by Joyce Magnin
"Really, Griselda. You saw it? But . . . but what happened? Is the pilot OK? Did it catch fire? Airplanes do that you know. They explode."
"He's fine. He's inside the café talking to Boris and Stu. His name is Cliff Cardwell."
"Imagine that," Ruth said. "A plane landing on Hector's Hill. This is just so exciting. And you say he's inside?"
"Yep. Go on in and meet him. I need to get to the library."
"Are you planning to make up with Agnes?" Ruth pulled her sweater around her as the breeze kicked up again. "I was so excited when I saw the plane land I didn't think of how cold it is."
"I can give you a ride home if you like?"
She glanced at my truck and then at the café door. "Nah, maybe I'll just go inside. You know, get a slice of pie. Stu will drive me back."
I smiled. "Sure, Ruth. I'll see you at the meeting tonight."
"Seven o'clock," she said.
The library was cold. I cranked up the heat, sat at my desk, and opened the morning's mail. There was nothing too exciting as usual, bills that I would give to Boris, a couple of publishers catalogs I would bring home and read later, and the usual junk mail.
The door opened and in walked Tohilda Best, the president of the Society of Angelic Philanthropy.
"Griselda," she called, "I was beginning to think you weren't gonna open today."
"I'm sorry, Tohilda. There was a little excitement. Seems a pilot made an emergency landing on Hector's Hill."
"I heard all about it. Everyone is talking about it. I heard he was a government agent forced to make an emergency landing after he learned that his plan had been sabotaged."
I laughed so hard I snorted. "No, no. Where in the world did you hear that? He's just a regular guy from what I can tell. His oil hose broke. That's all."
"That's a good thing because I didn't really believe all that about him being a secret agent and all. What in tarnation would an agent be doing in Bright's Pond, Griselda?"
"Nothing that I can think of. Now how can I help you?"
"Well, I was just wondering if we could have a meeting here in a little while. There's been three more births out in the backwoods, and we need to decide on what to bring them—if we can find them."
"Sure, do you know what time you want to meet?"
Tohilda looked at the clock on the wall behind me. "I told the girls to be here at eleven o'clock. Is that all right?"
"Sure is. I just need to get on over to Greenbrier later."
"Oh, I understand, Griselda. Such a service you do for your sister. How is she anyway? Losing weight, I hear."
"You heard that right. She's doing OK. A little cantankerous from time to time."
"I can well imagine after eating anything she wanted all those years and now being so . . . so what's the word?"
"Restricted?"
"That's it."
I nodded. "You can set up over at the periodicals table. Should I put the pot on?"
"Would you mind, Griselda? I know the girls will enjoy coffee, and I have brownies in my bag. Made them fresh this morning. Might even still be a little warm."
Tohilda made her way to the long, heavy table. She set out a tablet of paper and a couple of pencils, which were sharpened to a deadly point. Then she removed a sack of brownies from her bag, which she placed on the table.
I brought a paper plate to her for the brownies. "Maybe they'll look more appetizing on a plate," I said. "They smell so good."
"Take one."
I did and it was delicious, and I had to fight the urge to bring one for Agnes.
At eleven o'clock on the button, the library door opened and in walked the entire SOAP committee, Ruth Knickerbocker among them. She enjoyed doing charitable things for folks, but I never knew if it was the charity or the secretiveness of it that she liked—the sneaking around. I read an old adage somewhere that said, "Do good and forget it." That was Ruth. She never talked about the SOAP's doings.
I greeted the ladies and left them alone to do their planning.
By twelve-thirty I was on my way to Greenbrier—the perfect time. Just after lunch when Agnes would be settled and happiest.
"Didn't think you would come," she said. She was in her wheelchair. She wore a flowered housedress with snap buttons and wide pockets she had stuffed with tissues. Her feet had been squeezed into yellow slippers, and her hair was a little greasy and shorter than I remembered it.
"Did they cut your hair, Agnes?"
"Yes. The nurses said it would be easier to keep clean."
"How often do they wash it?"
She touched the bangs and then rubbed her fingertips together. "Not often enough."
"Maybe I can wash it while I'm here."
"Oh, could you, Griselda? They have that big, wide shower down the hall. Big enough to accommodate the chair. You can come right inside and wash it. Could you, please?"
I remembered Jesus' words. "Whatever you did for the least of these, you did for me." Although you couldn't tell by looking, Agnes was indeed one of the least in my mind now.
"I will," I said.
Agnes looked out the window. "The trees are really turning. Look at the colors out there, Griselda. I so enjoy the view."
"It is pretty, Agnes. It's like they all of a sudden burst into flame. I was worried there wouldn't be much color this year."
"But God came through again—especially with the sugar maples."
"There was some excitement in town today."
"Really. Tell me. Tell me slow."
I told Agnes about the plane landing and about Cliff Cardwell and how Ruth thought it was a UFO.
"I left him at the café. I think they were getting ready to take him over to the Kincaids' farm. He said any good farmer would have what he needs to get his plane flying again."
"That's good. I like to hear that the people are rallying together."
"Sure are. I think the guys—Stu and Boris and even Zeb—are pretty impressed with him."
She laughed. "They are such boys. Bet they all want a chance to go for a ride with him. You know, soar over Bright's Pond."
For a second I let myself think about that. It would be nice, to be up in the sky, soaring through clouds, looking down on the earth like a bird. "You'd see things in such a different way, wouldn't you, Agnes? I mean from up there. Up in the sky."
"Seems to me you wouldn't mind a turn either."
I smiled. "How 'bout if we see about that shampoo?"
"OK, OK. But first I got to hear about Stella. Did she see her brother yet?"
I shook my head and sat on Agnes's bed. "Not yet. She did tell Nate though, and he's madder than a hatter over it."
"Why?"
"Oh, I think he's more angry that Stella lost out on that inheritance money."
"Makes sense. How they getting along otherwise?"
"Not great. But there was a glimmer of bliss the other day. Nate finally killed that groundhog that was threatening Bertha Ann."
Agnes laughed. It was the first time in a couple of weeks that I've seen her laugh so hard.
"It's nice," I said.
"What is?"
"Seeing you laugh."
"I reckon I've been a mite surly, Griselda. This isn't easy, you know. And . . . and well, I've been thinking. I need to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry I took advantage, if that's what you call it. Believe it or not, it wasn't easy to let you do everything for me."
"I understand. I guess I should have stood my ground more."
"But I do so love your tuna sandwiches, Griselda, and your iced tea. And I think I miss lemon squares more than anything."
I made a mental note that I would sneak one lemon square the next time.
"Now about that shampoo, Griselda? My scalp is so blessed itchy."
I nodded my head. Change would not be easy.
10
The phone started to ring the second I set foot in the library. I made it a point to be there around three o'clock for the school kids. There were always three or fou
r regulars who came by to study, and then there were the ones who came in because they didn't want to incur the wrath of a parent for not getting their homework done—usually a research project or a book report. And truth be known, I enjoyed helping the children,
Zeb was on the phone. "How about coming over to the café for dinner before the committee meeting?"
"I don't know. I have a lot to catch up on around here," I said.
"Ah, come on, Grizzy."
"OK, if the kids clear out in time, I'll meet you at the cafe. Are you coming to the meeting or—"
"Yep. Gonna close the café early. Mondays are my slowest evening. Probably make a habit out of closing early on Monday."
"How did Cliff make out?" I asked.
"Cliff?"
"Yeah, silly, the pilot? Cliff Cardwell."
"Oh, Grizzy, why you so interested in him?"
I felt my dander get up slightly. "I am not interested, just concerned."
"He's fine as far as I know. Studebaker took him over to Nate Kincaid's farm. That's the last I heard, except I do know that plane of his is still up on the hill."
"OK." I was distracted by a group of students coming in. "I gotta go. I'll see you around five."
I closed up the library as soon as the last student, Mercy Lincoln, checked out her book-report book, Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury.
"This is a great book," I told her.
"Oh, I know that, Miz Griselda. Teacher said this here Ray Bradbury is top dog."
"She's right."
She smiled and we walked out of the library together. We stood on the steps together each of us taking a deep, long breath of fresh air. "Miz Griselda," she said. "Do you think a girl like me could grow up to be a writer like him?"
"I have no doubt."
"You mean it? Cause that is exactly what I am fixin' to do."
She ran off toward the woods. Mercy was one of the backwoods kids who came into Bright's Pond for school. She was a sweet little thing who always returned her books on time. She checked them out one at a time. Devoured every word and came back for more, whether or not it was a school assignment.
After a quick stop at home, I walked down to the café. It had turned into a crisp fall evening. Not so cold you couldn't stand it but cool enough for my heavy sweater. I enjoyed the smell of wood smoke and molasses in the air that evening. Hazel Flatbush must have been making a batch of gingerbread, one of the first of the season. I stopped as I passed her house, another big old Victorian with miles of gingerbread trim on the outside. I smiled. "Lots of gingerbread inside and out."
That was when I spied Mickey Mantle rooting around in Hazel's azaleas.
"Come on, boy," I called. "Get out of those bushes."
He looked up at me, smirked, and took off in the opposite direction. I wondered how long it would be before Mildred got the call to chase the pesky mutt down.
Zeb waited inside the café. Gilda was there also—the only customer left. Even Babette had gone home.
"Hey, Griselda," Zeb called. "I was just getting to know our newest neighbor here a little better. Did you know she rented Cora's house?"
"I did," I said, hanging my sweater on the coat rack.
"Good to know someone so nice is living there, you know?"
Gilda beamed at Zeb with wide eyes, long lashes, and pudgy pink cheeks.
"We can wait until Gilda finishes her sandwich, can't we, Griz?"
I took the stool next to her. "Sure thing." I glanced at the clock above the waitress station. "We still have twenty minutes or so. The meeting starts at seven o'clock."
Gilda took a bite of her baloney sandwich. "Oh, gee whiz," she said with her mouth full. "Am I keeping you folks from something?"
Zeb shook his head. "No, well, not really. We just have a dance committee meeting down at the town hall."
I watched Gilda swallow. "Dance committee, huh. I can't remember the last time I went dancing."
"You are certainly invited to ours," Zeb said. "It probably ain't nothing like what you're used to. It's just folks, you know. But we would love to have you."
Gilda pushed the last corner of her sandwich into her mouth, chewed, and then dabbed her lips with a paper napkin. "Well, ain't you just the sweetest little thing? I just might take you up on that."
I had never seen Zeb make such a fuss over anyone in all the years I had known him.
She pushed her plate toward the edge of the counter. "I better be going."
"Now, hold on a second," Zeb said. "Can't send you home without dessert."
He snagged a Full Moon pie from the carousel and cut a large slice, which he placed in a small plastic container. "Here you go, Gilda, on the house, too. Consider it a welcome-to-town gift."
"Gee whiz. Thank you, Zeb. I will enjoy this later."
She paid for her sandwich and sashayed out of the café with Zeb's eyes glued fast to her caboose before turning his attention to me. "Guess we should be getting on down to the town hall." He grabbed the money that was in the cash register, turned off the lights, and locked the door.
"Gilda Saucer is real sweet," he said as we headed toward the town hall. "Wonder why she's here though, you know? Seems a little strange."
"She didn't tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
"Her fiancé is a patient in the medical building over at Greenbrier, same building as Agnes as a matter of fact. He's been in a coma. That's why she rented Cora's house, so she could be close to him. There's no telling how long he'll be like that."
"Wow, that's awful, Griselda."
He didn't know the half of it, and I had neither the time nor the inclination to tell him about the Stella Kincaid connection.
"It looks like it's going to be a clear night," Zeb said. "We might as well walk. Then we can take our time on the way back to my house. Maybe go by way of Hector's Hill and sit a while or maybe even stroll down to the pond."
"I would like that."
Zeb pulled open the town hall door. Everyone but Nate was already there. Boris sat at the head of the meeting table with Dot Handy at his right hand to take notes. Mildred and Ruth sat next to each other. Ruth was wearing one of the bandanas she had planned to make for anyone who wanted one. She looked kind of cute with it tied around her neck with a loose knot near her left shoulder.
Instead of getting right into dance business, Cliff Cardwell became the main topic of conversation. Seemed that his plane had captured everyone's imagination. Ruth finally spoke up.
"I finished nine bandanas and six vests," she said. "Aren't they darling?" She made certain everyone saw her bandana.
"What do you plan on doing with them?" Boris asked.
"Hand them out at the door for folks to wear. It'll be just like a western scene," she said. "Don't you watch western movies? They all wear bandanas and vests. Well the men mostly but still—"
"Speaking of which," Studebaker said. "I spoke with Miss Lacy down at the high school, and she has the students working on scenery and signs."
"Wasn't Nate building a bar for the saloon?" Boris asked. "Where is he anyway?"
No one knew, but I figured he was home either arguing with Stella or tending to Bertha Ann.
"Oh, don't worry about Nate," I said. "If he said he'll build a saloon, he'll get it done."
"Good," Boris said. "How's the tickets coming, Mildred?"
Still in her uniform and looking a bit pensive, Mildred obviously had something besides the dance on her mind.
"I haven't gotten around to actually ordering them yet, Boris. I plan on driving into Shoops tomorrow though, and I'll visit the printer then."
"Just so we have them in time," Boris said. "I forget what happened exactly last year, but I know it was a big rush at the end and the printer had to work extra to get them to us."
Ruth looked instantly guilty because the tickets were her responsibility last year, and she had left off some vital information. "I did my best. It was just so hard to coordinate everything and then that
printer fella gave me such a hard time that—"
"It's OK, Ruth," Boris said. "No one is blaming you for anything. The dance is still three weeks away but I think we got everything pretty much under control." He looked at a check list he had scrawled on a yellow legal pad. "What about food and beverages?"
"Oh, that's my department," I said. "I got some of the church women making food and treats, and I heard about a woman who lives up at Paradise who is supposed to make the best pies in the world."
"Oh, my goodness," Studebaker said. "You must be talking about Charlotte Figg. Yep, I've tasted her pies. Now no offense to you, Zeb, but she makes the best pie, blueberry, apple crumb, peach, you name it."
"Well, I thought I'd ask her to bake some pies in exchange for two free tickets. We'll pay for ingredients as always."
"Sounds good," Boris said. "Be nice to have some different pie for a change."
"Hey, hey," Zeb protested. "My Full Moon pie is still a hit, and I am planning on making it extra special this year. You remember that, don't you, Ruth? Harvest Moon pies."
"Of course, Zeb, no one is saying your pies aren't tasty," Boris said. "It will just be nice to have something different."
"I for one would love a cherry crumb," Stu said. "I don't know what that woman does with the cherries to give them the right amount of tartness and sweetness, but—"
"Criminy, Stu," Boris said, "can we please discuss the dance. That is why we're here."
It took close to ninety minutes to get all the other dance details worked out from the number of folding chairs we would need to who was going to collect the tickets at the door—even which basket to use. The one they used last year was much too large according to Ruth. Dot Handy had all her notes organized in a small blue binder with tabs for each area of discussion. She sometimes wrote feverishly and other times merely made doodles. Dot liked to draw turtles. But she never missed an important point and was often called upon to read back what someone had just said—like a court reporter.
It was a little after nine o'clock when Boris adjourned the meeting. Mildred bolted out the door like she had just gotten word of a bank robbery while the rest of us lingered at the table.
