Solomon's Oak

by Jo-Ann Mapson

  Her exception was ten-pound Edsel, an Italian greyhound no bigger than a country mailbox. He had a splash of red on his long white back that resembled an English saddle. Because he moved like a ballet dancer, she suspected he’d come from show-dog stock. To look at him you’d wonder what hard-hearted person could dump such a sweet-natured animal at a kill shelter. Glory quickly learned why. Edsel had a seizure disorder that required medication and a special diet. He lived indoors and had learned to do his business in a litter box. On walks, Glory allowed Dodge and Cadillac to run off-leash, but kept Edsel tethered. Sight hounds could see prey long before humans could. If a rabbit crossed Edsel’s path, he’d give chase until one of them dropped. Dodge, the big baby, was terrified of rabbits and tried to climb into Glory’s lap when he saw one. Rabbits confused Cadillac. Why did they resist being herded into a pen? When a chicken got loose, Cadillac raced behind it, executing those on-a-dime turns border collies are famous for, and he didn’t stop until the escapee was back in the coop. Caddy, with his shocking blue eyes and plume tail, also herded Glory’s vacuum cleaner, and when the wind picked up, he went after leaves.

  Whenever Dan worked in his shop, though, Cadillac lay down across the doorway all day. If Dan headed to the truck, Cadillac would be in the passenger seat the second Dan opened the door. Glory could feed and train the dog, but Dan was his human. Now that Dan was gone, Cadillac preferred his outdoor kennel to his bed in Glory’s bedroom. Nights she heard him howling, she wondered if he was grieving, too. She latched the two dogs in the kennels and gave them each a bully stick to keep them occupied.

  She wiped her dusty shoe tops against her stockinged calves and followed the path to the flagstone patio in front of the chapel. She’d covered ten rented tables with white linen. For centerpieces, spray-painted-gold toy treasure chests spilled oversize plastic gems, chocolate coins wrapped in foil, and Mardi Gras bead necklaces. A small pirate flag flew at each table, featuring not one but two skulls and crossbones, one for the bride, one for the groom. Candles in hurricane lanterns awaited lighting. The pirates had omitted flowers to spend their money on food. The reception would begin with live music by the Topgallant Troubadours and end with a pirate-ship fondant cake that had turned out so beautiful Glory still hadn’t come to terms with its being eaten.

  November in Jolon, California, could be cold, or just as likely crazy warm, like today, with temps in the eighties. Blame El Niño, global warming, or pollution, all Glory cared about was that today stay balmy enough for a sword fight. When a breeze touched the back of her neck, she looked up and saw ordinary clouds scudding by. Her friend Lorna, who’d turn seventy-five this year, would insist the breeze was an omen of good things to come. Lorna had faith. Dan had faith. Glory had a job to do. She fixed a flag that had gone cockeyed and looked at her watch. In four hours it would be over, and she’d have a check to pay her bills.

  The phone rang just as she let the servers into the kitchen. “Make yourselves at home,” she called out to Gary and Pete, her two former fosters, and Robynn, a local girl working her way through school, who was sweet on Gary. Glory picked up the cordless. “Solomon’s Oak Wedding Chapel. Glory speaking.”

  “Hey, Glo, it’s Caroline. What’s all this about a wedding chapel?”

  Caroline Proctor, a social worker for the county, had placed each of the foster sons they’d taken in over the years, and she had taken Dan’s death hard. Sometimes she called just to talk.

  “Hi-C,” Glory said, making the old joke about Caroline’s name and the fruit drink. “I’m hosting an afternoon wedding here. Just something I’m trying. I’ve got to get back to it. Can we talk tomorrow?”

  “This won’t take long. I have a foster girl I want you to take.”

  “A girl?” Glory walked toward the hallway, straightening the Ansel Adams print of Half Dome on the wall with her free hand. Dan could take the hardest kid and turn him into gentleman. Glory was just the cook. “Not without Dan. You know we never took girls.”

  “Hear me out,” Caroline said. “This kid is special. She needs a female-only situation, somebody calm and loving. Take her just for the night.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Pretty please. I’m on my knees, begging.”

  Glory pictured stalwart Caroline Proctor in her khaki stretch pants and black blazer kneeling on the worn pine floor. Meanwhile, her kitchen had transformed into an efficient assembly line. The roasted turkeys were golden brown and the skin crisp. The trays of mashed potatoes were dotted with lakes of butter. It almost looked like the work of professional caterers. The kids were dressed in black slacks, white shirts, and burgundy aprons Glory had picked up at the craft store. Rented steel buffet trays covered the counters, and the savory aroma of turkey and gravy filled the room.

  “I can’t be responsible for anyone else just now, Caroline.”

  “Look, I know you’re grieving. That’s why it’s you I want her to stay with, Glory. She’s grieving, too.”

  Suddenly faint, Glory realized she hadn’t eaten all day. Years ago Dan had taken out the wall that separated the tiny kitchen from the living room, creating one big, open living space. She sat on the arm of the couch and turned to look at the fireplace. In the lightning-struck Engelmann-oak mantel, Dan had carved the words IN THIS HOUSE, HONOR AND WELCOME. After ten minutes with Dan, no one was a stranger. Glory was getting used to solitude. Tonight, after the pirates sailed away, she had planned to light a fire and pour herself a glass of whatever alcoholic brew remained from the reception. She’d breathe a sigh of relief and put her feet up. But it was Thanksgiving, and the image of that lonely foster girl refused to fade. “Okay,” she said. “I just hope she doesn’t expect much in the way of conversation.”

  “Glory, you invented multitasking. I’ve seen you drive a tractor with one hand and beat eggs with the other.”

  “Only for the one night.”

  “Absolutely. I’m working on finding her a permanent placement.”

  That was what Caroline always said, and the Solomons ended up keeping those foster boys until they turned eighteen. “I mean it, Caroline. Tomorrow morning you come back and get her. How old is she?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Throwaway.”

  In the world of foster care, that meant abandonment. Throwaways came home from school to discover their parents had moved—without them. They got kicked out of families, locked out of their homes, left in shopping malls—and the thought of it turned Glory’s stomach. Sometimes these kids went directly to the police station, but other times they tried to fend for themselves and took to the streets. Drugs and selling their bodies usually followed. When neither parent wanted the child and no relatives stepped forward, foster care was the only option.

  “How can she be only fourteen and have no family? Not even a nice old grandma out there somewhere?”

  The cell phone connection crackled, cutting into Caroline’s words, and Glory strained to hear. “I have to go, Caroline. The wedding party will be here any minute. See you later.”

  “Bye, hon.”

  Glory hung up the phone and turned to the servers. “Robynn, Sterno cans on top of the fridge. Gary, butane lighters and backup matches in the drawer to the left of the sink. Pete, can you give that silver ladle a quick polish? You guys okay if I duck out a second?” Gary nodded, so Glory took that as a yes.

  She took clean sheets into the second bedroom, recently painted robin’s-egg blue on advice from her mother. Feeling down? Clean a toilet. Refinish a dresser. Sew yourself a holiday table runner. Keep busy and before you know it, you’ll have forgotten your troubles. The old farmhouse, last remodeled in the sixties, had benefited mightily from Glory’s grief. After making the bed, she straightened the bookshelf, screwed a new lightbulb in the rickety reading lamp, and added pen and paper to the desk drawer. Every foster boy who’d slept in that room had made his bed without being asked. Not always the first night, but every night after.
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br />   “Mrs. Solomon,” Pete called out. “Do you have another extension cord?”

  “Of course. I’ll get it.” In the hall closet, she reached behind Dan’s duster raincoat—whenever he wore it, she told him he looked as if he were from the movie The Man from Snowy River—found the box of cords, and handed it to the nervous young man.

  “Thank goodness,” he said.

  She patted his arm. “Pete, relax.”

  “I don’t want to let you down.”

  “Now, when have you ever done that?” She patted his arm. “Nothing goes perfectly, but we’ll muddle through. Fortunately, we are dealing with organized pirates. We have a script to follow. Come here, you three.” She handed out the copies on which she’d highlighted the events:

  5:00 P.M. Ceremony begins

  5:05 Mock-duel interruption

  5:06 Sword fight commences

  5:25 Return to chapel and finish vows

  5:30 Broom jumping

  5:45 Reception begins, buffet

  6:15 Best man’s toast

  6:25 First dance

  6:45 Cake cutting

  7:30 Drenching of the scupper

  8:30 Fini!

  Glory had forgotten what scupper meant, but there was time to find out. “Don’t freak out when the swords come into play. The groom told me they spent months rehearsing. No one will be hurt. At the bottom of the sheet you’ll see some pirate lingo. Feel free to use it when the opportunity presents itself.”

  They looked up at her, blank-faced and worried.

  “Smile! Say ‘Arrgh!’ They’re pirates, not college professors. It’ll be fun.”

  “What about the cake?” asked Robynn.

  “Leave it in the fridge until just before we set up the buffet. Gary, can you help Robynn carry it to the serving table? It’s heavy.” He nodded, and they looked at each other shyly. When Gary had come to live with the Solomons, he was an awkward twelve-year-old, showing sheep at the county fair. Four-H had been his lifeline. Now he was twenty-one, and falling in love with a local girl. Sometimes things just fell into place.

  “I sure do miss this place,” he said.

  “You’re welcome here anytime,” Glory said, and then the doorbell rang.

  Robynn pulled aside the kitchen curtain. “Bridal party’s here.”

  Glory hurried to the door. “Welcome, Admiral Brown, Mrs. Brown.”

  “Please call me Karen,” the bride said. “This is my mother, Sheryl.”

  “Karen it is. Nice to meet you, Sheryl. Come in. I have everything ready for you.”

  She directed Karen and her mother to the den, which would serve as a dressing room. On Craigslist she’d found a secondhand couch, slipcovered it, and a shabby vanity she’d painted white. With her employee’s discount at the chain store, she’d bought a card table and baskets to hold sundries. The styrofoam cooler was filled with bottled water and ice. In the tabletop basket were two curling irons, a half dozen mending kits, pink and clear nail polish, cortisone cream (in case of hives), and packages of panty hose from petite to queen size. “I’ll bring you a cheese and fruit tray,” Glory said, and turned to go. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

  “How nice!” the bride’s mother said. “But, Karen, your dad and I have waited twenty-six years to see you walk down the aisle in Aunt Louise’s dress. Are you sure you want to get married in a scarlet corset and a turquoise satin skirt slit up to your hoo-hoo?”

  The bride placed her tricorn hat on her upswept hairdo and grinned. “Mother, no matter what we wear, it’s still a wedding. You love Angus. So do I. Just for today, try to go with the flow.” Karen turned to Glory and whispered, “Do you have any Valium?”

  “Sorry.” The truth was, Glory had a half dozen Percocet left over from a molar extraction, but she’d been saving them for migraines and really bad nights. “How about a glass of wine? Will that help?”

  “Yes. Make it a big one.” The bride smiled when the flower girl and ring bearer walked into the room. “Littlest pirates!” she said, bending down to hug them. “Mother, will you look at these two? Aren’t they adorable?”

  The flower girl’s dress was ocean blue and laced up the front like Karen’s corset. The boy, dressed in sailor pants, a white shirt with billowy sleeves, and sporting a painted mustache, scowled. They both wore black pirate scarves and plastic, gold, clip-on earrings. On the pillow they’d carry were two candy rings tied with elaborate satin ribbons.

  Mother Brown looked at them and said to Karen, “When you have children, I suppose I can look forward to you naming them Hook and Tinker Bell.”

  “What a terrific idea,” the bride said.

  When Glory returned with the wine, the mother of the bride was shaking her outfit out of its plastic cover. “It’s not too late to elope to Vegas,” she said.

  Karen touched up her makeup. “You told me if I didn’t get married in a church, you wouldn’t come to the wedding.”

  “I did not.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “A chapel isn’t a church.”

  “It’s a first cousin.”

  Glory took a couple of plastic ponies out of a basket of thrift-store toys and offered them to the littlest pirates. “What’s your name, sweetie?” she asked the girl.

  “Erica.”

  “And you?”

  “Uh, it’s Matt. Can I, uh, have the, you know, uh, fire engine?”

  “Of course. And here you go, Erica. Tell me which pony is your favorite.”

  “The black one. She’s a girl horse, and she scares stallions for miles around.”

  “Those are good qualities to have in a mare,” Glory said, while the boy rolled the fire engine across the wood floor to its imaginary disaster.

  Mrs. Brown twisted to zip her sheath of amber satin dressed up with an attached cape. “Darn this thing.”

  “Allow me,” Glory said, and zipped it for her. “Mrs. Brown, I have to say, you make a lovely mother of the pirate bride.”

  Karen’s mother looked into the door-length mirror and smoothed her dress. “Weddings shouldn’t be silly.”

  “Think what a great story this will make to tell your grandchildren. I’m sure you’d like to check on the chapel to make sure everything’s exactly the way you want it. Just past the porch and to the right of the big oak tree.”

  As Mrs. Brown walked away, Glory thought, bless her heart. Every bride’s mother wanted everything perfect for her daughter’s wedding because over the years she hadn’t forgotten that her own wedding was lacking. Glory had no pictures of her own wedding day. Eighteen years earlier she had thought diamonds and bridesmaids were trivial. Her sister, Halle, stood up for her wearing a dress straight from her closet. Today Glory would have given her big toe for one blurry snapshot. Dan strong and healthy, and she wide-eyed at age twenty behind a bouquet of wildflowers, certain she’d be granted a happy ending.

  Ah, well.

  Glory walked outside to see how the servers were managing. Cooling afternoon air blew inland from the coastline, carrying with it the faint smell of salt. Surrounded by land the color of wheat, it was hard to believe it was only twenty miles to the most beautiful section of the California coastline, where, depending on the time of year, you might see local otters, migrating whales, or elephant seals. The fastest way there was to drive the recently paved road (G18) across the Santa Lucia Mountains. Of course, arriving safely meant praying for no flat tires or hungry mountain lions or middle-aged guys racing Italian sports cars around the curves and past sheer drop-off cliffs that had no guardrails.

  The groom’s party arrived dressed in M.C. Hammer pants paired with white shirts and knee-high boots. Angus’s shirtfront was an explosion of ruffles. Mike Patrick, the portrait photographer, called Glory over to help with the bounce-flash reflectors. “Look fierce,” she reminded everyone. To save the pirates from his hefty per hour fee, she’d agreed to take the candid shots during the reception.

  When Glory heard another car approach, she pan
icked, thinking some guests had decided to arrive an hour early. Then she recognized Caroline’s tan Buick Skylark, county-issue. Caroline was the kind of hero Bruce Springsteen wrote songs about. She worked eighty-hour weeks so that for the time they were in the system kids felt safe and well fed. Here it was Thanksgiving and she was on the job as usual. Dodge started his frantic barking, and Cadillac joined in. They knew Caroline’s shoulder bag held cookies. Caroline got out of the car, waved to Glory, then walked around to open the passenger-side door. “Come on out, kiddo. Mrs. Solomon won’t bite you. Happy turkey day, Glory.”

  “Same to you, Caroline.”

  The girl was about five-five, twenty pounds overweight, and her dyed-black hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Metal piercings were in her eyebrow, nose, and lip. Right away Glory spotted a tattoo on her neck, positioned over her jugular vein, of a bluebird. Glory wondered who would perform such a thing on an underage child. The girl wore black track pants, an oversize T-shirt, and slip-on tennis shoes. Wardrobe pickings were slim at Social Services.

  “Welcome to Solomon’s Oak. I’m Mrs. Solomon, but you can call me Glory.”

  The girl flashed a practiced smile. “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Solomon.”

  “You’re welcome. What’s your name?”

  “Juniper.”

  “Nice to meet you, Juniper.”

  Juniper looked toward the barn because of course the dogs were still barking. They wouldn’t shut up until Caroline visited or Glory went back there and told them to knock it off.