by Dyan Sheldon
“You know, my friend, Asher, he does kung fu. He’s been doing it for years.”
Sadie’s all eyes now. “Does he have a black belt?”
“I’m not sure.” She has no idea. “Probably. I know he’s really good.” Which is certain to be true. If Asher does something, he’s good at it. “He has a class every week.”
“Is he going to be a cop?” asks Sadie. “Is that what he wants to be, too?”
Marigold’s almost tempted to lie and say yes. “Not exactly but kind of. He wants to be a lawyer. Like his father. He’s a regular chip off the old block.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means he’s just like his dad.”
“It’s too bad he wants to be a lawyer.” Sadie seems genuinely saddened by Asher’s poor career choice. “But I guess that makes sense. ’Cause of his dad.” She raises her chin. “My dad’s a cop.”
This is the first time anyone has mentioned Sadie’s father. Ever. Marigold assumed that, although it stands to reason that she must have one, he is less involved in her life than the staff in the cafeteria. Probably doesn’t even know she exists.
“Really? I didn’t know that. That’s pretty cool. No wonder you want to be a cop.”
Sadie doesn’t grin, but a tiny light goes on behind her eyes. “He’s a detective. He’s a really good detective. But sometimes he gets yelled at because he does things his way.”
“He must be very smart if he’s a detective,” says Marigold.
“He is. He’s very smart. Everybody says so. Even when they’re yelling at him they say how smart he is. And he’s brave. He’s always saving people.”
This is the longest and most in-depth conversation she’s had with Sadie. Who says patience and tenacity don’t pay off?
“And where is your dad? Does he live around here?”
“Oh, no, not here.” Sadie sounds shocked that Marigold would think there are any very smart detectives in Half Hollow. “He’s in New York.”
“New York City?”
“Uh-huh. That’s where he works. They have billions of detectives there. But he doesn’t live in the city. You know, ’cause it’s really expensive. He lives in New Jersey.”
“Right, New Jersey. Well, that’s not too far from the city. Do you get to visit him much? Does your mom take you to see him? Or does he come out here?”
“No.” Sadie’s eyes are back on the road and her arms are folded around her again. “He’s way too busy to come here. But he emails me all the time on my mom’s computer. And he calls me. When he gets a chance. When he’s not solving cases and stuff like that.”
“It’s too bad you don’t get to see him, though,” ventures Marigold. “You must miss him.”
“Yeah. I do. ’Cause he’s really funny. He always makes me laugh. But I see him sometimes.” She kicks some leaves into the gutter. “I’m going to visit him at Christmas. I’m going to stay overnight. And we’re going to watch movies and make our own popcorn. He lets me stay up as late as I want.”
Marigold says that sounds like fun. “And what about your mom?” she asks. “Is she a cop, too?”
“Nooo.” It’s a what-planet-are-you-from sound. “She’s a waitress.”
“You know, I was just thinking. When I was your age I loved reading mystery stories.” This is, in fact, a classic example of someone tampering with the truth. Marigold has watched a few police shows on television and seen a movie or two, but she’s never actually read a crime novel. They’re too depressing. “Do you like mysteries?”
“With cops?”
“Or detectives who aren’t exactly cops. They’re stories where someone’s done a crime and the cop or the detective has to find out who and why.”
“They have those in books?”
How does she not know that? You’d think this child was being raised in a cave in the Rockies by wolves.
“They sure do. And there are some pretty good ones around.” She leans closer, lowering her voice. “It’s fun to see if you can solve the mystery before the detective in the book does. I bet you’d be really good at it.”
It would be an exaggeration to say that Sadie looks excited, but she does look interested.
“They really have books like that?”
“Uh-huh. Tons of them.”
Sadie frowns. “But for grown-ups. Not for kids like me.”
“No, for kids, too.” Though not all of them can be like Sadie. “Maybe—” Marigold is about to say that maybe she could find a mystery for them to read together, but the sharp honking of a horn cuts her off. A car has stopped across the street. It’s an old car, and although it’s hard to be sure in the dark, one of the fenders seems to be a different colour to the rest of it.
“There’s my mom!” shouts Sadie.
Marigold can see that there is, indeed, a woman behind the wheel, but her face is in shadow. She doesn’t roll down the window to say Hi or Thanks for standing in the cold with my child. The horn bleats again. It sounds annoyed.
“I have to go,” says Sadie. “She’s waiting.”
And, before Marigold can stop her, she launches herself into the road.
At least she remembered to look both ways.
Marigold watches them pull away, waving. No one waves back.
Chapter Sixteen
Georgiana Can’t Find Her Phone
It is a peaceful afternoon in the parking lot of St Joan’s Nursing Centre. A few birds glide overhead; a couple bearing a bouquet of flowers walks towards the entrance; a squirrel scampers over the lawn.
Sitting in her car, Georgiana closes her eyes and breathes deeply. Think, she tells herself. Think hard. When was the last time you had it? She pictures her phone, metallic red and illuminated, its bank of icons shining. She tries to imagine herself holding it in her hand. Where is she? What does she do next? This is a trick she read about in a magazine article on finding things you’ve lost. Much to her surprise, it actually works. She remembers exactly. When she got into the car after school she checked to see if she had any messages, and then she put it in her bag. She can see herself open the bag and drop in the phone. So where is it?
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, it has to be in here somewhere.” Georgiana dumps the entire contents of her bag onto the passenger seat and starts rummaging through it. “It has to be!” she repeats. Make-up bag. Nail bag. Several pens (most of which don’t work). One unsharpened pencil. An assortment of hair clips and ties. A comb and a brush. Tissues. Her wallet. The business card from the store where she bought her father’s Christmas present. A clump of sales receipts. Sunglasses. Two pairs of tights. One pair of leggings. One pair of socks. Gum. Several empty wrappers. Half a roll of breath mints. A toothbrush. A tube of toothpaste. Keys. More keys. A small sewing kit. A jar of correction fluid. Three Maglites with dead batteries. A container of dental floss. Several memory sticks. Breath spray. A fork. A handful of sugar packets. A paperback she was going to read in the summer. An old travel mug. A plastic Bart Simpson on a skateboard with wheels that really turn. Quite a few necklaces and bracelets. Seven earrings (none of which match). Reward cards from the coffee bars she frequents. The take-out menu from her favourite Chinese restaurant. The headset her mother’s been looking for since September. But no cell phone. Resisting the urge to cry, Georgiana puts everything back by the handful, still searching, but it isn’t tucked into a tissue or caught in the toe of her tights. She pats the pockets of her jacket for the sixth time, but it still isn’t in any of them, either.
How will she get through the next hour and a half? After the Incident at Bargain World (as it has become known to Georgiana and her friends), she’s not planning to venture into the great unknown with Mrs Kilgour again in a hurry. She needs another episode like that about as much as she needs dandruff. Indeed, after the Incident at Bargain World, she’s assuming that not only will Mrs Kilgour not want to go out, but that she’ll be asleep. What’s Georgiana supposed to do if she doesn’t have her phone?
Pondering, as
many great thinkers have, the unfairness of life, Georgiana gets out of the car.
Although some people might think it’s still a little early, St Joan’s is already decked out for Christmas. Not with boughs of holly, of course, but with tinsel garlands and paper chains donated by the nearby elementary school. There is a small artificial tree on the reception desk. Georgiana compliments Alice Einhorn on the elf hat she’s wearing and signs in.
All the doors along Mrs Kilgour’s corridor boast some holiday decoration, no matter how small; all except the door to 10a. It is as it always is, but, because every other door sparkles or shines, it looks worse. Georgiana stares at it for several seconds. Surrounded by all the tiny Santas, snowmen, reindeer, poinsettias, bells and wreaths that line the corridor, it looks sad and friendless. Like Mrs Kilgour herself. As far as Georgiana knows, no one ever calls her; no one but Georgiana ever visits – which is as sad as spending your birthday by yourself with not even a cupcake or a single card. Did Mrs Kilgour ever have a life? Did she never do anything but wait to grow old and die?
Georgiana sighs, raises her hand and knocks. Softly. And, to her surprise, Mrs Kilgour answers.
“Who is it?” she calls.
“It’s Abraham Lincoln,” Georgiana calls back.
“Then you’d better come in,” is the answer. “But make sure you’re not being followed by that actor.”
Georgiana opens the door, and stops as if she’s walked into a six-foot Christmas tree with a singing angel at its top. Though, needless to say, that isn’t what she sees.
What she sees is Mrs Kilgour, already in her chair and wearing an ancient pair of army fatigues, a bright green turtleneck, an orange duffel coat and a red beret. The antique camera bag she uses as a pocketbook is on her lap. If there’s one thing you can say about Mrs Kilgour besides the indisputable fact that she’s an old lady, it’s that she doesn’t dress like one.
Mrs Kilgour ready to roll does not fit in with how Georgiana saw the afternoon panning out. “Are we going somewhere?” Her smile is as hesitant as someone peering through the ogre’s window.
“Of course we are. We’re going out. Why wouldn’t we be going out?” Mrs Kilgour’s smile is the smile of the ogre. “It isn’t raining, is it?”
“I just thought … you know…” The Incident at Bargain World unnerved Georgiana so much that she nearly mentioned it to Alice Einhorn. The only reasons she didn’t were: 1. Alice Einhorn would probably laugh and say, “So what else is new?”; 2. If Alice didn’t shrug it off but took it seriously, Georgiana would get the blame. “Because of what happened the other day…”
“Nothing happened,” says Mrs Kilgour. “I fell asleep, and you actually did the right thing for a change.”
“I did?” Mrs Kilgour has never accused Georgiana of doing anything right before. Maybe she really did have some kind of stroke after all.
“Yes, you did. You didn’t let them ship me off to the hospital. At my age, if you go into the hospital odds are you’ll come out in a box.”
“Oh, I…” mutters Georgiana.
“And anyway, it was pretty funny.” There is, as usual, a smudge of lipstick on Mrs Kilgour’s front teeth. “Didn’t you think it was funny?”
“Well…” It’s really funny when Georgiana recounts the Incident at Bargain World to her friends, but she didn’t think Mrs Kilgour was particularly amused – and it wasn’t very funny at the time. Not with all those panicking adults ready to call an ambulance but not prepared to listen to Georgiana.
“Of course you did. I’m sure you have your friends in stitches over it. It’s a wonder I didn’t wet myself. Those men all rushing around like Hawkeye Pierce at a helicopter crash. They’ll be dining out on that story for weeks.”
“Like who at a helicopter crash?”
Mrs Kilgour’s sigh is almost a groan. What patience she once had didn’t live as long as she has. “Never mind. Before your time. The thing is that we’re going out.”
“But I don’t know if that’s such a great idea. I mean, if you haven’t been feeling very well—”
“And who told you that? That big mouth Alice at reception, or one of those nosey nurses? Not any of them could mind her own business unless she was locked in a tower.”
“You did.” It was Alice. Alice said they called the doctor in. “Last week you said you were feeling peaky.”
“That was last week,” snaps Mrs Kilgour. “This week I’m dandy as candy. I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”
“I didn’t know you cared,” Georgiana mumbles.
“Don’t flatter yourself. Not because I was going to see you.” Mrs Kilgour’s hearing is clearly not as bad as Georgiana thought. “You may smell a lot better, but you’re less company than a dead cat.”
I’m not the only one, thinks Georgiana, but she gives a little laugh, so Mrs Kilgour will think that Georgiana thinks that Mrs Kilgour is joking.
Mrs Kilgour couldn’t give a dead cat for what Georgiana thinks. She adjusts the bag on her lap; it’s time to move. “Well, don’t just stand there, girl. Shake those shapely legs of yours and let’s get out of here.”
They start off on their usual route, but today Mrs Kilgour wants to go left towards the river instead of right towards the town.
Leave it to Mrs Kilgour to find something even less interesting than this busted town with its one shopping street and cheap stores. “But there’s nothing there,” argues Georgiana. “Don’t you want to get some chocolate? Or some wine?”
“What I want is to see the river,” repeats Mrs Kilgour. “I used to go there all the time when I first moved here. But I haven’t been there in years.”
“I’m sure it hasn’t changed much,” says Georgiana. “I’m sure it’s still made of water.”
“And I’m sure there are plenty of small towns in Hell,” says Mrs Kilgour. “I want to see some of the things I’m going to miss when I’m gone from this world while I still have the chance.”
Scowling, Georgiana turns the chair to the left. When she’s as old as Mrs Kilgour, if she hasn’t seen them already, what Georgiana will want to see is the Taj Mahal or Venice or the Eiffel Tower or Hawaii – the things most people dream about seeing. Most people, but not Margarita Kilgour, of course. She wants to see dead leaves – dead leaves in the trees, dead leaves along the side of the road, dead leaves on the ground. It would be boring enough pushing the chair past houses and stores with nothing else to do, but pushing it along the narrow, unpopulated river road that is only woods and more woods brings boredom to an entirely new level.
The result of being stranded dead centre in the middle of nowhere with nothing at all to distract her is that Georgiana has no choice but to listen to Mrs Kilgour’s ramblings as they walk along. Since God chose this day to make her phone disappear.
Tucked up in her wheelchair, occasionally breaking her monologue to shout out a direction – turn here, or go down there – Mrs Kilgour babbles on. She starts out talking about most towns being pretty much the same. “Doesn’t matter if they’re made of brick, wood, bamboo or mud,” says Mrs Kilgour. “They’re like crocodiles. If you’ve seen one, you have a good idea of what the rest of them look like.”
As if the great river-watcher has ever seen a town made out of bamboo. Or a crocodile.
She then moves effortlessly from mud huts and reptiles to communication. According to Mrs Kilgour, the world used to be more fun and a hell of a lot more interesting. None of this instant this and instant that. Everybody on their damn cells every minute of the day. In her day you only talked on the phone when you had something to say. “Like you,” she says, the red hat bobbing. “Always taptaptapping like some damn woodpecker. I’ve known alcoholics who were less addicted to hard liquor than you are to that stupid phone.”
Georgiana says nothing. Putting aside the fact that she didn’t think Mrs Methuselah was aware of her emailing and texting, she is not going to argue with someone who was probably born before the telephone was invented. In her day t
hey used tin cans joined by a string, or drums.
“I used to do a lot of communicating in my day,” Mrs Kilgour jets on, “and believe me, it wasn’t about telling everybody what I had for lunch.”
Yeah, of course she did tons of communicating. Every year she sent out a slew of Christmas cards, birthday cards and vacation postcards. Practically the one-woman NBC network.
“Left or right?” asks Georgiana.
The gnarled and bony hand points left.
“And travel,” Mrs Kilgour rolls on. “Look at the way people travel nowadays. A week here. A weekend there. Moving all over creation like car parts on an assembly line. It’s not natural. Thousands of miles in a few hours and all you see is a movie or the people sitting next to you. Everybody knows it’s the journey that’s important, not the destination.”
She’s right about that, thinks Georgiana as she stops the wheelchair. They have reached their destination. This is not the grand old Mississippi. It’s a ribbon of water, more stream than river, running between two banks littered with beer cans and plastic bottles and bags. If ever a place was crying out for some community service, this is it.
Only that isn’t what Mrs Kilgour sees.
She throws back her head and raises her arms. “Look at those trees!” she cries. “Aren’t they magnificent?”
Georgiana looks. They’re regular, old, everyday trees in late autumn. Most of their leaves have already fallen. Through the twisting branches she can see cars flash past on the old highway.
“You know what this has always reminded me of?” Suddenly, Mrs Kilgour’s voice is unnaturally soft and almost warm. She might be speaking to someone else. She might be someone else speaking. “It’s always put me in mind of that cabin we had in Oregon.”
Oregon? Georgiana has heard about the late Mr Kilgour from Alice, the big mouth receptionist. He was born and raised in the town, and Alice heard that he didn’t like to leave it very often. “I can’t imagine how they ever hooked up,” Alice confided. “I know she doesn’t come from around here. I guess he must’ve left sometime.” Alice, who also doesn’t come from around here, didn’t know what Mr Kilgour did for a living. Some kind of family business, she thinks. “Maybe a hardware store or something like that. He kind of looked like that type.” He died at St Joan’s after a severe stroke that left him paralysed, for which Mrs Kilgour must have blamed herself. She’d talked him into going for a weekend in New York to celebrate their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. They never got there.
