was hiding under that sweater. For someone who seemed so open and willing to tell it like it is, hiding didn't suit her.

  "Aren't you warm, Rose?" I asked. "You should take that sweater off."

  "No. It's better on." She looked me in the eye. "Not everyone will understand. Not like the friends in Paradise. It's different there."

  "You mean, you never told anyone here. Not even the pastor?"

  "Especially the pastor."

  "Maybe you should. Maybe you should take that sweater off and let people see your suffering."

  "No. Can't do that. And that's why I decided I can't play on the team, Charlotte. I'll come out and watch and cheer you all on, but I won't wear a uniform that shows my scars to the world."

  I swallowed and scratched my head. "What? That's what's been on your mind? I don't understand."

  She pulled me aside into a small corridor. "The bus will be leaving soon. I never told anyone outside of Paradise, and if I play ball, it will mean folks seeing my scars and the tattoos. And believe me, scars and tattoos will not—"

  "So we'll get you a long-sleeve, turtle-neck uniform. And when you're in all that catcher's gear, no one will notice. Even though I think you should just—"

  Marlabeth's husband, Jacob, popped his head around the corner. "Bus is loading."

  "Come on," Rose said. "Don't want the bus to leave without us."

  Later that same Sunday, Rose caught me up to my elbows in pie crust. I love to make pie crust when I am feeling nervous. Making good pie crust is one of those things that has to come with practice and good timing and knowing just how cold to make the water and how thick to
roll out the dough. If you worry crust too much, you might as well make a pair of shoes with it. Pie truly is an art form, in my opinion, even though most people take good crust for granted. Herman always did. He loved my crust, but I don't think he ever stopped to watch me make it. To him, pie just happened. And on the few occasions when my crust didn't turn out exactly right, he scowled and blustered and said, "Not your best crust this time, Charlotte."

  I don't know how many times I wanted to just tell him, "Herman, quit your blustery bellyaching and get used to the fact that good pie crust doesn't just happen. It's hard work."But I never could get my nerve up.

  Rose seemed to enjoy watching me, though. She sat at the kitchen table and sipped iced tea from a tall tumbler with tiny daisies etched around the middle of it. "I could never make crust, Charlotte. Turns out like rubber."

  I wiped my Crisco-ey hands on a lavender kitchen towel. My mother told me to rub the shortening into my skin. She said it's what kept her hands so young and supple. "I can teach you—maybe."

  Rose snorted. "Me? No, thanks. Making pie is as much a gift as painting. That belongs to you."

  I rolled out my bottom crust and fitted it into the pie plate. After crimping the edges between my index finger and thumb and pricking the bottom with a fork, I popped it into my oven to bake for a few minutes until the edges turned the most perfect shade of golden brown.

  "I meant what I said. You are an artist," Rose said. "Pie artistry. Maybe you should open a shop. You could call it that, Charlotte's Pie Artistry."

  "Herman would never allow such a—" I swallowed and rinsed my fingertips. "I plum forgot for a minute, Rose. I plum forget Herman doesn't get a say anymore. Goodness gracious."

  Rose stood and put her arm around me. "Is it tough sometimes?"

  I shook my head. "No, that's what's weird. I hardly ever miss him. He just comes up now and again like a cucumber or broccoli, you know? Happened at church today."

  "I know. Memories are like that. Grief too. It's one of those things you carry with you, like loose change in the bottom of your purse. That's why it's so easy for it to sneak up on you— make you think dead people are still alive."