Whistlin' Dixie in a Nor'easter

by Lisa Patton

  The man from behind the desk spoke with a thick Vermonter accent. “Yuup, I’ve gut it reet here. The name’s Jack Sweeney.” He laid the document on the counter.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sweeney. I spoke with your wife, Betty, on the phone this morning. She was so helpful. Is she here?”

  He hesitated before answering. “Nuup. She’s gun to lunch.”

  “Oh well, maybe next time. How long have you been the town clerk?” I asked, as I was signing the documents.

  “Close to ten years now, I suppose.”

  “Is that right? Have you and Mrs. Sweeney been working together all that time?”

  “Yuup.”

  “Have you really?”

  “Yuup.”

  “Is this a full-time job for both of you?”

  “Yuup.”

  For the life of me I couldn’t imagine what could keep two full-time employees busy all day. The town hall had an office and a meeting room and one more small room. (A month later I rented the smaller room for Isabella’s third birthday party and the cost for the afternoon was eight dollars. I got the resident rate.)

  We chatted for about ten minutes, mostly about moose. When I asked if he’d ever seen one in person, he said, “Only once’t. And that was somewhere close to the Canadian border. All the moose crossin’ signs for Willingham and Fairhope are ordered through this office but it’s pretty silly if you ask me. Moose are rarely seen around here.”

  I can’t even tell you how disappointed I was to hear that. Even still, I was determined to beat the odds.

  As I started to leave, I remembered Betty Sweeney’s other requests. “Oh, I almost forgot, I’m supposed to register my dog. We get licenses back home in Tennessee, too. It proves they’ve had their rabies shot each year. Is that what your registration is for?”

  “Nuup, we need to know how many dogs we’ve gut in town. Is yours a bitch or a stud?”

  “Princess Grace Kelly is a girl,” I told him, rather indignantly. “And she’s up to date on all of her shots.”

  “That’s good.” He slid the registration papers and the liquor license across the counter, and handed me a pen.

  “Oh, and Betty mentioned something about getting sworn in?”

  “Raise your reet hand, please.”

  I obliged.

  “Do you swear to support your town and vote faithfully and attend all town meetings?”

  “I do.”

  With that I finished the paperwork and drove back to the inn to check on the girls. As soon as I walked through the door, our personal telephone line in the apartment started ringing.

  “Hello,” I answered.

  “Mrs. Satterfield?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jack Sweeney here, how are you?”

  The same as I was forty-five seconds ago. “Fine, Mr. Sweeney, how are you?”

  “I’m alreet, thanks for askin’. I thought I’d call and let you know something, ’fore you hear it from anyone else. Betty’s not my wife.”

  “She’s not?” I know I sounded shocked but I couldn’t help it.

  “Nuup, hasn’t been for five years now.”

  I had no idea what to say. I wasn’t sure if he was calling to cry on my shoulder or let me know he was available. Come to think of it, he did smile an awful lot while I was there. He may have even winked a time or two. I just thought he was being polite.

  “Mr. Sweeney, I’m so sorry to hear that,” I said, for lack of anything better to say.

  “Well, I thought I should be the one to tell you. There’s no doubt that damn George Clark would have told you as soon as he had the chance.”

  “I’m glad you told me. And who’s George Clark, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “The town gossip.”

  “Oh my. Well, have a nice day, Mr. Sweeney.”

  “Yuup.”

  I found out later from Roberta that Jack Sweeney had left Betty Sweeney for a much younger woman. Betty stayed on in her position as town secretary just to spite him. Go, Betty! I thought. What a wonderful day at the office that must be for ole Jack.

  My next and most important order of business was to enroll the girls in preschool. Ed Baldwin had told me all about the Elfin Academy. Housed inside an old clapboard church and located two towns over in Shipley, the fifteen-year-old preschool used the Montessori method of teaching.

  When I drove up to the building, around two o’clock, the children were just getting out of school. They were bundled up in winter garb from head to toe. Little tiny hats and snowsuits, boots and jackets—each one wore bright-colored mittens and gripped their prized artwork of the day. Their mothers held their other hands as they sloshed through the partly melted snow in the parking lot to their cars.

  I met with the preschool director, Miss Susan, and she was delighted to accept both girls into the program. Since Issie would turn three in a few weeks, she could attend two days per week from nine until two. Sarah, having just turned five in November, missed the kindergarten cutoff, but the Elfin four-to-five-year-old program met every day. Personally, I thought it was a lot of school for a little girl, but Miss Susan assured me that the nurturing, hands-on Montessori approach kept the children relaxed and learning at their own pace. The school incorporated naps and lunch and she further contended that each child enrolled absolutely adored their teachers, Miss Penny and Miss Becky.

  Sarah and Issie would love the school, I just knew it. As for me, I was glad we had the holidays to get used to the transition. I wanted them home. Right after the New Year, I thought, I’ll think about the bookvork, as Helga called it. But there was no way in hell I would so much as pick up a pen until my children were settled into their daily routine and my apartment was decorated the way I wanted it.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon driving around exploring while Roberta babysat for Sarah and Issie. Willingham had a post office, a library, a hardware store, a tiny market that also rented a few videos, my inn, the town hall (used once a year for town meeting day), and that was about the extent of it. The population was about six hundred, so we were lucky to have as much as we did.

  Fairhope, the next town over, was a metropolis in comparison. Fairhope had a grocery store, four restaurants, a drug store/card shop, and even a movie theater. There were two more inns, a couple of outlet stores, a combination beauty shop and Laundromat, and the other usual businesses any small town needs to survive.

  The reason any business survived at all was because of the two ski resorts only five miles apart. It only took fifteen minutes to get from one to the other.

  Sugartree is the largest with two hundred trails and full snow-making capacity. It’s a four-season resort, with condominiums, a cobblestone village, restaurants, and health clubs. Without Sugartree, there would be no Vermont Haus Inn or most of the other businesses operating solely on tourist dollars. Dannon Mountain was the other popular resort and it appealed to the family crowd. It had the southern exposure and was considered the warmer of the two mountains. In the summer, Dannon had a three-course alpine slide, which was like sledding down the mountain on a bobsled. Dannon was the first place I skied when I moved to Vermont.

  There were two gas stations in Fairhope, and Roberta told me the owners were mortal enemies. When I drove past George Clark’s service station the cars were lined up to the street. Roberta explained that even though it was self-serve, George pumped the gas anyway. He did it so he could find out the latest gossip while it was hot off the rack. George Clark thought of gossip like he did a donut. First he craved it, then he devoured it, then he’d sit back full and happy while the sweetness lingered on his tongue. Everyone in town knew his gossip was the freshest, so they’d line up at his pumps even if it took twice as long. Little did I know the name Leelee Satterfield would become one of his tastiest treats.

  Manchester was the town where I conducted all of my business. My bank was there, as was the large grocery store and the cleaners. The state of Vermont controlled the sale of alcohol,
so I had to buy liquor for the restaurant at the state store in Manchester. If you wanted a decent haircut, you drove to Manchester. If you needed a dependable oil change, you drove to Manchester. If you had a craving for McDonald’s french fries, you drove forty-five minutes to Manchester. If you wanted to buy birth control pills or condoms, you avoided the Fairhope Pharmacy and drove to Manchester. (If not, you ran the risk of George Clark spreading your most intimate business.)

  Even though Manchester had a million designer outlets, there was not one department store. Back home, it was no big deal to run my stockings or break my blush compact fifteen minutes before I had to be at a party. I could run up to Goldsmith’s and be back in ten. In Vermont, running out of Lancôme makeup meant I had two choices: I could drive to Albany, New York, or settle for CoverGirl or Coty at the Fairhope Pharmacy.

  I suppose I felt a little better having ventured out and explored the places I would find essential to life in Vermont. However, I had an underlying fear that making friends would be a little more difficult for me than ever before. I was certainly atypical by Vermont standards. But the Vermonters, in my eyes anyway, were somewhat offbeat themselves. A peculiar incident, the next afternoon, left me wondering if and when I would ever really connect to those around me.

  There was a faint rap on the apartment door. I opened it to find a man, a woman, and a little girl about Sarah’s age. The woman was holding a cake encased in one of those disposable aluminum containers that you find in the grocery store.

  He spoke first, in questions, and could hardly look at me. “Hello, um, we’re the Grovers? I’m Fred and this is my wife, Pat? Oh, and our daughter, Erica? We heard you have a little girl around our Erica’s age, so we decided to welcome you to the neighborhood?”

  “Well, thank you, that’s so nice. Y’all come in. I’m Leelee Satterfield.” I shook both of their hands. “My husband’s upstairs with our daughters. Why don’t y’all have a seat and I’ll go find them.” I motioned to the wicker sofa. The size of our apartment embarrassed me and I cringed when I realized our bedroom door was wide open. Note to self: Must learn to keep the bedroom doors shut at all times.

  I bolted up the stairs calling Baker’s name, and when I got to the top, I happened to look behind me and found myself nose-to-nose with Fred Grover. “Oh. Excuse me, I didn’t realize you were behind me.”

  The man shrugged his shoulders and the rest of the Grover clan followed him into our upstairs den.

  “Baker, girls, I’d like you to meet some of our neighbors. This is Fred and Pat Grover, and their daughter, Erica.”

  Baker stood up from the couch and shook Fred’s hand. “Nice to meet y’all, have a seat. Meet our daughters, Sarah and Isabella.” The children were playing with their Barbies, and eagerly welcomed young Erica to join them.

  Fred Grover seemed a very timid man. He gestured, always with the same arm, and looked down at his feet when he spoke. His face was real shiny and his short dirty blond slicked-down hair had a perfect part on the left side of his oval-shaped head. A deep cleft in his chin made me wonder how he ever managed to shave it without cutting himself.

  “Our Erica’s in school at Elfin,” Fred said. “Will Sarah be attending?”

  “That’s the plan,” Baker said, all chipperlike. “And then next year we’re on to Fairhope Elementary. Can’t wait to get her on the slopes. Y’all ski, don’t you?”

  “Nuup. Pat’s not too fond of heights.” Fred gazed devotedly at his bride.

  Pat Grover couldn’t have been more than four-foot-ten if she was an inch. Her large frame loomed over her tiny feet and she looked as though she might teeter forward at any moment. These curly black hairs sprouted out of her chin—well, I’m sorry, but you’d have to be blind not to notice them, bless her heart.

  Thirty minutes’ worth of idle chitchat later, Pat was still clutching the cake, and after she made no gesture to give it to us, I sensed it was my responsibility to take it off her hands. Maybe it’s a Northern thing, I thought. I forced myself to say, “Did y’all bring that to us?” And then I gestured toward the cake.

  “Yes, we did,” Fred gloated. “Pat made it last night.”

  “Thank you, that was so sweet of y’all.”

  When they still made no motion to hand it over, I took it upon myself to walk over to Pat and reach out for the interesting creation. The cake was iced with chocolate frosting and since it was uncovered, the top caught my eye. There was an odd pattern in the frosting that stretched horizontally across the rectangular sheet cake, bearing a strange resemblance to tracks of some sort. When I grasped one side of the pan and stared down to get a closer look Pat said, “I bet I know what you’re looking at. After I iced the cake last night, I left it on the kitchen counter. One of those darned mice musta run right acrosst it.”

  Well, what do you say to someone after a statement like that? “Oh, don’t worry about it; that happens to all my cakes”? Or, “Mice just love chocolate cake, don’t they?” I couldn’t say a thing. A rare speechless moment in the life—well, the new life—of Leelee Satterfield.

  Then, to put icing on the cake (no pun intended—I swear), Fred Grover dropped his own bombshell. “I tried to cover it up.”

  Not knowing what in God’s name to add to that I just stared at Pat’s hands still clutching the other side of the pan. Once our eyes met again, it was then I heard myself saying, “Well, at least it wasn’t a rat.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of Baker excusing himself. If our eyes met I knew the situation would have gone screaming downhill. It was all I could do to keep my shoulders from shaking and not bust into a full-blown laugh attack.

  Now, I was left alone hoping Pat would just let go of the dang cake so we could move on with our conversation to something, anything else. Finally, I jerked the pan away from her and gazed at the Grovers with a forced smile.

  Where in God’s name am I? I thought to myself, a question that would pop up daily in the months ahead.

  Chapter Eight

  Opening night at the Vermont Haus Inn under the new Satterfield regime came and went, unnoticed. That’s because nothing had changed. From the weathered VERMONT HAUS INN sign and the ancient menu to the severe houseitosis and the well-known staff, everything was exactly the same. Rolf was still at the helm and Helga was still “on the floor,” working the front of the house. Baker had begun his training as Rolf’s sous-chef, but none of the customers had any idea. During the first week, the customers rarely saw me, either. I was taking care of Sarah and Isabella at night and getting them acclimated to our new home and our new schedule.

  Whenever I did make it into the kitchen, it was close to eight thirty—after the girls were asleep. I brought my portable baby monitor with me into the kitchen, so I could hear any little peep they made. The bad thing was when they did peep, customers were always seated at the six-top table Helga insisted on keeping in front of our apartment door. So to reach them I’d have to trample through the snow, in my heels, to the front door of the apartment. Then I’d fumble for my key to get inside. By that time, their peeps had usually turned into wails.

  As fate would have it, Helga was serving drinks at the six-top table one night right before Christmas when Isabella woke up with a dirty diaper. Isabella stood in front of the door screaming her head off, mad as a hornet because she couldn’t find me. It was making her even madder that the door was locked. She started yanking on the handle and pounding on the hollow door as hard as she could. I could hear her on the monitor, but I was on the phone with a New Yorker taking a reservation.

  “MOMMY, I HAVE A STINKY!” Isabella shrieked loud and clear through the baby monitor for everyone in the kitchen, as well as the six-top table, to hear. “CHANGE ME, MOMMY.”

  Helga flipped. In a rage, she stormed into the kitchen and found me on the phone. She snatched the receiver out of my hand and handed it over to Pierre (I didn’t know what good she thought that would do). “Your kid es screaming for her mother and ze area a
round table eight smells like a cow pasture. My customers are vedy upset. Go to her at once before zay leave and decide to neva come back!”

  “I’m sorry, Helga, Issie never does this,” I said, and scurried out of the kitchen.

  When I finally made it inside the apartment, Isabella had stopped crying. She had decided to amuse herself instead by taking off her diaper and decorating the back of the door with her doo-doo. Sarah was awake by this time, running around the apartment singing: “Ooo, ooo, doo doo! Ooo, ooo, doo doo!” Gracie was barking up a storm at both of them.

  “Ssshhhhh, all three of you,” I said in a hushed voice, and I scooped Isabella up—doo and all—and headed straight for the tub. I decided it was probably best to stay away from the restaurant for the rest of the night.

  The phone rang around 9:30 P.M. I knew before I picked it up who the call was from. Mary Jule was over at Alice’s, and Virginia was in her car headed out to the grocery store. All three of them were on the line.

  “What’s goin’ on, girlfriend?” Alice, the boss, always initiated everything.

  “Hey, Fiery,” Virginia chimed in.

  “It’s me, too,” was Mary Jule’s response.

  “Hi, y’all,” I said wearily.

  “What’s the matter? You sound exhausted,” Alice said.

  “I am.”

  “Haven’t heard from you in a few days, what’s up?” she asked.

  “That’s because there’s too much to report and I don’t know where to start. Y’all are just gonna have to come up here to see what I mean.”

  “We’re already planning a ski trip. I told Al exactly what ski suit I want from this gorgeous catalog I got in the mail.” Mary Jule loves a good excuse for a new outfit.

  “Are you serious? When are y’all coming?”

  “I’m hoping for spring break,” Virginia said. “Will there still be snow?”

  “No problem there. I found out it stays around through April.”

  “April!” they all shrieked at the same time.