by Joyce Magnin
"Hold on a second," Mildred said. "I'm the only sheriff in town."
I brought the tray of full coffee cups, cream, and sugar to the table. "This is beginning to sound like a great idea."
"I like it," Boris said. "I'll play the part of a circuit judge passing through town to try cattle rustlers and chicken poachers."
The ideas flowed like the Susquehanna River that day. We had more plans for the dance than ever. I knew Mildred would be pleased, and Zeb would have a blast making pies and cowboy-inspired treats. This was shaping up to be one of the best Harvest Dances in Bright's Pond history.
Mildred, Studebaker, and Boris left, but Ruth stayed around for a little bit. She was my good friend, and I enjoyed having her company. Sometimes I think she could sense when I felt lonely, especially since Agnes moved to Greenbrier.
"How long are you working?" Ruth asked. She placed the coffee cups in the sink.
"I should probably keep the library open for a little while after school lets out. The kids might have research projects or need a book for a book report."
"Okay, I'll stay with you. I got nothing better to do, except scrub my tub. I hate scrubbing the tub, Griselda. Hate it more than scrubbing the toilet. It gives me a crick in my back and pain in my neck."
By three-thirty there were six kids in the library looking for information on everything from the Renaissance to hot air balloons. I enjoyed helping them and in a short while they were all on their way home with books and copies of magazine articles.
By four o'clock Ruth and I were ready to go home.
"Going to The Full Moon?" Ruth asked as I locked the door.
"Nah, Zeb is picking me up around six. We're going to the movie."
"Ooh, la la. You two been seeing a lot of each other, haven't you?"
"We've been out a couple of times." I felt my neck go warm and the blush travel to my ears. I hated that my feelings were always so visible. I pretty much turn into a pomegranate whenever I'm nervous or surprised or . . . when someone reacts to the simple fact that Zeb Sewickey and I have been dating. It's not like we're engaged or anything. Just two friends spending some time together.
Ruth grabbed my hand. "I can't wait to dance at your wedding."
I let a nervous giggle escape my throat. "Oh, Ruth. Please don't get ahead of things and whatever you do, don't go blabbing this around town. We're just friends—that's all."
"Uh, huh. Could you drop me at my house?"
Dot Handy always took over the kitchen when Zeb was not there, which was not very often. And she did a pretty good job keeping up with orders. But I knew, I just knew that about an hour into the movie, Zeb would say he needed to check on the café. I suppose it was his right, but it also made me a little frustrated. And that evening was no different.
"I'll be right back," he whispered in my ear, just as Shelley Winters dove under the water for the third time. "Just want to check on the café."
I said nothing. How he could walk out on The Poseidon Adventure was beyond me. Just beyond me. So there I sat, all alone, with a tub of popcorn watching a disaster movie. Maybe the only disaster was not on the screen that night. I decided to tell Zeb that if he wanted to keep on dating me he would need to get his priorities straight.
He slipped back next to me about twenty minutes later and slid his arm around my shoulders. "What did I miss?"
My stomach tightened. "All the good parts."
The September air was still warm that evening so Zeb and I decided to walk the few short blocks back to my house. We stood on the porch a minute before I pushed the door open. I took one step inside when he grabbed my hand.
"Hold on a second, Griselda . . . I . . ."
I searched his eyes, convinced that the man was about to kiss me.
He tilted his head and moved close, pulled me into his arms and planted a kiss, just a small one that nearly missed my lips. Then he looked into my eyes and I felt them close as he pulled me even tighter and kissed me long and thoroughly. My left leg spontaneously lifted as I leaned in closer, just the way my Mama used to when Daddy would steal a kiss when he thought Agnes and I weren't looking. My heart beat like hummingbird wings even after Zeb said, "Goodnight, Grizzy."
5
I closed the door behind me and stood with my back pressed against it, feeling Zeb's presence still outside. I knew that if I opened the door he would be standing there, on the porch, waiting, I thought, for another kiss. And I toyed with the notion but let it go, thinking that maybe I wasn't quite ready for a second kiss.
Arthur twisted his lithe body around and between my ankles, purring and growling for food. He was always and forever hungry, and I will admit that I often indulged his appetite with tuna and liverwurst—two of his favorite tidbits. But that night I told him, "No, you'll get fat."
There were days since Agnes left when my big old house seemed to grow larger, the rooms wider, the ceilings higher. It was sometimes hard living alone, and I often wished Agnes was still in her bed in the viewing room. That evening was one of those times. I missed her in a way I believed people with amputations missed a limb. And yet I knew it was better for her to be at Greenbrier, better for her and for me.
I had settled down in front of the TV with a cup of tea and two slices of toast with raspberry jam when the telephone rang. It was Stella all in a huff. She and Nate had another one of their brawls.
"He is just so worried about that dang blame pumpkin that he forgets all about me."
"Maybe you need to be a little more patient, Stella. You have your own problems and maybe that's making it harder to cope with Nate this time around. You know he gets like this every year. But if you don't tell him about Walter, he'll keep thinking you're all right and keep on bickering with you."
She paused and I heard her breathing into the phone. I also heard Nate hollering. I couldn't make out what he was saying, but he sounded awful angry. I didn't like the fact that he had that shotgun.
"Are you okay, Stella?" I asked. "Do you need me to come get you?"
"No, no. He'll get it out of his system. You might be right, Griselda. Maybe I should let this whole Walter mish mash go."
"Now, I didn't say that, Stella. I only meant that if you're already upset, then it'll be harder to handle Nate when he gets like this."
"It's the drinking."
"Drinking? Nate doesn't drink."
"That's what I mean," Stella said. "Ever since he stopped, he's been just the dickens to live with. Like living with a grizzly bear."
"Tell him you're sorry and just go to bed. Meet me at the café in the morning for breakfast."
"Oh, Griselda, I wanted to tell him about Walter, but I . . . I just can't. And I can't keep sneaking out of the house." She paused. "Oh, good he went out back to hunt that groundhog again."
"You might feel better if you tell him."
BLAM!
"Stella?"
Nothing, not a sound.
"Stella? Are you there?" I had to fight an image of Stella lying on the kitchen linoleum having taken the blast intended for a groundhog. "Stella?"
I heard the phone drop. And then all of a sudden I heard Nate whooping and hollering. "I got him, Stella, I got that miserable varmint! I got him!"
Stella picked up the receiver. "Thank the good Lord, Griselda, if this ain't a sight. Nate is standing in my kitchen holding the biggest darn groundhog I have ever seen by the tail. It's about as wide as my oven door. Look at that thing. It's got orange eyes."
"Probably from gnawing on pumpkins," I said.
"I got him, Stella! I got him!" I could hear Nate in the background. He sounded like a little boy with his first fish—or groundhog in this case.
"That's nice, sweetie pie. You did. You got him."
Stella hung up on her end, and I took a deep breath. "Now maybe those two will start getting along again," I told Arthur. It was nice to think for a minute that Stella and Nate had reason to celebrate. Now she just had to tell him about Walter. I hoped she would but didn't
count on it.
I had just slipped into bed when I heard a terrible banging on my front door. Even Arthur, who usually didn't give a hoot about noise, perked up. "Oh, my goodness, Arthur," I said, "you don't suppose Nate finally went off the deep end and—"
The banging increased and I heard hollering. I thought I heard someone calling my name. I pulled on my bathrobe and practically stumbled the entire way down the steps—ignoring my need to pee.
"I'm coming, I'm coming," I said.
I pulled open the front door and there stood Ivy Slocum, sopping wet in the rain, and crying so hard she rivaled the downpour. She was drenched inside and out.
"Griselda," she cried. "This is terrible. Just terrible."
I took her arm and gently pulled her into the house. "What is it, Ivy? What happened?"
I led her to the living room and helped her sit on the red velvet sofa. "Can I get you something first—tea? coffee?"
She shook her head. "No, no, I couldn't. Not now."
"Well, at least let me get you a towel."
When I got back with two yellow towels, Ivy was sobbing into her hands. I couldn't begin to imagine what had happened. I hadn't seen or heard tears like that since our friend Vidalia passed away.
"Did someone die?" I asked. I sat next to her and patted her knee.
"Yes, yes. Al . . . Al . . . Capone." She emphasized the last syllable with a sob that nearly shook the floorboards. I had never known Ivy could be so emotional.
"Your doggie, Al Capone?"
Ivy looked at me through glistening eyes as if to say, No, Griselda, the actual gangster.
I felt like an idiot for a second until Ivy nodded her head and her long white hair, a tangled mess, bounced on her shoulders.
"How, how did this happen?" I pushed tissues into her hands and waited until she blew. She wiped her red nose and swallowed.
"I . . . I found him on my porch. He had come home. I heard a noise—scratching on the door—and went to see, and there he was. Oh, Griselda, he just lay down at my feet and . . . and . . ." I patted her hand as tears rolled down my cheeks.
She blew a second time and looked at me. "He had a chicken bone stuck to his cheek and smelled like barbecue sauce. You know how he liked to raid Personal's trashcans."
"I do." Al Capone spent many hours down at Personal's Pub begging for scraps and emptying the cans. He often brought barbecue chicken back to Ivy.
"Where is he now?"
"Still on the porch. I don't know what to do. He's too heavy for me to lift. I covered him with my rain slicker and put my rain hat on his head so he wouldn't get any more soaked than he already is."
"That's good, Ivy." I glanced at the mantel clock. It was nearly eleven o'clock. "I think it's too late to call Doc Flaherty or the vet so you just sleep here—"
"If I can."
"If you can. And we'll take care of this in the morning."
"You mean we should just leave Al Capone out in the rain?"
"I could call Zeb and maybe have his body moved to your garage, but I think he'll be OK. He's protected under the porch roof."
"That old porch leaks but okay, if you say so, and if you're sure no night critters will gnaw at him."
I wasn't sure about that, but I chose not to dwell on it.
By ten o'clock the next morning, we had Al Capone at the vet in Shoops. Bill Tompkins helped us get him into my truck. Dr. Fish was a lovely young woman. She treated Al Capone and Ivy with kindness. After examining him for a few moments, she said, "If I were to hazard a guess and without a necropsy—"
Ivy winced and cringed and snuffed back a sob.
Dr. Fish put her arm around Ivy's shoulders. "Sorry, but I would say Al Capone died from an infection. Most likely, given his love for tramping around town and raiding trash bins, I'd say a chicken bone got caught in his bowel, perforated the lining and, well, infection set in. He was probably sick for a few days."
"He had been out a lot," Ivy said. "I was so happy to see him last night." Then she sobbed and fell into my arms.
Dr. Fish helped Ivy to a chair and then pulled me aside. "I could just take him and cremate the remains."
"Cremate?" Ivy said. "No. Al Capone deserves a proper burial."
"That's fine," the doctor said. "But do it quickly before . . ."
Ivy thanked Dr. Fish, and we headed back to Bright's Pond with the now stiff-as-an-ironing-board Al Capone in a large green plastic bag.
That afternoon practically the whole town turned out for Al Capone's funeral, even though the rain still poured. Ivy asked Studebaker to say a few words. We gathered in her backyard near a hole big enough for the dog but maybe a little too shallow in my opinion. Ivy asked Stu to dig it, and let's just say digging is not one of Studebaker's favorite activities.
But still he managed to make us laugh and cry as he recounted Al Capone's many exploits throughout the town and his ongoing feud with Eugene Shrapnel. Eugene surprised us all when he arrived for the service.
"I . . . I hate to admit it but . . . but . . ."
Ivy put her hand on his shoulder. "But you're gonna miss the old pooch."
Eugene shrugged her hand off with a harrumph. "No. I'm glad that scoundrel is gone. Now maybe my roses will grow proper."
But Ivy didn't relent. She grabbed Eugene's arm. "You big faker. I can see it in your eyes. You're gonna miss Al Capone. You liked having him to chase."
Eugene looked over the crowd. "All right, I admit it. Where else do you think the mutt would get steak to eat, real steak, not that gristle they serve at Personal's?"
That was when Ivy leaned down and pulled Eugene's head into her bosom. He nearly suffocated, but when she finally let him go, everyone saw a smile for the first time ever on Eugene Shrapnel's face.
"Ah, phooey," he said. "I gotta get home and into some dry clothes. This dang blame weather ain't fit for man nor beast."
That was when I noticed Stella making her way into Ivy's backyard. "Griselda. Griselda. I need to talk to you."
She stopped at Ivy. "I am so sorry for your loss. It's a terrible thing."
We all paused a moment as Studebaker threw dirt on top of Al Capone. A few minutes later he was finished and patted the mound down with the back of his shovel.
"What's the trouble, Stella?" I asked.
"It's Nate. First it was the rain, then it was the groundhog and the bugs, now it's the rain again. I swear that man is going to worry himself into an early grave—oops, sorry, Ivy."
Ivy chuckled. "All God's children gonna die sooner or later."
A crack of lightning and roll of thunder dispersed the crowd.
"At least God controlled his temper long enough for us to get him in the ground," Ivy said.
"Wish I could say the same for Nate," Stella said. "I just don't even want to be near him. Do you know that fool got so angry at the mildew that he knocked down the cow fence and is right this minute out looking for Lulabell?"
"Oh, this is getting ridiculous." I linked arms with Ivy and Stella, and we headed back to Ivy's kitchen. I saw a deep-dish cherry pie on the counter. "Is that one of Charlotte Figg's pies?" I asked. Charlotte was new to Bright's Pond. She had bought a trailer up in the Paradise Trailer Park several months ago. Charlotte Figg made better pies than anyone in town—and that included Zeb Sewickey. I'd never tell him that, but it was the truth. Ivy, Stella, and I ate pie and drank coffee and tried to come up with ways for Stella to keep Nate from going nuts every other day.
"I wish he had a brother or a friend. Another man who could help out with things," Stella said.
"I could ask Zeb, but—"
"No offense, Griselda," Stella said, "but Zeb's better off frying baloney and crimping crust. You know what I mean?"
I did. And I wasn't offended. I was only acting polite.
Ivy peered out the window toward Al Capone's grave. "I'm gonna miss him. Miss him a lot."
"I know you are," I said. I thought about suggesting she get another dog but thought better of it. Maybe to
o soon, yet.
"I'll just get another dog," Ivy said all of a sudden, like a cloudburst. "I know folks might think it's too soon, but he was a dog after all, not a husband."
"That's a good idea," I said.
Stella clinked her spoon on her coffee cup. "Hold on," she said. "You mean we have to wait a respectable time to replace husbands but not dogs."
"Stella Kincaid," Ivy said, "what are you planning?"
We all laughed.
"Nothing," she said. "I just like being with my girlfriends. It's . . . safe."
I pulled Stella close for a hug. "Sometimes I feel God's presence more when I'm with good friends, more than when I'm sitting in the pew. He's here, with you, with Ivy, with me, and He will lead us all through our valleys of shadow together."
That was when we all started to cry—each for a different reason, but with a common thread.
"Oh, my goodness, will you look at that!" Ivy said. "Maybe Jesus is here for a much more serious reason."
"What are you talking about?" I said.
"It's Al Capone. He's rising up from that grave."
Stella and I darted to the window. "What in jumpin' blue heck are you talking—"
She was right. Al Capone's body had risen up from his grave and was floating in a puddle.
I didn't know whether I should laugh or not, but I certainly wanted to.
"It ain't really a resurrection." Stella said. "Is it? Because I haven't ever—"
That was when Ivy punched her on the shoulder. "No, Stella, it is not a resurrection. At least I don't think so. You hear any trumpets, Griselda?"
"Nah, I didn't hear the trumpet."
"Now what?" Ivy said as she plopped herself on a kitchen chair.
"Well, we learned one thing. Grave digging should be left to the professionals."
"I shoulda known that Studebaker would screw it up," said Ivy.
"Ah, don't blame him," I said. "He doesn't know anything about how to bury a body. Can you really expect him to?"
"Nah, I guess not," Ivy said. "I better get out there and try to pin Al Capone down so he doesn't float away." Ivy buckled on her rain slicker and hat and then pulled on her matching rain boots. "I'll be right back."
