2 Fog Over Finny's Nose

by Dana Mentink

  “Stop!” he yelled, leaping after her. “Don’t let her eat those.” He made it to the bird before Ruth did, grabbing her around the neck and prying the blob from her mouth. “Hold on to her until I pick them up,” he said.

  He poked around in the grass and under the bench, gently retrieving the items from where they had landed. Hugh had an impressive beaklike nose and looked not a little birdlike himself as he bobbed up and down on skinny legs. His chin and forehead sloped away from his prodigious schnoz as though to escape to lower alti- tudes. When he finished, he walked back over to Ruth, cradling the box in his arms.

  “I was thinking about the balloon crash instead of watching where I was going,” he said.

  “Did any of your, er, whatever those are, get broken?”

  He held up one of the black lumps and inspected it. “No, doesn’t look like it. No harm done, I think.”

  “Hugh, I’ve just got to ask. What is that? It looks kind of like—”

  “Poo poo!” Cootchie screamed gleefully from her perch at the top of the slide.

  Ruth reddened, but she could see the child’s point. Resting between his long fingers was a warty, lopsided wad, the color of the chocolate pudding she would never admit she’d eaten for breakfast.

  Hugh laughed. His prominent teeth winked in the sunlight. “I know it’s not that attractive to most people, but to many it’s more mesmerizing than gold. It’s a Tuber melanosporum. Otherwise known as a black truffle.”

  “Really? I’ve never actually seen one. I only recently learned on the Food Channel that the underground ones are different from the chocolate ones.”

  “The candy variety got their name because their small round shape resembled the tuberous ones.”

  “Tuffles, muffles, muffins, tuffets,” Cootchie sang from the top of the slide.

  “Where did you get them?” Ruth asked.

  He gazed at the truffle fondly. “These beauties came from southwestern France.”

  “That’s a long way to go for a little morsel.”

  “That’s true. Oh, they’ve begun to farm truffles here and there, Texas and Oregon, but they are not of the same quality. Wild truffles go for up to four hundred fifty dollars a pound.”

  Ruth’s jaw dropped. “A pound?”

  Hugh nodded. “You betcha. I’m working out a deal with a supplier in France. He sends me as many pounds as he can find, and I sell them to the West Coast market. They’re starving for the really good truffles here.”

  “Is that profitable?” Ruth asked after recovering use of her mandible.

  “It will be. People here are willing to pay an extra fee for not having to deal with buying and shipping the truffles themselves. This is going to be a real moneymaker. I’ve even got a deal pending with a small charter plane company to fly them up and down the coast for me, and I’ve almost got my Web site up and running.”

  “That’s really great. What exactly does a truffle taste like?”

  “It’s unlike anything you’ve ever experienced.” Hugh pushed his glasses farther up his nose. “It’s kind of musky, with a taste of nuts and ozone.”

  Ruth failed in her attempt to imagine what a nutty ozone flavor would be like. “Your father must be excited about it.”

  Hugh lived with his father, Royland Lemmon, who operated a very successful organic farm on the outskirts of Finny, specializing in field greens. Ruth had met him years before when she’d gone with Phillip to assist his examination of Royland’s pig, Noodles. Noodles tipped the scales at eight hundred twenty- three pounds. Prior to the veterinary exam, she cocked her piggish snout, widened beady brown eyes, and fell deeply in love with Phillip. She dogged his every step, snuffling at the back of his hands when he left them within range and generally showering him with enough piggy adoration to bring a blush to Phillip’s cheeks.

  Hugh placed the truffle back into the box. “Dad’s not involved. He doesn’t understand moving with the times. He’ll be growing arugula for the rest of his life.”

  “His arugula is wonderful, though,” she said. It was, too. Pungent and crisp with a peppery bite. Nothing ozonish about it.

  “Yes, it is. I can’t argue with that. Dad’s offering free tours of the farm for Fog Festival attendees this weekend. If there are any.”

  “Hopefully there will be a good crowd, in spite of the, er, accident.”

  Hugh nodded. “Yeah. Who would have imagined that happening in Finny? A guy killed right in front of everybody.”

  “I know.” Ruth shook her head. “I still can’t get over it. One minute Ed is alive, and the next. . .”

  “He’s spread all over.”

  She swallowed hard and nodded.

  “Down, peese.” Cootchie could never quite be con- vinced to slide down the slide once she got to the top. “I’ve got to get this young lady home to her mother.

  I’m glad my feathered friend didn’t cause any damage. I’ll be eager to see your Web site when it’s on its feet. Give my love to your father. And Noodles, of course.”

  Ruth lifted Cootchie down. “And good luck with your truffle business.”

  Hugh waved and continued on his way.

  As Ruth packed up the child and her belongings, she noticed a stray black lump nestled at the edge of grass and sand. “Looks like he missed one.”

  Martha looked disappointed as Ruth slid the truffle into the pocket of her sweater. “At four hundred fifty dollars a pound,” she said to the bird, “you’re sticking to onion rings.”

  The twosome made their way from the park to Dimple’s house. It was still chilly, but sunlight stabbed through pockets in the fog, dazzling their eyes as it bounced off the white stucco buildings of downtown. Ruth loved the intensely green leaves of the old trees that poked up in between the buildings. The sweet smell from the far-off fields of ornamental flowers drifted in and out of her consciousness. She gazed at Vern Rosario’s stand of trees on the distant horizon. Sad to think that he would be cutting them down soon to accommodate his new barn.

  A half hour later, Ruth and Cootchie were walking past the Dent mansion on their way to Dimple’s cottage. Though the cantankerous Buster Dent refused to acknowledge his daughter and granddaughter, he allowed them to remain in the small home that Dimple’s mother had decorated before she ran off with a visiting investment banker. Buster could not forgive Dimple for her affair with Finny’s curator anymore than he could forgive his own cheating wife.

  He was a hard man. Ruth had a feeling he had been that way even before his wife’s desertion. Now he was wealthy from selling his vast acres of pumpkin farm to a developer. But despite his wealth, he was alone, as far as anyone could tell. Occasionally, though, as she herded Cootchie home, she had the uncanny feeling that someone was watching through the upstairs window of the patriarch’s home. Someone who watched the little girl as she trotted happily along, filling her pockets with feathers and pebbles. This feeling kept Ruth from despising Buster completely. She knew what it was like to watch life from the outside in, to see love and warmth through an unforgiving pane of separation. She reminded herself to add him to her prayers.

  And Meg. She should pray for Meg. Why did the thought of Dimple’s estranged mother make her stomach knot?

  After a deep breath, she knocked gently and ushered Cootchie into the bright kitchen. “Dimple,” she called. “We’re home. Are you here?” She waited, fearing she would hear Meg’s voice. After a moment, she relaxed. Dimple’s mother wasn’t there.

  She heard Dimple call from somewhere in the back.

  “Just a minute,” Ruth called back. “I can’t hear you. Let me get Cootchie her snack and I’ll be right there.”

  She poured a glass of pomegranate juice for the child. Once again the thought occurred to her that Cootchie must be the only almost-three-year-old in the world to have pomegranate juice and soybeans for a snack.

  Ruth walked down the hall and through the sitting room, stepping over boxes of dusty books and papers stacked dizzily on the Persian rug. />
  “Where are you, Dimple?” she called again. A faint voice answered, but she could not make out the words. “What?” she yelled.

  Cootchie trotted out into the sitting room, lugging a tattered copy of her favorite book. “Read, peese.”

  “Oh, all right. I guess your mommy is busy with something. Climb aboard.” Ruth hauled Dimple into her lap. A few muscles complained as she did so.

  The girl settled in her lap and opened the slim volume.

  “So from the mould, Scarlet and Gold,

  Many a Bulb will rise

  Hidden away, cunningly, from sagacious eyes.”

  Cootchie’s unusual reading habits began almost from birth. It had simply never occurred to Dimple that a young child might prefer hearing about a large purple dinosaur or a cat in a striped hat rather than the great works of the romantic poets. When the pediatrician advised her to read quality books to her baby, she took the suggestion to heart, immediately setting out to the bookstore and returning with The Norton Anthology of Poetry, as well as the Iliad and the Odyssey and The Mill on the Floss for good measure. Ruth was hoping they could delay the George Eliot novel until Cootchie was at least four. That would give her time to read the CliffsNotes.

  After a few more verses, Cootchie noticed the stacked boxes and toddled off to the pile and returned momentarily with a dingy leather-bound journal.

  “Read, peese.”

  “What is this? I’m not sure Mommy meant for us to read this, honey. How about some Frost?”

  Undeterred, the girl continued to hold the book out. “Read, peese.”

  She sighed. “All right, but if this is Faust, I’m out of here.”

  The writing was a lovely, loopy script, faded in places but for the most part legible.

  August the third, 1923

  Trouble tonight. A big bear of a man came in from San Francisco, one of Slats’ boys. He said someone jumped him and stole the cash bag. No good will come of this, I know. Anyone who crosses Slats, does so at his own peril.

  Ruth’s voice trailed off after the first sentence, leaving Cootchie disgusted enough to hop off her lap and sit down to play with blocks.

  I got a new piano man for the dining hall. He does some nice ragtime tunes. The showgirls like his playing and folks enjoy the music, which gives me a chance to sell more Apple Bettys.

  “What in the world is this?” Ruth said aloud. Was it really a journal from 1923?

  Suddenly a head popped out of the ceiling.

  “Greetings, Ruth.”

  Ruth launched the journal into the air and yelped. The upside-down face trailed a blond curtain of hair. “What are you doing up there?”

  “I’m sorry,” Dimple said from the attic opening. “You said you wanted some old pictures of Finny, so I ventured into the attic. Do you want some iced tea?”

  “Do you have any up there?”

  “No. I would need to come down to find the tea.”

  Humor was hit or miss with Dimple. “Don’t bother.”

  “No bother. A friend is a raft over the troubled waters of life.”

  “Er, yes. Well, don’t launch the raft; I’ll just get some myself.”

  Ruth chuckled as she headed toward the kitchen, pondering the wisdom of a woman who used to write fortunes for a living. She filled a glass half full of dark brown tea and added water. Dimple’s homemade tea blends produced a liquid that could only be likened to drinking potpourri. Extra water and lots of ice made it more palatable.

  Dimple materialized in the kitchen. She brushed her hands on the front of her long skirt. “Tell me about your day, Ruth, dear,” she said.

  “Maude called to tell me crowds are really thin today at the festival. Probably due to the accident.”

  Dimple nodded. “What a tragic thing. Grief is a heavy weight to bear.”

  Ruth wondered how heavy it would be for the widowed Candace. “I managed to avoid any morning festival duties, so Cootchie and I played with the birds, and then we went to the park. We saw Hugh there. Did you know he’s going into the truffle importing business?”

  She blinked. “The tuberous ones?”

  “The black, wrinkly kind that pigs eat. I discovered that Martha has a taste for them, too. But about this journal.” She held the volume up for inspection. “What is this? Where did you get it?”

  “From the attic. You said you wanted some authentic Finny historical documents for the booklet you’re creating. I think these are authentic. They were in amongst some old photos that belonged to Grandpa Dent. I’ve never looked at the things before.”

  Ruth opened the book again. “The date is 1923, and the name on the ‘Belongs to’ page is Pickles Pecken- paugh. Does that name ring a bell?”

  Dimple shook her head. “What is the book about?”

  “From what I gather in the first entry, the woman runs a restaurant.”

  “That wasn’t uncommon during Prohibition. Many were run by women. It was one of the few ways they could achieve economic empowerment.”

  “How do you know all that?”

  “I know a few things besides how to grow mushrooms.”

  “Do you mind if I borrow this journal for a while? Ellen Foots gives presentations on Finny history to the schoolkids. Maybe I can ask her about it.”

  Dimple rubbed her nose. “Be my guest. Thank you for watching Cootchie for me today.”

  “My pleasure.” Ruth watched the child peering at the carpet fibers through a magnifying glass.

  “We’re going to go pick some nettles for stewing after her nap.”

  Stewed nettles. Ruth nodded, wondering how Cootchie would be accepted in life by other children who didn’t know nettles from noodles. By now, Ruth had learned not to ask.

  “Okeydokey. Do you need anything else for Monday’s birthday party?” It seemed strange to be celebrating anything on the heels of Ed’s death, but Cootchie was looking forward to her special day.

  “No, thank you. We’re going to make the cake together tomorrow. Jack has volunteered to barbecue. It’s his birthday celebration, too.”

  It remained to be seen if Jack would appreciate a hefty piece of carrot cake with tofu frosting, or even if he’d be able to spare any time away from work to eat it. “I can’t believe she is going to be three. Where did the time go?”

  Dimple smiled dreamily. “Time is our most patient friend and restive enemy.”

  When would Dimple run out of fortunes? She’d been away from the fortune cookie business for two years, and so far no sign that the stream of Zen wisdom was drying up. Ruth tried to figure out a way to bring up the subject she had been dreading. “It was a surprise to see your mother.”

  “For me, too,” Dimple said.

  “So are you—? How are things going? Between you?”

  Dimple cocked her head to the side, green eyes thoughtful. “About as well as they should, I think.”

  “Oh.” Ruth wanted to ask questions, to clarify, to ease her mind. Instead, she waited to see if she would add any more pertinent details.

  “Would you mind bringing a bucket of castings if you’ve got any? My zinnia bed needs coddling now,” Dimple said.

  There was to be no mind-easing at this time. “Sure thing. Chips and dip and worm castings. I’ll be here around six on Monday.” She looked at her watch. “Oh boy. I’ve gotta get to the shop to help Monk.”

  Ruth kissed Cootchie and hurried down the walkway, eager to get home. She had a feeling Pickles Peckenpaugh had a lot more story to tell.

  Chapter Five

  Monk whistled carefully as he hauled a twenty- pound sack of risotto rice over the threshold of Monk’s Coffee and Catering. Ruth admired the easy way her new husband lifted the heavy bundle. An ex–navy man, he was built like a walk-in freezer. Everything from his head down to his booted feet was roughly squarish as opposed to her roundish.

  He had a temper, and definite opinions where patriotism and morality were concerned. He was so very strong, yet so completely tender with her. He treated
her like a delicate crystal glass that might chip at any moment. His devotion still amazed her.

  At the moment, his cheeks were flushed with exertion. “You look like an angel,” he said.

  She laughed and kissed him before wiping up the puddle of milk on the stainless steel counter. “Are you sure you aren’t just saying that to keep me on for the afternoon shift?” She manned the counter for a few hours to provide assistance for the caffeine-deprived folks arriving late in the day to participate in the festival.

  “No way, ma’am. I never could resist a woman wearing an apron.”

  She blushed, feeling like a silly schoolgirl. Or maybe, she thought, like a newlywed. “You know that sort of remark can get you into trouble now. Women don’t like to be seen in aprons these days. It’s not very politically correct.”

  He nodded forlornly. “Don’t I know it. They all want to be toting pistols or pagers. It’s a strange world.”

  She knew that he did not comprehend the whims of the younger generation, particularly the female members. He was sometimes rendered speechless by the teen girls who came into the shop with belly rings exposed and profanity spilling from their glossed lips. She wondered what Monk would think of Candace.

  “And getting stranger all the time.” She shuddered, thinking about the balloon crash.

  He took hold of her hand. “How are you doing with, you know, the crash? Feel any better?”

  “I was hoping I would snap out of it and find it was all a terrible dream.” She shook her head. “I still can’t believe it.”

  “Me neither. I can’t believe we’re still going forward with this nutty festival after what happened.”

  “Nothing short of nuclear war would keep Maude from fulfilling her festival dreams,” Ruth said as she refilled a thermos with cream. “I just hope nothing else happens. I’m still wondering how come no one has found the rest of—you know—what was attached to the toe.” The thought made Ruth feel squirmy.

  “Can’t begin to guess. I hear the police have had the dogs out sniffing down nose, but they haven’t found any more digits to speak of.” He put a tray of scones into the oven.