My One Hundred Adventures

by Polly Horvath

  “Raspberry,” says Ginny.

  “Strawberry,” I say.

  “Both,” says Ned.

  “Of course, both,” says my mother, and we three run down the beach like lightning.

  My mother takes Ned’s car to Mrs. Parks’s house. She needs to get inside to get Mrs. Parks’s car keys. The door is locked. Mrs. Nasters must have locked it behind them when the ambulance came. My mother goes to the back door but that is locked too. Finally, after trying all the basement windows, she finds one unlatched. “This is really extremely careless of Mrs. Parks,” she says, and leaps into the darkness below.

  She screams.

  “Are you all right?” I yell down at her.

  “Spiders,” she calls back, and I can hear her already running up the basement steps. A few seconds later she comes out with the keys and we speed on to Lincoln, where we pull into the parking lot and run to admissions, where we are told it is not yet visiting hours.

  “But I was sent for. Anyway, it must be okay for Mrs. Parks to have visitors because Mrs. Nasters was in with her,” says my mother.

  “Mrs. Nasters is in intensive care,” says the receptionist.

  “I don’t understand. Is Mrs. Parks worse?” says my mother.

  “No, Mrs. Parks is fine. The doctors will release her any time now. But Mrs. Nasters had a hemorrhage shortly after she left the hospital and was brought back in by Mrs. Cavenaugh, who was driving her home. Mrs. Cavenaugh has gone on home now,” says the receptionist.

  My mother shakes her head dumbly and then asks if she can go up to see Mrs. Nasters. Just as she is saying this, Nellie Phipps comes in. Mrs. Nasters has called for her. We are all somber.

  The receptionist phones intensive care and then looks somber herself. “They say you can all go up,” she says, and her tone is kinder.

  We go up and my mother speaks to the doctor. They can’t remove Mrs. Nasters’s tumor so they were expecting something like this. She is not doing very well. Suddenly it doesn’t seem to matter who I pray for. It is all a mess.

  We talk to Mrs. Nasters briefly. She doesn’t seem to really notice us much. She asks Nellie to read to her from the Bible but when we leave, Nellie isn’t reading. She has her two hands outstretched over her and she is lowering them to Mrs. Nasters’s body.

  “What in the world is she doing?” asks my mother as we glance back.

  “What is she doing?” a nurse whispers to us. Several of them standing around are watching.

  I know what Nellie is trying to do but I don’t explain and there is no green light coming from her hands to make it evident. Eventually everyone shrugs and goes back to work and we leave to pick up Mrs. Parks, who is being sent home.

  “They said there was nothing much wrong with me,” says Mrs. Parks when we get to her room. “That’s what they said. I’m telling you, it’s a conspiracy, and Natalie, Mrs. Nasters, agrees. Just look what happens, they give her a room and they send me home. She doesn’t like the situation any better than I do.”

  My mother sighs. “Mrs. Nasters is really quite ill,” she says. “She’s in intensive care.”

  “Oh, they put her in intensive care, did they?” asks Mrs. Parks, her lips pursing. “Well, that just makes me mad enough to spit. Did you bring me jam?”

  We drive Mrs. Parks home and settle her in. Then Mrs. Merriweather comes over and my mother tells her about Mrs. Nasters.

  “Oh heavens,” says Mrs. Merriweather. “Shall I make you some tea, Edna? To have with this nice jam that Felicity brought you?”

  This is the first time it occurs to me that Mrs. Parks has a first name. That she had a husband at some time in the distant past. That she may have children somewhere, although I doubt it. Wouldn’t they be here now? That she might have done something for a living. And been on committees. That there were trips she took and books she read and theater she went to and disappointments and romances and holiday turkeys. And now, apparently, she is going to start having sleepovers with Mrs. Nasters, her new friend. She is telling us about that now.

  “We had it all planned,” says Mrs. Parks. “Nellie Phipps came to visit me. Awfully touchy-feely sort she’s become. Touching me here. Touching me there. I never knew her to go around calling on her parishioners either. What’s gotten into her?”

  “I have no idea,” says my mother.

  “Anyhow, she told me about Mrs. Nasters feeling a bit down in the dumps of late and I invited Natalie to come over and watch some television and keep an eye on me in case the thrombosis, well, you know. Then we got tired and I said, Well, I’ve three spare bedrooms. Why go home? Why not have a sleepover? And Natalie said that she’d be happy to stay and it was a good idea anyhow as we could keep an eye on each other—although it was clear to me there was nothing really very much wrong with her. We had Scrabble and we thought we might even order a pizza. It suddenly seemed like…fun,” said Mrs. Parks as if it had surprised her that she could have that anymore.

  “Well,” says Mrs. Merriweather, “I’m sure as soon as Mrs. Nasters comes out of the hospital you can have your little sleepover. We’ll get you some NIBS or cheese popcorn.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Marjorie,” says Mrs. Parks. “And make some tea. I’ve had a very nasty night.”

  We leave on that note. Ginny and I talk about what we are going to do but when we get to the house who should we see but Ned and H.K. sitting on the porch together. Ginny says she has to go home for lunch and I don’t know if this is true or if she is avoiding the strange men. She turns around and runs back over the sand.

  “Oh! H.K.,” says my mother. She looks vaguely uncomfortable.

  Neither of the men says anything.

  “Well!” she says. “Lunch!”

  My mother has not had time to pick any orach, so she sends me and I wade through the reedy shallows by the lagoon. The water is warm on my calves. A heron stands on one leg hunting. There are the hushed sounds of wings on currents of air and the gentle lapping of the water. As if the same energy has taken two forms. The sun does not so much beat down on me as heat the moist air into which I step. I hear sleepy sounds of life everywhere, frogs plopping back into shallows, the buzz of cicadas and flies and dragonflies. I imagine the busy nonstop buzzing day they have, and perhaps they continue all night this way. I have been on the earth twelve years but I don’t know how long they sleep. It is funny to think they live next to me, busy busy, and I am so taken up with my own life most of the time, I am not conscious of theirs going on parallel to mine. And they are not conscious of me either or all the important things I think I must do every day.

  I sit on a large, smooth rock, letting my calves and feet dry in the sun. I do not know how long I have been there when Maya comes running for me. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” she yells. “Lunch is ready.”

  I grab the little orach I have picked and run back to my mother who throws it into the salad and we all sit down to eat.

  “I was sorry you were not able to go antiquing,” says H.K. to my mother. “I found quite an interesting pants press.”

  “Did you, Henry?” says my mother. “I’m sorry as well but Jane was busy and I had no one to leave the children with.”

  Ned has not looked up from his plate. Now he does. “If you want to go antiquing today, Felicity, I can stay with the kids.” He looks at her searchingly.

  “That’s very good of you, Nate,” says H.K.

  Ned nods.

  “Why don’t we all go, Ned? The children too!” says my mother. “And Caroline!”

  Ginny has just arrived back on the porch. She obviously did not think lunch would take so long. She is looking through the doorway at all of us, bug-eyed. I don’t think she has such interesting turns of events in her house.

  “Well, you know, Caroline has not been well lately,” says H.K.

  “Caroline is Henry’s sister,” my mother explains to Ned. “She keeps house for H.K.”

  “I’ve never had a housekeeper,” says Ned. “Of course, I’ve never had a ho
use.”

  “My time is not my own since my latest book came out, Nate,” says H.K., ducking his head modestly.

  “Henry’s books do very well,” says my mother. “He’s really very famous in Massachusetts.”

  “And other places,” says Henry, clearing his throat.

  “Yes, I didn’t mean to imply that you were a locally known poet only. Like Cassandra Lark,” says my mother. “Just that you are especially known in Massachusetts. Henry teaches at Simmons.”

  “Gee, that’s swell, Harry,” says Ned. “Well, sure, we can all go. Of course, I was going to stay home and tell the children more about the bone.”

  “Tell us about the bone! Tell us about the bone!” say Hershel and Max and Maya, jumping around Ned.

  “No, children,” says Ned. “We must go antiquing.”

  “No, tell us about the bone!”

  “No, no, Harry isn’t interested in Vikings and dinosaurs. Harry likes to decorate.”

  “Well, of course, if you’d rather stay home and dig up bones with the children…,” says H.K.

  “Children, go wash your hands. We’re all going. I’ll just get my purse,” says my mother, and we are off.

  We split into two cars and drive up the highway to small towns. H.K. does not think it a good idea for us children to go into the antique stores even though Ginny and I are hardly what you would call children. So my mother and Ned and H.K. take turns with us outside the stores entertaining us in other ways.

  Ned tells us more about the bone. About how he stayed in a rooming house and left it on the dresser and the maid threw it in the trash and he had to follow its path all the way to the dump and then go digging through the garbage for it with giant rats crawling all around him looking for bones of their own. Hershel and Max like that part especially.

  When it is my mother’s turn with us, she plays word games. When it is H.K.’s turn he sits silently and makes us sit silently too and says helpful things like “Children, try not to block the entrance. Children, try not to speak too loudly.”

  Ned takes us into a candy store and when he finds horehound candy is amazed. Then he gets an idea for an article. He says that sometimes he sells small pieces to Canadian magazines and radio. He has the idea to bring Mrs. Parks some horehound candy and see if it sparks memories and write a piece about it. We all try the candy. “This is disgusting,” says Ned. We agree. But he thinks maybe people a long time ago liked different things.

  My mother’s turn again. She takes us to a park.

  When it is H.K.’s last turn he sits with us and tells us to close our eyes and he will tell us when it’s all over. When we don’t do this he closes his eyes and says we can tell him. My mother comes out and asks H.K. why his eyes are closed. He says he has a headache. She asks us children if we are having a good time. Ginny tells my mother this is the best day she has ever had in her entire life and my mother looks at her first with skepticism and then with alarm.

  On the way home all of us children want to ride in Ned’s car but my mother lets Ginny and me and she rides with the others in H.K.’s. We stop off at Mrs. Parks’s. I introduce Ned and he gives Mrs. Parks the bag of horehound candy.

  “What’s this?” she asks, opening it.

  “Well, believe it or not, it’s horehound candy!” says Ned.

  “Horehound candy? That’s very kind of you,” says Mrs. Parks. She doesn’t sound excited or surprised. I don’t think she knows she’s supposed to be. She doesn’t even sound confused the way you have a right to be if someone you don’t know very well suddenly appears on your doorstep with a bag of horehound candy. Maybe when you’re that old you’ve seen it all.

  “When is the last time you saw horehound candy?” Ned asks, still fishing for an anecdote.

  “Well, never,” says Mrs. Parks. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure.”

  “You never had horehound candy in your youth?”

  “Never,” says Mrs. Parks.

  “Are you sure?” asks Ned.

  Mrs. Parks is beginning to ruffle but fortunately at that second the phone rings. There is a phone in the foyer and she picks it up. “What? Well, of course you’re not sick. That’s what I’ve been saying all along. That you’re no sicker than I am. I don’t trust any of those doctors as far as I can throw them. Releasing a poor old woman with a raging thrombosis and keeping a clearly recovered case of cancer. It’s all too typical, isn’t it? Well, of course, of course I will come and bring you something to read and your eyeglasses. By my television? All right, dear. Anything else? Yes, I know. Nellie visited me too. Yes, she gave me this balderdash about faith healing. Humph. Healing hands. I never heard such rubbish. My thrombosis is just as raging as always. Yes, I know they say you are better, but let’s face it, Natalie, you weren’t very sick to begin with.”

  She hangs up. “Honestly, now Mrs. Nasters believes she didn’t die because Nellie Phipps came and healed her. Nellie told me she could feel my thrombosis shrivel up to nothing and disappear but I don’t buy that kind of bunk. That Phipps family was always into these strange fringe practices. I believe there was a Phipps who was a snake handler.”

  Is Mrs. Nasters’s recovery proof that Nellie can heal people just like the channeler and psychic said? And then it occurs to me. If Nellie can heal, does that mean she can reverse the damage to Willie Mae?

  Ned says he will drop me at home and get his tape recorder and make a few phone calls in town about this story and then come back and pick up Mrs. Parks. He wants to interview people. If the horehound story isn’t going to work out, why, this is even better! Faith healing in Massachusetts!

  I think we’d better hurry and find Nellie a place to have her gatherings. After this article comes out, people will probably arrive by the hundreds.

  Mrs. Parks puts her horehound candy in her patent leather purse and promises to wait for Ned. They will go to the hospital together and she will introduce him to Mrs. Nasters.

  Ned drives me and Ginny to the parking lot and we run back to my house to explain things to my mother while he makes his phone calls. My mother is pleased everyone is better. She is making dinner preparations. H.K. isn’t here but whether he has gone home of his own accord or whether my mother has sent him home, we can’t tell, and it isn’t the type of thing my mother will volunteer. Ginny is staying for dinner so she and I help my mother set the table and play with Hershel and Max and Maya. It feels happy and like old times. No one is dying.

  The sun is leaning heavily in the sky, ready to fall in its nightly plunge, when Ned comes grimfaced across the sand and I see my mother read his expression and go to meet him. He leans into her ear and she stops, her eyes large. Her hands go to her mouth.

  They walk toward us. Has Mrs. Naster died after all? But no, it is Mrs. Parks.

  The Funeral

  My Eleventh Adventure

  It is a terrible thing and Ned saw it happen. He was making calls at the public phone booth by the Dairy Queen when a car drove right into its plate glass wall. He rushed over and there was Mrs. Parks slumped over the wheel. He gave her mouth-to-mouth without success until the first responders arrived. At first he thought she must have had a heart attack because although the Dairy Queen’s glass wall was ruined, Mrs. Parks didn’t have a scratch on her. But no, the paramedics explained to him as they pulled something out of her throat, she had choked on a hard candy. That was probably what caused her to lose control of the car, they speculated.

  “She should have waited for me. I could have given her the Heimlich maneuver,” says Ned.

  “It was probably the thrombosis that finally got her,” says my mother.

  “It was the horehound,” I say, because I’m pretty sure Nellie cured the thrombosis. “The paramedics said she choked on it.”

  “I suppose the thrombosis might have exploded, causing her to choke on the horehound,” says Ned musingly.

  “The horehound we gave her.” I say “we” to be charitable because it was undeniably all his idea.<
br />
  I wait for the horror of this to hit him so I can console him but it doesn’t seem to occur to Ned that maybe he is responsible.

  We don’t feel much like having a barbecue now. We sit around and eat a little rice.

  Later, Mrs. Merriweather comes over and asks my mother if she could do the eulogy. The funeral is to be on Wednesday. Mrs. Parks’s only living relative is her sister and she is flying out from California. Mrs. Merriweather called her. My mother says certainly she will do the eulogy.

  “Because you’re a famous poet,” says Mrs. Merriweather.

  My mother winces but Mrs. Merriweather doesn’t notice.

  “I think Mrs. Parks would like having a famous poet do her eulogy and attend her funeral.”

  “Of course we will be there. We will all be there,” says my mother, and then offers Mrs. Merriweather a little rice, but she says she cannot stay. She has other arrangements to make.

  “The funeral is scheduled for one o’clock. I’ve already checked with Nellie,” says Mrs. Merriweather.

  “One o’clock it is,” says my mother.

  It will be my first funeral. Then I remember the Gourd children.

  “I can’t go,” I say suddenly. Ned and my mother look down at me.

  “Don’t be silly,” says my mother. “Of course you will be there. We will all be there.”

  So now I have something new to worry about. I have no idea what to do with the Gourd children. I can hardly bring them to a funeral.

  Mr. Fordyce! If he is not going to the funeral maybe he will take them.

  It is sober in church the next day. Everyone knows about the terrible accident. I keep waiting for Ned to realize that if he hadn’t given Mrs. Parks the candy she wouldn’t have died, but he seems to be skating through the service with a clear conscience and a relaxed face.

  After church I keep thinking about this, Ned’s easy conscience, while we are waiting to shake Nellie’s hand—and it is taking a long time because Nellie is not only shaking hands now, she is laying one on each person’s shoulder as he leaves. I think she sees herself as a combination of church and free clinic. Finally I can stand it no longer.