by Lisa Patton
Inside we had a different problem; the pipes in our apartment froze. Instead of blowing snow, I spent the majority of the morning in the bathroom, blow-drying my pipes.
I physically survived my first nor’easter. Mentally surviving it was another matter altogether. My life had become a nor’easter.
Chapter Ten
Princess Grace Kelly had the hardest time adjusting of anyone. She only stood nine inches tall at the top of her ears. When it came to doing her business outside, I’ll just say she wasn’t up for the challenge. For fourteen years, Gracie was used to me opening the back door and letting her run outside. In Memphis, Gracie spent a lot of her time outside no matter the season.
The first time I opened the door in Vermont, the arctic wind blew the long hair around her face sideways and covered her eyes. She looked gorgeous, though, in her new faux mink coat. (I ordered it out of a doggie catalog before I left home.) “Go on, Gracie,” I said. “Go potty.” She just stared at me with a “you’ve got to be kidding” look on her face and never budged. I’ll admit it—I didn’t want to get out in the cold, either. So I pushed her out the door anyway. Gracie fell right off the steps and I watched in horror as my poor little senior citizen dog sunk into the middle of a four-foot snowdrift. Horrified, I went running outside in my socks to rescue her, screaming, “Gracie, Gracie, hold on, I’m sorry.” I dug her out and frantically brushed off the snow. My lesson was learned after that. There was no way she was going to venture out alone, in the snow, ever again. My only choice was to bundle up myself and trudge on out with her.
Gracie hated putting her paws down on the snow because the hair around her feet always froze and she got little ice balls in between her toes. She’d just stand there three-legged with one foot up in the air like she couldn’t bear to take another step.
Helga and Rolf insisted that I scoop her poop and cover up the yellow snow behind her. Before long, Gracie got back at all of us for making her freeze her little fanny off. Little did I know it, but Gracie had been escaping into the inn on a regular basis. During the day when our apartment door was open she’d slip under the six-top table, and once she knew the coast was clear she’d be on her merry way. Gracie’s secret prowl remained undiscovered until one momentous night when she decided to leave the state of Vermont a small token of her appreciation.
The restaurant was in full swing; seventy-five reservations on the books. The front dining room was a favorite among the regulars. It was quite intimate with only four tables, hand-carved corner china cabinets, and a small fireplace. It was the only room with carpeting on the floor—forest green shag. There is no telling how long Gracie had gotten away with it, since number one was easy to conceal on a dark-colored rug.
What about the smell? Wasn’t that a dead giveaway? Lest you have forgotten, the Vermont Haus Inn already stunk to high heaven. I tried eliminating the houseitosis by placing potpourri in bowls all over the inn. Downstairs, upstairs, and in every bathroom. When I ordered a case of magnolia-scented candles from home and scattered them around, Helga complained the place smelled too sweet. So I switched to lavender and she grumbled that the scent didn’t go with the gourmet food. “People vant to smell the gah’lic—the aroma of the cuisine, not a flower shop!” What choice did I have but to give up the fight?
Anyway, Helga was expecting Mr. and Mrs. Richard Peabody that evening for the first seating; their dinner reservations were at 6:30 P.M. When a very proper couple opened the front door, exactly on time, I had a hunch it must be the Peabodys. I was standing in the foyer holding their menus when they stepped inside.
“Hi, are you the Peabodys?” I asked.
“We are indeed.” The woman spoke for them both.
“I’m Leelee Satterfield, the new owner of the inn. It’s nice to meet you. Helga’s told me so much about you.”
“Well, isn’t that nice,” the Missus said in a snooty way with her Northern aristocratic voice. “Is Helga here this evening?”
“Yes, ma’am, she’s in the back mixing drinks. But I told her I really wanted to introduce myself. We’ve got the table you requested all ready.”
“How nice. The rest of our dinner party, the Fikes, have they arrived?”
“No, ma’am, they have not.”
“Well then, let’s be seated anyway.” She barreled right past me to get to her regular table. Mister didn’t seem to be in as big a hurry, so he and I walked together.
As I approached their table, I happened to notice something small and brown poking out from underneath one of the chairs. As I got closer I realized it was no Tootsie Roll. In a panic and not knowing what else to do, I kicked it up under the table.
Now I was really in a pickle. I had to think fast. Mr. and Mrs. Peabody were seated at the table and someone’s foot was only inches away from Gracie’s poop piece.
I handed them both a menu and kept talking while my mind raced for a solution. “So, where are y’all from?”
“Connecticut,” she said. No emotion. Mr. Peabody never even looked up from his menu.
“Really? Seems like there are lots of people here from Connecticut. Do y’all own a home here?”
“Why, yes. It’s been in Richard’s family for several generations.” She closed her menu and placed it in front of her.
Just then Pierre walked in, followed by the Fikes, and as Pierre pulled the chair out for Mrs. Fike, I cringed at the thought of what might happen next.
My immediate concern was hiding it from Helga. I envisioned her as Elvira Gulch from The Wizard of Oz—wearing goggles, hunched over the handlebars of a snowmobile, and driving off with my Gracie locked in a basket on the back.
My only hope lay with Pierre. He seemed to really love Gracie. He would take her into his little cottage and the two of them would lie up on his bed watching the daytime soaps. Pierre started saving her the leftover pâté that came back on the dirty dishes. Thanks to Pierre, Gracie stopped eating anything but real goose liver pâté.
I excused myself from the Peabodys’ table and when Pierre came out of the dining room, I pulled him off to the parlor where I was out of anyone’s earshot or eyesight.
“It’s Princess Grace Kelly,” I said in a loud whisper, and made the shape of a little dog with my hands.
When he clearly had no clue, I said again: “Gracie,” and barked, “Ruff-ruff.”
This time his face lit up and he nodded and smiled.
Shaking my head, I said, “Gracie pooped at table four.”
Pierre, of course, just shook his head in confusion.
“Gracie doo-dooed under table four,” I said louder, holding up four fingers and pointing over to that dining room.
Still nothing. No comprehension whatsoever.
In desperation, I did the only thing I could do. I squatted down on the floor, on all fours, and grunted—like I was Gracie. I put my hand beneath my butt and made the shape of a small, Gracie-size, doo-doo log. Then I held my nose and pointed into the front dining room where the Peabodys and the Fikes were the only customers seated.
Pierre raised his eyes up in shock and stood there with his mouth open. “Aha! Puppy shit!”
“Yesssss,” I squealed. “And I kicked it under the table.” I got up and ran over to an empty table at the far side of the parlor and kicked my foot to show him how I did it.
“Oh my God,” he said in English.
Finally, we understood each other loud and clear.
“Help, Pierre!” I pleaded with him.
“Eh, eh, come.” He motioned to me to follow him into the dining room.
We both approached the table and Pierre greeted the Peabodys and the Fikes with his usual cheery manner. “Bonjour.”
“Hellooooooo, Pierre,” Mr. Peabody responded.
“Messieurs, mesdames, comment allez-vous?”
“Très bien,” they said in unison. The customers loved to practice their limited French on Pierre.
“Ready to or-dare?” Pierre asked. That is one line from the English lang
uage he had down to a science.
Pierre Lebel is quick on his feet. As the party of four studied their menus, he extended his long leg under the table in search of the poop. I watched in amazement as he squatted ever so slightly and inched his foot slowly along, lightly scraping the carpet. If it weren’t for accidentally brushing up against Mrs. Fike’s foot and mistaking it for the table leg, his operation would have been flawless. She must have thought Mr. Peabody, who was seated right next to her, was playing footsie with her because she looked over at him and gave him a sultry grin. Then, she rubbed back. Pierre finished reciting the evening specials and continued his foot search for the log.
Somehow, some way, that piece of poop came rolling out from under the table. Without missing a beat, Pierre finished taking their order, bent down, and with the white linen napkin that he always had draped over his left wrist scooped the poop and placed it in the pocket of his jacket.
I knew from that moment on that Pierre Lebel was my friend.
Later, back in my apartment, I sat coloring with the girls. Sarah and Issie loved to make pictures for everyone who worked in the restaurant.
All of a sudden an angry pounding on our front door startled all of us. I opened the door to Sergeant Helga Schloygin with a nasty scowl upon her face. Oh my God, my worst fears have come true, I thought. Pierre has turned me in. His true loyalty is to Helga. What was I thinking?
“Ve have a problem. A vedy big problem. Your little mongrel has rrreally done it this time!” she said, with her hands pressed firmly into her hips.
“What do you mean, Helga?” I shrunk back and peeked out at her from behind the door.
“Mrs. Houston Norfleet vas seated at table seven in ze front dining room. Vhen she got up to use ze ladies’ room, her husband noticed zat she had dog shit on ze bottom of her sandal. Pierre is busy cleaning her shoe and rinsing out her nylons. I vill not stand for zis. Vhat are you going to do about zat mutt?”
“What mutt?”
“Zat mutt,” she said, and pointed at Princess Grace Kelly, who sat behind me, licking her privates.
“Princess Grace is not a mutt.” I said, indignantly. “She is registered with the American Kennel Club as a pedigreed Yorkshire Terrier. As a matter of—”
“I don’t care if she is the Grand Dam Vorld Champion! She is not velcome in this restaurant again. I had to apologize to Mrs. Norfleet and give her ze rest of her meals for free at Vermont Haus Inn for ze rest of her life! How do you expect to pay us ze mortgage if you have to give away meals for free?”
Well, let me just say my blood was rising up to my face. I had had it with Helga! I could either let her have it or keep it inside and let Baker have it.
“Helga, Gracie will never come into your old, worn-out restaurant again,” was my way of letting her have it. After saying it I immediately felt bad, even though she was much ruder to me than I was to her. Here I go again, letting people run all over me.
“See that she doesn’t,” was the last thing Helga said before stomping through the snow back to the restaurant.
My poor little Gracie, she no more wanted to be outside than I did. “I don’t blame you, old girl,” I told her. “You’re just as Southern as I am.” From that point on I decided to cover every corner of the apartment floor with The Sugartree Gazette.
When Baker crawled in bed with me that twenty-below-zero night I asked him exactly what happened to Mrs. Norfleet. I thought he’d think it was funny. He just said he didn’t want to talk about it and turned over on his side away from me. That’s it, just bury the problem. See if I care. So I turned on my side facing the other way. I realized he had not reached for me in over a month. So not like him, I thought.
______
Money was tight and the belt around our bank account wouldn’t be getting any looser. When bad weather hit, which was a weekly occurrence, all of our reservations would cancel, leaving us deeper and deeper in the hole. Baker never wanted to talk about it so I made at least one long-distance telephone call to Memphis every evening. The girls always listened for as long as I wanted to talk. I would hang up in a hurry though when Baker came into the room, not wanting to hear him complain about our large phone bill.
The winter wore long and my marriage wore thin. It seemed as though we weren’t communicating anymore. Baker didn’t want to share any of our free time together, either. He always wanted to go ice fishing or snow skiing on his days off. I liked to ski. I’d go with him, sometimes. But it was so cold on top of that mountain. I mean bitter cold. When we did ski together, Baker always wanted to go in a group, never just the two of us. The snow bunny and all her wild friends were always whooping it up at the base lodge every Monday. They’d be drunk as skunks by five o’clock that afternoon. Baker thought they were so much fun and that skiing wasn’t skiing unless he was with their group. Without fail, he always wanted to stay on the mountain as long as they did. What happened to all the hype about spending more time with Sarah and Isabella?
“What’s wrong?” I asked him one evening after the restaurant closed. The girls were asleep and we were upstairs in our apartment watching TV. We were on opposite ends of the couch, in front of the Franklin stove, and I waited until the commercial.
“Nothing’s wrong.” He stared straight at the TV and never bothered to look over.
“We’ve been married eight years. I know when something’s wrong.”
“I’m under a lot of stress . . . about money.” He whipped his head around in my direction, threw up his arms, and went off in a tirade. “You obviously hate it here—you won’t even keep an open mind. You don’t get along with Helga. Rolf senses it, you know. I can tell because I work right next to him every night. He’s always grumbling in German under his breath. I know he’s pissed off about something.”
“Do you even care about how I feel? What about me?” I felt myself shrinking under his brutal outburst as I pulled my legs against my chest.
“Sure I do, but I told you from the start that we had to keep the Schloygins around for a year. Can’t you just get along with Helga?”
“Can’t she just get along with me?”
“She’s German, Leelee. She’s different than you. Just accept her.”
“I’m nice to her. She’s the one who’s nasty to me.” I gritted my teeth to keep from crying. Helga was not worth it.
“She gets along with the other women working in the restaurant. I’ve never heard Kerri complain about her once. And she’s in the restaurant way more than you are.”
“You know what, Baker? I’m beginning to think you care more about Kerri than you do me.” I parted my legs and leaned in toward him. “You ski with her almost every Monday.”
“I don’t ski with just Kerri, I ski with Kerri and all her friends. I ski with you, too, when you put forth the effort to come with us. Have you forgotten that?”
I tried to choose my words carefully, pausing before answering. “It’s cold.”
“I don’t hear anyone else complaining about the cold.”
“What about our daughters? You never spend time with them anymore.”
“What are you talking about? I watch cartoons with them every morning before school.”
“While you run back and forth to the kitchen meeting deliveries, ordering food, and unpacking beer.”
“That’s my job!” he yelled, and got up and walked out.
As usual, I turned to the girls. I’d sneak into the bathroom and whisper into the phone. As supportive as they always were it seemed every time I called home they were having a ball. I’d hear, “Mimi and Jim are having a huge party Saturday night, we’d give anything if you could be there.” Or, “We played Spades at Alice’s house last night until two in the morning.”
But the worst was when Virginia broke this news to me: “Leelee, I hate to tell you this but Sting was in concert here last night.”
“Where!” I screamed. “Why didn’t y’all tell me?” All four of us have been in love with that gorgeous hunk of bab
y-blue-eyed burning love since we were twelve years old and we first heard the Police.
But they didn’t have to explain. I knew. They never told me because they already knew it was pointless. I would not be coming home for the concert.
Travel, of course, cost money. Home was not the South anymore, I was reminded. “Home es Vermont now,” Helga loved to say. “You betta get used to it.”
Chapter Eleven
I woke up thanking God for Roberta Abbott around the first of April. It was the last day of the winter season and one of our houseguests had gotten sick in the middle of the night. Roberta was cleaning up the mess when I walked upstairs in the inn. She was leaning over the toilet and her backside was in full view, revealing a well-defined panty line. Roberta didn’t seem like the type to wear string bikini underwear to me. No wonder they kept riding up. They were too small for her booty.
Roberta even smiled when she was scrubbing toilets. Now that really amazed me.
“Well, look at you, you’re all dolled up,” she said, when I poked my head in the bathroom. “What’s the occasion?”
“Nothing really.”
“No woman in Vermont looks like that in the wintertime. Are you going somewhere special?”
“No. Well, I mean not that I know of right now.”
“Then what in the world?”
I figured I might as well go on and tell her. After all, Roberta was my only girlfriend in Vermont. “I want to look nice for Baker today. It’s our anniversary.”
Her eyes lit up. “Oh! Now I get it. Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
“I don’t know, Baker hasn’t mentioned it yet. I’m sure he just wants to surprise me. My legs haven’t come out of long pants since I’ve been in Vermont. Do you think Baker will notice?”
“He’d have to be a bat not to. There aren’t many women up here who go around in short skirts, nylons, and heels in the middle of winter,” she said, and went right back to her scrubbing. I’ve got to point out something right here and now. Roberta considered April to be winter.
