“You don’t walk with God a damned bit more than I do!” Norman yelled this, he was so mad.
“That just goes to show you. Cursing. We don’t have a lot of money to waste on people who are bad.” Jessie Mae didn’t even look at him.
“We’re RICH now.” He stood in the middle of the room and bellowed. His fat face turned orange.
“Why are we rich?” asked Magnolia.
“Because, little darling”—Jessie Mae had a singsong way of talking—“Mama has invented something.”
“What?”
Magnolia and Jessie Mae went on talking as though Norman weren’t standing there fuming.
“Something for toes. A toe medicine.”
“What she make it out of?” Magnolia looked up with real interest.
“Chicken do!” screamed Norman and went off into an avalanche of gravelly laughter.
“Listen here, Norman Jenkins, you gonna get it right across the mouth,” yelled Jessie Mae, losing her temper altogether.
“I don’t care, you old bag,” Norman threw over his shoulder as he scurried for safety into the living room.
“Chicken do, chicken do, chicken do,” sang Magnolia.
“Magnolia, you hush up. It is not. It’s made out of watermelons, in fact. Watermelons and several secret ingredients that no one knows but Mama Jenkins.” Jessie Mae looked terribly affronted.
Magnolia said abruptly, “I want another pickle sandwich.”
“You’ve had two; that’s enough,” said Jessie Mae calmly, turning back to the dishes.
“Pickles and wettice. Pickles and wettice.” Magnolia beat on the table with one small fist.
“There’s no more lettuce. Go out and play now, darling,” Jessie Mae said quietly.
Harriet wrote in her notebook:
WHO EVER HEARD OF A PICKLE AND LETTUCE SANDWICH? NOW FOR MY MONEY THERE IS NOTHING IN THE WORLD LIKE A TOMATO SANDWICH.
Beth Ellen whispered, “I’m hungry.” And just as Harriet was putting her finger to her lips to shush her they heard an awful grinding of gears and the racing of a motor. There was no time to run, because right into the very driveway where they were standing plummeted a white Maserati. It scorched to a stop about one foot from where they stood and enveloped them immediately in a cloud of dust.
The door slammed and an enormous woman leapt from the driver’s seat like a kangaroo and hopped right over to them through the dust before they could even move.
“Why, looky here what’s in my driveway,” she shouted cheerfully and slammed one fat hand down on each of their heads. They were immobilized and rolled their eyes up to see her round, laughing face. Her hands and arms were red, her face and neck a mass covered with freckles and sweat.
Harriet looked her over carefully. She wore what might be called the most basic black dress in the world. It hugged her expressively, then hung in rivulets around the hem. The short sleeves were oddly gathered and hung in folds over the huge hamlike rolls of her freckled arms. She didn’t have the ordinary amount of teeth, and Harriet stared, fascinated, at the ones she did have.
The mountain shivered and shook, and there issued forth a great cackle like spring thunder. “Ask and the Lord will provide. You little chickens want to work for me?”
Jessie Mae slammed out of the back door, with Magnolia right behind her, and Norman came charging around from the front.
“Mama Jenkins, Mama Jenkins, Mama Jenkins!” they all screamed with one voice.
“Hi, younguns, looky what I found looking in the window!” Mama Jenkins turned her hands, thereby swiveling the necks of her prizes. She had a voice like a foghorn. “These here friends of yours?”
The three children stopped, silent and staring. They looked Harriet and Beth Ellen over inch by inch.
“They’re girls,” said Norman with disgust, indicating clearly that they couldn’t be friends of his.
“Dirls, dirls, dirls,” said Magnolia, laughing and jumping up and down.
“I have never had the pleasure,” said Jessie Mae primly.
What old trunk did she get that out of, thought Harriet.
“Well,” droned Mama Jenkins with what seemed a great deal of joy, “what you think I should do with them?”
“Make them work,” croaked Norman.
“What was they doing here?” asked Jessie Mae.
“Let’s eat ’em,” howled Magnolia, falling on the ground with her own humor.
“They appeared to be looking into our kitchen,” said Mama Jenkins.
“They look like they want to go home,” said Jessie Mae.
“Yep,” said Mama Jenkins regretfully, “reckon you’re right. Too bad we can’t keep them, though. Mighty cute. Oughta be good for something.” And so saying, she gave them each a playful shove with her great paws.
She laughed loudly. She kept looking at them for a minute, then she leaned over so close to their faces that they could smell her breath, which smelled, curiously enough, of watermelon pickle. She stood like this for what seemed a long time and then said “SCAT!” so suddenly and so loudly that they both fled down the drive.
They ran so fast and in such a jumble that they tripped over each other and both went sprawling.
They sat there in the dirt, looking back at the house. Mama Jenkins laughed again, then started back toward the house. “She walks like a truck,” said Harriet under her breath.
The kids followed their mother, clamoring around her heels like a litter of puppies. Jessie Mae did look back once, curiously, as one might at a dead snake in the road.
When they had disappeared into the house, Harriet got up, picked up her notebook, and brushed herself off. Beth Ellen was slower.
“Come on,” said Harriet, “let’s get out of here.” She looked down at Beth Ellen, who looked stunned. It was the first time she had ever seen Beth Ellen look dirty. There were smudges of dirt on her face. For a moment she felt sorry for her.
“Well, I never told you it was easy,” she said briskly. She put out a hand to help her up. Beth Ellen didn’t say anything, but Harriet knew she was wondering why she had come. “Maybe we should go to the beach,” Harriet said quickly.
“No,” said Beth Ellen in a faint but plucky voice, “the hotel.”
As they sneaked past the window they heard voices and stopped to listen. “What you want that quarter for, boy?” Mama Jenkins stood over Norman like Moses at the burning bush.
Norman rolled his eyes, hesitated, then said, “There’s a tabernacle meeting down to Bridgehampton.” He rolled his eyes as if they were marbles.
“Why, Norman Jenkins, there’s no such thing. You want that quarter for ice cream. Mama, he eats three quarts of ice cream a day!” Jessie Mae was the picture of outrage.
“What’s wrong with that?” asked Mama Jenkins.
“MAMA, it’s gluttony!” screeched Jessie Mae.
“Well, now,” said Mama Jenkins, repressing a smile, “is there a meeting or is there not a meeting?”
Norman rolled his eyes. “There was a poster which said there might be a meeting.”
“So, just in case, you want a quarter. Right? Just in case next year they has a meeting?” Mama Jenkins looked arch. Jessie Mae let out a shrill, affected laugh. Norman kicked her in the shin.
Mama Jenkins leaned over and grabbed Norman’s shirt front. “Listen here, boy, what you want that quarter for?”
“For ice cream!” screamed Norman, purple and wiggling.
“I reckon, Norman dear, that you gonna start your diet on Monday, ain’t that right?” asked Jessie Mae sweetly.
“Diet?” Mama Jenkins turned a horrified face to Jessie Mae. “What’s the matter with the way he looks?”
Harriet threw up her hands at this idiocy, and they walked over to their bikes.
hen they got to their bikes, the sun was so hot that they rode slowly.
“Harriet?”
“Yes?”
“Why are you doing all this spying around?”
“Because”
—Harriet was so exasperated she began to shout—“I’m going to be a writer and I have to have something to write, don’t I? I’m not like you, going and looking at people just because I think they’re nice. And besides, you know what? I’m going to catch that note leaver!” She got such a spurt of energy from her own enthusiasm that she shot ahead on her bike.
Oh, Harriet, thought Beth Ellen, you are always Harriet. She pumped on doggedly, trying to keep up.
“And besides,” said Harriet, falling back a little bit, “I thought you were going to be a writer too. Last year when we both worked on the paper at school, I thought you liked it.”
“I don’t think I like it,” said Beth Ellen, looking uncomfortable as though writing were an itchy sweater.
“Why don’t you write about this Bunny you’re so hooked on? I’m writing about Bunny, and you should be the one writing about Bunny. I’m not even in love with him!”
“I don’t want to write about him, I want to marry him,” said Beth Ellen.
“Well!” said Harriet. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard. You’re only eleven.”
“Twelve.”
“How can you be twelve when I’m only eleven?” Harriet looked furious.
Beth Ellen waited.
“Oh, that’s right,” said Harriet finally. “I always forget that about birthdays. I remember, you just had one.”
“Yes,” said Beth Ellen simply and fell into a reverie about her birthday party. A piano had been put outdoors and Bunny had played. Some terrible little boys were there that they were supposed to dance with, but Beth Ellen had spent the whole time at the piano. She had finally been dragged away by the maid, at her grandmother’s orders, and forced to sit down and watch a magician with a shiny black suit and a red nose.
“I was born in October,” said Harriet as though October were the only really satisfactory month to be born in. Beth Ellen looked at her blankly.
They crossed the highway and went on toward the hotel. It sat along a country road in Water Mill. They saw the sign which said SHARK’S TOOTH INN. There was a story going around that the inn had gotten its name when the original owner—a fat, chuckling sea captain—had been eaten by a shark.
The inn was very old and sat comfortably nestled in a little dell, surrounded by beautiful and ancient trees. The inn itself was a lovely, high-ceilinged, rambling structure which had been redecorated by its present owner, a fat, chuckling society woman.
Whenever Harriet and Beth Ellen saw the inn, it looked cool and quiet—its awnings protecting it against the sun—but the goings-on at night were rumored to be extraordinary. There was never anyone around in the daytime except the chef and his wife and, of course, Bunny. This made Beth Ellen intensely happy but frustrated Harriet because she had never even caught sight of the owner, who didn’t appear until the dinner hour. Harriet had tried, unsuccessfully so far, to talk her parents into taking her to dinner there. They always responded with the same strange looks, and each time had dropped the subject immediately.
They propped their bikes against the hedge and were about to sneak around the back, because that was Bunny’s favorite place for a sunbath, when they heard a shout. They ducked down and went around a garbage can, then behind another hedge. They lay on their stomachs, and once comfortably settled, they looked toward the back door.
At the back door was a screened porch which held an enormous walk-in refrigerator. Into this was walking a short, balding man with a long scar on his face. He opened the refrigerator door, walked in, walked out again immediately, then yelled through the screened door into the kitchen.
“Bon, bon, bon, bon, BON! Tu vois! Il n’y a rien dans ce frigidaire!”
A round little woman with a frightened face came bustling through the kitchen door. She peered into the icebox.
“Qu’est-ce que tu racontes?” he bellowed at her.
“Mais, voilà la note!” She pointed with one wavering finger.
Beth Ellen was trying desperately to remember any of the French taught to her by Mademoiselle Shwartz at the Gregory School, but all she could think of was crayon. She looked over at Harriet, who appeared to be understanding every word and was just patiently listening.
“Mais où?” The man stuck his bull neck into the icebox.
“Là, là, sur la viande.”
At least I understand that, thought Beth Ellen.
The man reached in with one beefy hand and drew out a small piece of paper. He looked at it, then at his wife. “Mais, c’est quoi, ça?”
“C’est ça. C’est ce que je t’ai dit, ce matin,” she replied.
Furious, he turned on her. “Tu dois la lire. Tu sais bien que je ne peux pas lire l’anglais.”
The woman began painfully to try to read in English. “A saft… ansuer … toornet aweigh … rat.” She shrugged.
He shrugged. “Ça veut dire quoi?” he asked, looking even more angry than before.
“Sais pas.” She shrugged again.
Harriet whispered, “What are they saying?” and Beth Ellen shrugged. It was catching.
There was a sudden hoarse yell from the direction of the cottages behind the motel.
“Moo-Moo, Moooooo, come here this minute!” The voice sounded not only hoarse but rather strangled. “Help, somebody, there she goes again!”
“That was Bunny!” said Beth Ellen wildly.
Harriet was so curious she almost ran out from behind the hedge and had to be restrained by Beth Ellen.
The couple on the porch became very agitated. The man threw his hands up and said, “Ooo, là, c’est Moo-Moo encore!” Both of them flew off the porch and around the hotel toward the voice.
There was much screaming and carrying on for a few minutes, and then suddenly around the hedge lunged an apparition. It was very fat, with extremely short little legs, and had large brown and white spots all over it. It looked, in fact, like a small cow.
It tore around the hedge and Harriet lay rooted to the spot, knowing full well the pursuers would be right behind. Moo-Moo careened right past them and onto the back porch, there to sit expectantly, almost laughing.
Around the hedge came Bunny. Harriet drew back, not so much not to be seen as not to be hit by a flying espadrille. Bunny wore a tiny bikini, an immense shirt which hid his somewhat rotund body, and a large, floppy straw hat. Beth Ellen gasped.
Trundling behind Bunny came first the scarred chef, then his dumpy wife, who waddled and panted trying to keep up.
“There you are, my Moo, my nuddle Moo-Moo,” cooed Bunny, picking up the small cow and cradling it in his arms.
“Eh, voilà,” said the chef. His wife just panted. They all looked at the dog. “He try always to run away,” said the chef cleverly.
“You’d think you didn’t like it here, Moo-Moo,” said Bunny, looking down soulfully into the dog’s eyes. Moo-Moo jumped out of his arms, went to a bowl, and drank some water.
He’s bored, thought Harriet. This is one bored dog.
“Hey, Bunny,” said the chef, “we find somezing zis morning in zee box.”
“What?” asked Bunny, his eyes on Moo-Moo.
The chef handed him the note. He looked at it a long time, then read aloud:
A SOFT ANSWER TURNETH AWAY WRATH
They all three looked at each other and then Bunny burst out laughing. He laughed and laughed. He laughed so hard that he had to bend over and clutch his stomach.
The chef looked affronted. The chef’s wife started to giggle. She put her hand up to her face to hide her giggles. The chef looked at her with rage. “Eh, bien, quoi?” he said loudly, throwing his hands up in the air.
“Apt, old boy,” said Bunny, his laughter having subsided, “terribly, cruelly apt.”
“Hapt?” said the chef in dismay.
“Well…” said Bunny.
The chef’s wife giggled loudly. The chef turned as though to smack her, and Bunny interceded: “After all, you gave me such a tearing into last week, I thought I wouldn’t even
be able to play.”
Harriet and Beth Ellen looked at each other and nodded. They had been there.
“Here, though,” continued Bunny, taking a piece of paper from his voluminous shirt, “just to make you feel better, I got a whopper this morning.” He looked around to check on Moo’s whereabouts, then read aloud in a stentorian voice:
WOE UNTO THEM THAT RISE UP EARLY IN
THE MORNING THAT THEY MAY
FOLLOW STRONG DRINK
The chef started laughing very loudly and rather meanly. The wife joined in, and the three of them laughed together. Bunny had an infectious laugh that could be heard for a block.
“I don’t think that’s so funny,” said Beth Ellen primly. “He really shouldn’t drink so much.”
“That’s not why they’re laughing, dopey,” whispered Harriet. “They’re laughing because whoever writes those things knows him so well.”
“And yesterday,” said Bunny, “I got this one!” He searched through his pockets again, and taking the paper out, read:
DESPISE NOT THY MOTHER WHEN SHE IS OLD
He looked down at the note for a long time, suddenly serious. “Which just might give us a clue as to who’s leaving these little darlings around.”
Harriet leaned forward eagerly. She turned and said “Hmmmmm” very loudly to Beth Ellen. Beth Ellen looked totally disinterested in the notes, only continuing to stare at Bunny with longing.
“Boy,” said Harriet, “how love can poison the mind. Listen, I’m going to come around here even more. This is such a big place, they obviously get more notes; so that note leaver will have to be here more often, right?”
Beth Ellen nodded sappily, her eyes never leaving Bunny for a minute.
“Speak of the devil,” said Bunny and looked down the driveway. Hobbling across, with a cane, was a wretched-looking little old lady. As she approached the back porch she began to whine, “Oh, I slept so badly. Oh, dear, another attack. Oh, me, oh, my, I feel awful.”
“Oh, swell,” said Bunny, slapping a hand against his leg, “another smashing start to another smashing day, another riotous morning at the Shark’s Tooth Inn!”
The Long Secret Page 2
