Whistlin' Dixie in a Nor'easter

by Lisa Patton

  There must be another circuit box somewhere in this dungeon, I thought. I shined the flashlight in every nook and cranny in the basement (which by the way creeps me out just being down there alone). Down where the wine was kept, in a faraway corner, I spied a small gray box up on the wall. It was high above my head so I pulled up an old rickety chair. I climbed up, having to balance myself on top of the wobbly legs. Jerking open the door of the box, I found eight old-timey fuses. How in the world was I supposed to know which fuse was bad or if this was the right fuse box anyway? There was no itemized list.

  So I shined the flashlight up and down the fuses until I discovered a little black mark. Aha! This has to be the problem, I thought. Carefully I unscrewed the bad fuse. Then it hit me. Yes, I had discovered the problem—but now I was faced with an even bigger one. It was after 9:00 P.M. on a Friday night—a holiday night—and I was in Willingham, Vermont, population twenty. I couldn’t just run to Home Depot and pick up more fuses.

  Just as I was considering throwing all the breakers, causing a full blackout in the place, and hiding until all the guests finally left, I noticed, among the cobwebs on a ledge at knee level, lots of old dusty fuses. Some were in boxes, others were not. But in keeping with the Schloygin tradition, nothing old was thrown away. I knew they never discarded anything but this was ridiculous. Every dead fuse they ever bought was on that ledge.

  They were filthy. I had no choice but to use my dress as a rag to wipe away the thick layer of dust covering each glass top, in hopes of finding one good fuse. I must have wiped off fifty of them before I noticed, hidden among the used ones, a 30-amp fuse with a clear glass top. “Thank you, Jesus!” I screamed. I climbed back up on the chair to screw in the fuse with no black dot. Please let this one work, God, please.

  I raced back up the stairs and when I reached the top and saw lights on in the dining room, I almost cried. I tore back through the foyer and could tell by looking up from the bottom of the stairs that all was back to normal up there, too. The only thing abnormal was that each and every foot-tapping person that had been waiting in the foyer miraculously had a seat.

  I practically crawled back to the kitchen. Bev was busy mixing drinks and I forced myself to jump in and help her deliver the beverages out to the dining room. As I rounded the corner on the way back to the kitchen, Sarah opened the door from our apartment. I could tell that something was terribly wrong. She seemed horrified. Mandy and Isabella appeared right behind her and I knew for certain there was an emergency.

  “There’s something wrong with Gracie,” Sarah said. “She won’t get up and she’s breathing funny.”

  “She’s in your closet,” said Isabella. “I found her when I went to try on your shoes.”

  Mandy’s tortured face told the whole story.

  Into my bedroom I flew, all dusty, frazzled, and red hair flying every which-a-way. There was my little Princess Grace Kelly, lying motionless in my closet with her head upon my slipper. I knelt down right next to her and put my face close to hers. The fur around her face brushed my cheek and I could hardly tell if she was breathing or not. Her eyes were barely open but she could sense me.

  “Gracie,” I said softly, as tears streamed down my cheeks, “what’s wrong? Are you okay? Oh, sweetie, please get up.” She moved not a muscle. Oh God, please. I’m not ready for Gracie to go. Not tonight.

  “Gracie, Gracie please, please get up.” I gently stroked her little head and cautiously moved my hand along her tiny body and onto her tail. Her breathing was labored and I knew in my heart Gracie wouldn’t last long. Yet I couldn’t imagine such a thing. She’d been my little companion since I was seventeen, long before the births of my daughters. Gracie was the last present Mama ever gave me before she died.

  Ever so gently, I scooped Gracie up and placed her in the crook of my arm and caressed her tiny head. The girls knelt down beside me, stroking Gracie’s body, and all of us watched our petite friend slipping away. Her shallow breaths came further and further apart until her belly heaved and she gasped for her last bit of air. I cradled her close to my chest and burst into heavy sobs. Naturally, Sarah and Isabella did, too, and Mandy’s eyes welled up right along with ours.

  Gracie’s eyes finally closed all the way. I stared down at her tiny limp body, motionless in my arms. I felt the warmth leave her and I couldn’t bear it. “Go get a towel from the bathroom for me, Sarah.”

  “Okay, Mommy, I will.” Sarah went into the bathroom and brought back her most favorite towel, with the Little Mermaid on it, and knelt back down beside me.

  “Here, baby,” I said, “lay the towel down on the floor where Gracie was.”

  Sarah stretched it out on the carpet. Isabella sat in Mandy’s lap, still too young to fully comprehend.

  “Put Princess Grace right next to Ariel. That’s the best spot,” Sarah said.

  I laid her back down on top of the towel right next to the Little Mermaid. Then I covered her up, spreading one side of the towel over her at a time.

  My mind drifted off to how much Gracie hated Vermont and I wondered if she might have lived longer if she hadn’t had to deal with all this ridiculous weather. That thought made me angry and resentful—especially at Baker—and I loathed the day I ever agreed to move. I hope you’re happy, Baker Satterfield. Now look what you’ve done.

  I knew I had to get Gracie out of my closet. So I picked her back up, in the Little Mermaid towel, and carried her outside through the snow to the little garden shed just off the barn. It broke my heart to leave her there but I knew no stray animals could creep in uninvited and she would be safe inside.

  The last thing I wanted was to go back out into that restaurant—my face was beet red—but we were short-staffed and they needed me. In a fog, I wandered back toward the kitchen.

  Pierre was heading out to the dining room with a bottle of champagne when I opened the apartment door. One look at me told him something was dead wrong. “Leelee, s’il vous plaît, what es it?”

  “Gracie passed, Pierre. Just now in my apartment.” Of course as soon as I said it, I started crying again.

  He gave me that familiar look of confusion and shook his head. I didn’t have the energy to try and explain and I certainly wasn’t going to hunt for my French dictionary. So, I collapsed down on the ground, put my arms and legs straight up in the air . . . and woofed.

  Pierre about fell out. He put the champagne down on the wait station and grabbed the edge of a chair. Slowly, he walked around it and sat down, placing his hand on his heart. “Gracie,” he whimpered and his bottom lip started quivering. That made me cry even harder, and both of us sat there weeping together—with an entire restaurant celebrating New Year’s Eve all around us.

  “Where es Gracie?”

  I pointed outside.

  “Come, s’il vous plaît.”

  Pierre stood up and headed immediately for the door. I grabbed my coat and both of us trailed out to the shed. He hurried inside, stood right next to where Gracie lay, and waited for me. All I could do was cry as he unwrapped the little towel and caressed poor ole Gracie. “Petite amie. Bonne nuit, Gracie,” he said, and kissed her little dead head.

  On the way back into the kitchen, I grabbed a pair of sunglasses out of my room so no one could tell how hard I’d been crying. When I took a seat on the red stool next to the phone, I realized I hadn’t sat down all day. I couldn’t remember a day in my life when I felt this tired, and the New Year’s countdown was still thirty minutes away. The phone next to me started ringing. I picked it up on the first ring with a stuffy resonance to my voice. “Peach Blossom Inn.”

  A female voice was on the other end of the line; background noises indicated it was a call from a cell phone. “Yes, hi, I’m looking for directions to the Peach Blossom Inn,” the lady said. “Let’s see, I’m on Route 21, passing the Gentry Farm?”

  How about this caller, I thought. Here it is right at eleven thirty and she thinks she can get a dinner reservation for New Year’s Eve—now! />
  “I am so sorry,” I told her. “We are totally full for the night and we’re booked solid for New Year’s Day tomorrow, but I’d be happy to take your reservation for Sunday night.”

  “I don’t need a reservation,” she said, “I’ve already got one.”

  “Oh, my mistake, excuse me, I thought all the dinner guests had arrived already. I’ve been away from the phone actually. What’s your name, please?”

  “Emily Kay . . . for two.”

  I looked down my list and found no Emily Kay with a late dinner reservation, or an early one, for that matter. “I’m sorry, Emily, but I’m not finding your dinner reservation. When did you make it?”

  “I don’t have dinner reservations. I’ve got a room for tonight and I booked it two months ago.”

  “I beg your pardon?” The words squeaked out of my mouth. Every single one of my guests had long since checked in.

  “A room, I’m staying there tonight and I’m lost.”

  “What did you say your last name was again? I’m sorry, it’s been a long night.”

  “Kay. Emily Kay.”

  I ran my finger down the list of New Year’s houseguests in my reservation book, still believing this woman was out of her mind, and there it was—bigger than life, right where it was supposed to be. Written in my own handwriting, with her MasterCard number to boot, was EMILY KAY PLUS ONE.

  I had overbooked the inn.

  Pressing the mute button on the telephone, I turned around to face Bev. Since I was officially in a state of shock, earned honestly from calamity hell, I could only stare at her with a blank, forlorn look.

  She waved her hand in front of my face. “Leelee. Leelee. You look like you’ve just seen a ghost. What’s wrong with you, gal?”

  I didn’t answer her right away. I just stared straight ahead, my head cocked to the side, resembling an intoxicated moron. “I’ve overbooked the inn.” The voice I heard tumbling out of me didn’t sound a thing like mine. A croaking toad was more like it.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.” In a trance, I lost the ability to blink.

  “There’s got to be some mistake,” Bev said, snapping her fingers in front of my gaze.

  “Look right here, see this name—Emily Kay?” I nervously pointed at the reservation book.

  Bev just shook her head. “Crap, Leelee, what are you going to do?”

  “I have no idea.” I laid my head upon the book, my left hand still pressing the mute button, and barely opened my eyes to look over at her. “But I’m open to suggestions.”

  Bev pushed her hair behind her ears and shook her head. “I’m at a loss.”

  “Help.” The word barely made it out of my mouth.

  The distinctive beeping of a receiver left off the hook gave us momentary hope that the woman had gone away. “She hung up . . . thank God!” I said to Bev. “Hopefully she’ll never find us.” Without a plan in place, I did the only thing I could do. I took the phone off the hook.

  With only a short time left before the countdown, I hurried around to all the tables passing out hats and shakers, confetti and horns. I put on a hat, too, and flitted around from table to table. Fortunately most everyone had had enough to drink by now and my sunglasses just seemed to be part of my New Year’s getup.

  Three minutes and counting before the stroke of midnight, Pierre staggered around the restaurant holding a glass and tapping it with a spoon. “Midnight countdown, midnight countdown! Es almost midnight, messieurs, mesdames,” he slurred in his French dialect.

  Victor, the pianist, got the countdown started by playing some dramatic piano chords, and yelled out, “Ten, nine, eight.” One and all joined in, “Seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, happy New Year!” Horns started tooting and confetti was flying all over the place. Vic followed with “Auld Lang Syne,” and it looked like every person was singing along with him. People kissed and they hugged each other and I . . . well, I didn’t get to hug or kiss anyone. My favorite part of the night was happening without me. I turned away from the action to keep from another big boo-hoo and happened to catch sight of a young couple standing in the foyer with their coats on. I didn’t remember seeing them before, but then again, I only seated four people from the second seating. I thought it an odd time to leave since the countdown was barely over.

  I couldn’t hear the conversation between them but my stomach suddenly fell to my feet. Now I knew exactly who they were. I ran toward the kitchen to buy myself a few more moments of clear thinking. I caught Bev on her way out and dragged her by the arm over to the front of my apartment door.

  “They’re here, Bev. What’ll I do? I got my hopes up that they wouldn’t show but they’re here. Where am I gonna put them? Help me, Bev!” I grabbed my head and this time I really wanted to run and hide.

  “Your room?” she said, as more of a question than a solution.

  I opened the door and let her peek inside. Everything was still a big mess from Christmas. Toys all over the place, clothes strewn all over the floor—you could hardly make out the color of the carpet. Through another door, she could clearly see the huge bed in my bedroom.

  “What about Pierre’s cottage?”

  I raised my eyebrows as if to say, be serious. Then, out of nowhere, lightning struck. The brainstorm of brainstorms shot down from heaven. “I’ve got it!” I squealed. “Now, you’ll probably think I’m crazy but it’s our only chance. Mr. and Mrs., uh, Follett, you know, the couple in their late fifties, early sixties?”

  “I think so.”

  “The Folletts are sitting in the front dining room and they are already pretty tipsy. You go keep their drinks filled up, bring them free champagne, the best we have—or a pitcher of martinis if they want. Just stall ’em. Do whatever you have to. I’m going upstairs to move their suitcases out of their room. Then I’ll check the Kays into that room. And put the Folletts into the junk room.”

  “Okay, now you’ve lost me. What and where is the junk room?”

  “Right across the hall from the Folletts’ room. It’s really a guest room, but it has all of Helga’s tacky furniture and my stuff from home that I couldn’t fit up the narrow attic steps.”

  “And where exactly is it all going now? On New Year’s Eve?”

  “I’m still figuring that part out but I’m sure it’ll come to me.”

  Bev looked at me like I had lost my mind.

  “The junk room’s my only hope. It’s either that or I risk a huge scene.”

  “I guess we don’t have a choice. But you better come up with a place to put everything from the junk room, and quick!”

  “I’ll go get Roberta, she’ll know what to do. You go out and tell the couple it’ll be a minute. And do whatever it takes. Make up a lie if you have to. Just don’t let the Folletts go up to their room.”

  Without further ado, Bev proceeded out to the front dining room.

  I flew to the kitchen and stood in the doorway motioning for Roberta to come quick. By now Roberta knows how to read panic on my face and she dropped what she was doing and followed me out the door.

  “There’s no time to give you the history but trust me, it’s the worst night of my life,” I told her. “I desperately need your help.”

  “I’m with you—at your service.”

  “Good, I knew you would be. Here’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. Where would we put two extra houseguests if we were already booked up solid for the night?”

  I could see her mind drive into deep thought. She started mumbling under her breath and I couldn’t make out any of the words. All of a sudden her face lit up. “Your apartment?”

  “No, try again.”

  She paused before she spoke, even scratched her chin. “Pierre’s cottage?”

  “One more guess. Third time’s a charm.”

  “The Willingham Inn down the street?”

  “No, Roberta. The junk room. We could clean out the junk room!”

  “Of course. The junk room! S
ounds like a plan to me. Just let me know when you want to get started and we’ll get her done.”

  “I knew I could count on you. Do you want to leave your apron here?”

  “My apron? Why would you want me to leave my apron?”

  “Because it’s covered in flour and restaurant goo.”

  “You don’t mean clean it out tonight, do you?”

  “I overbooked the inn, Roberta! The Kays are standing in the foyer right now ready to check in.” I pointed behind me in the direction of the front entrance.

  “In that case, we better get cracking.”

  Right at that moment Pierre staggered past us completely smashed and all covered in confetti. His New Year’s hat was a tad crooked.

  “I’ve overbooked the inn, Pierre.” When he never commented I turned to Roberta. “Why am I telling him? He can’t understand me.”

  “He understands more than you think he does, I tell you. Pierre would rather you think his English is limited, so he can get away with more.” She put her arm on my back and nudged me toward the door. “Let’s go.”

  Bev was on her way over to the Folletts’ table with a bottle of Perrier-Jouët chilling in an ice bucket when Roberta and I ran past her and flew up the stairs to the Folletts’ room. I opened the door and barged right in. Stuff was all over the place. I quickly unzipped both suitcases and started stuffing anything I could see inside.

  “Roberta, get some new linens,” I whispered, as I carried the Folletts’ suitcases out into the hall. The only place I could find to hide them was behind the couch in the sitting room. Dear God, I must be out of my mind, I thought. But what in the world else was I supposed to do?

  Back inside the Folletts’ room, I remembered to check the closet. Sure enough, more clothes were there, so I stuffed them inside their hanging bag and carried it back out to the sitting room to hide with the suitcases. Roberta rounded the corner with fresh linens and the two of us stripped the bed and made it up again in two minutes flat.