by Joyce Magnin
Ivy dropped Mickey Mantle's leash and the dog trotted in his own three-legged style to Agnes. She held his snout and looked into his big brown eyes. "What a good dog. How've you been, Mickey?"
The dog licked her cheek.
"Maybe you can bring Mickey Mantle for Thanksgiving." Ivy looked at me.
"I was telling Agnes about our plans for the holiday. I told her we'll all come by her room on Thanksgiving and bring her a plate of food and pie and we'll have a party, right here."
"Oh, s-s-sure, Agnes. You got that right. Wild horses couldn't keep us away from Greenbrier on Thanksgiving."
Agnes smiled. "What time? What time will you all be coming?"
"Well, I can't say. Not just yet," I said. "I'm not certain what time Ruth is planning dinner. But I'll let you know. We still have a week to work it all out."
Agnes's mood deflated again. "I had no idea it would be such trouble."
"It's not trouble. It's just a matter of coordination and timing. But we'll be here with plenty of time to celebrate—good friends, good food, our many blessings."
"Blessings. Phooey," Agnes said. "I haven't been feeling very blessed lately."
"But you are," Ivy said. "You have friends. You have folks looking after you. You're getting skinnier by the day and pretty soon you'll be back in town."
My stomach wobbled. I refused to think about Agnes actually getting healthy enough to leave the nursing home and move back in with me. At least not yet. I wasn't ready. But I smiled anyway. "That's right, you'll see. Just stick with the program."
"All right. If you say so, Griselda. It gives me something to look forward to."
"Good, now like I said. I need to get back and get Ruth. Anything you need from Shoops?"
Agnes glanced around her room. "Nah. Nothing really. They give me everything I need, nothing I want but everything I need. Except maybe lemon squares. I need lemon squares, oh, and deodorant—the roll-on kind."
"OK, then I'll be back tomorrow." I kissed her cheek. "Yuck." I laughed. "Isn't that where Mickey Mantle kissed you?"
Agnes put her hand to her cheek. "Ah, there's nothing like some good dog slobber."
Mickey Mantle whined.
"Mickey Mantle doesn't slobber," Ivy said.
"No offense," Agnes said.
"Oh, I'm fine." Ivy chuckled. "But Mickey Mantle needs an apology."
Agnes scratched behind his ears. "I'm sorry, pooch. I didn't mind you kissing me."
Mickey Mantle licked her cheek again.
Ruth was, of course, waiting for me when I pulled up to her house. Ruth lived in an old farmhouse on the edge of town—next door to the eccentric artist Filby Pruett. She pretended she wasn't annoyed I was late, but I saw through it. Ruth didn't exactly have what you would call a poker face. She wore her heart on her sleeve and was the closest person to a best friend I had. She was a little older than me, a widow for quite some time and enjoyed staying busy as a member of SOAP—the Society for Angelic Philanthropy—which did secret charitable acts.
"Oh, Griselda, I just this minute stepped out on the porch. Perfect timing."
I smiled. But I knew she was probably standing there for the better part of half an hour. "I'm sorry I'm late. I got tied up at Greenbrier."
We walked to the truck.
"Everything OK with Agnes?"
"Oh, sure. She's fine."
I turned the ignition and off we went toward Shoops—the next town over. Bright's Pond had pretty much everything a person could need, but Shoops was a bigger town and had more shops and services. So it wasn't unusual for us to drive there for some things or just because it was nice to slip out of town on occasion.
"Glad to hear it. I think moving Agnes to Greenbrier was the best decision. I know it was hard on her. But it was best."
"I agree, Ruth. But I got to tell you. When I was over there today I saw some pretty strange things going on. Things that gave me pause."
"I'm not sure what you mean by strange? In what way?"
"It's hard to explain exactly—but it's like the old folks are getting younger or something—they have more of a spring in their step."
"Ah, it's just the holidays coming—it makes people happy."
"That's what I thought, but if you saw it, you'd know what I mean. That old woman, Haddie Grace, has been riding a tricycle through the halls. You should see her—ringing her bell, singing songs. It's like she's three years old."
Ruth laughed. "No, really? A tricycle? Maybe she slipped a few gears. Maybe her elevator stopped reaching the top floor finally, you know what I mean?"
"I do." I turned the truck onto the main road into Shoops. "But she's not the only one. Grown people—old people holding hands and kissing in the gazebo."
"Gazebo? When they get that? The last time I was out to visit Agnes I didn't see a gazebo. Is it white? I love a white gazebo—so Victorian."
"No, it's just that wood color and a little strange itself. Kind of crooked with a crooked rooster on top. But that's not the point. There was this old couple out there acting like teenagers."
"Ah, it's good for their hearts. And who's to say what old is? Why my Hubby Bubby and me were always what you might call frisky, even when we were fifty years old. Leastways until that nasty tumor ate his brain away but—"
"I hope you're right. I hope it's nothing. But Nurse Sally suggested that Haddie could have come down with a tumor in her brain."
"Oh, dear me, I hope that isn't the case. It's a terrible thing. Them brain tumors are like piranha, eating away. But I do remember my Hubby Bubby acting a little . . . off at times."
"I think we should pray it isn't that and instead something much simpler. Somebody once said that when you hear hoofbeats you should think horses, not zebras."
"Then we pray for horses," Ruth said. "But let's not be surprised if it's a zebra."
"Sounds like a plan. Now, where to first?" I took a breath and stepped on the gas as the road opened up. "I bet everywhere we go will be crowded. Even if it does look like rain."
"Let's see." Ruth reached into her handbag and pulled out a white envelope with what looked like a list written on it. "I need to go to the Piggly Wiggly, of course. I like their produce selection better than the one in town, even though we got all these farms around us. It's just easier to go to the Piggly Wiggly. Next I want to go to that specialty store with all the pretty linens and doodads. I was thinking to buy some new cloth napkins and—"
And Ruth was off and running. This would be the first year in I don't know how many that Thanksgiving was not celebrated at the funeral home where I had lived my whole life. Dad, the town funeral director, had been gone for many years, yet the house still looked like a funeral home. Hunter green trim, black shutters. A wraparound porch that saw many, many mourners file in and out. It was hard not to remember my mother sitting on that porch waiting to greet the loved one. She always had a compassionate smile and a plate of cookies and pot of coffee percolating in the kitchen. The Sparrow Funeral Home was my home but so much more, and now it seemed she was losing importance.
Even though everyone agreed it would be kind of sad that Agnes would not be joining us at the Thanksgiving table, it was agreed to have our celebration at Ruth's. And besides, as Studebaker pointed out, it would make a nice change.
"If the weather is nice I thought we could take our dessert and coffee outside. I was talking to that nice Charlotte Figg from Paradise—did I tell you I invited her and her friend Rose Tattoo to dinner?"
"No, you didn't. When did you see Charlotte? She's the pie lady."
"When I was up in Paradise the other day, you know doing some work for The Society. She's a very nice woman, they both are, her and that Rose Tattoo. Rose has got her arms covered with pictures, Griselda. Pictures of the whole gospel played out."
I felt my eyebrows rise. "Really?"
"Yes indeedy, seems there's some story behind them but she didn't tell me, and I figured that was fine. It's her business if she wants to have those pic
tures on her body."
"I hope Charlotte brings pie to Thanksgiving." I felt a smile creep across my face. "Not that yours won't be good, Ruth."
"I understand, and to tell the truth, I hope she does also. I think I might just ask her. I got my hands full with everything else."
I pulled the truck into a spot at the Piggly Wiggly. The closest one I could find to the entrance.
"I bet she'd love to bake pies for the dinner," I said. "I'm eager to taste them."
"They're delicious. I ate a slice of cherry when I was up there. It was incredible. Not too tart or sour—you know how cherries can be—or too sweet. Perfect."
"Is that right. I wonder how Zeb will take to having competition in town," I said.
"He's fine with the notion. I was at the café the other day and he said he'd welcome her pies. Maybe even put them on the menu, let them ride around in the pie carousel. He was tickled pink."
Yeah, tickled pink as in nearly fuming red. Zeb had the market on pie cornered in town. And he did serve some of Charlotte's, particularly her amazing lattice-top cherry. But I couldn't imagine him being glad to have Charlotte Figg's pies next to his in the pie carousel. Unless he had an angle I didn't see.
It was one week before Thanksgiving and the grocery store was crowded with shoppers, just as I figured. Ruth snagged a cart. She rifled through her handbag. "Now I know I put my list in here. Just this morning after adding a few last-minute items. There's always last-minute items."
"You just had it in your hand. You were looking at it in the truck."
"I know, but I shoved it back inside when we pulled into the parking lot."
"I guess you're planning a pretty traditional Thanksgiving dinner—turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, yams with those tiny marshmallows—all the trimmings."
Ruth was up to her elbow in her bag. "Ah, there it is." She pulled a folded page from the depths of her purse. "Not exactly. I thought we'd do something more . . . exotic."
I swallowed. The page she held had disaster written all over it. "Really, Ruth. No turkey?"
"Of course, we'll have turkey. It wouldn't be Thanksgiving without one. But I saw this fancy-dancy tropical Thanksgiving dinner in a magazine while I was waiting for the doctor the other day—I had to go see the gynecologist even though I'm way past all that stuff—"
"Ruth."
"Oh, sorry. Anyhoo . . . " She reached back into her bag. "I asked the nurse permission to take the magazine home. She said I could so I ripped out the picture." She came up with a second folded sheet—this one colorful and glossy. "Look at this. Isn't it the most scrumptious table you have ever seen? It's a Hawaiian Luau Thanksgiving. Look at all the colors and the flowers and those fancy drinks with the paper umbrellas."
Oh, dear. Ruth Knickerbocker has done some crazy things in her day, but I did not think anything other than a traditional Rockwellian Thanksgiving would pass muster with the gang. "Are you sure about this? A tropical Thanksgiving?"
"Look at this. It's a turkey with a pineapple and mango glaze. And I'm going to make a macadamia nut stuffing— not that tired old chestnut stuffing people expect every year. Macadamias are the official nut of Hawaii."
I just hoped our friends wouldn't be calling Ruth the official nut of Bright's Pond. "To be honest, Ruth, I never liked chestnuts, but are you sure about macadamia nuts? Where are you going to find them?"
"I called ahead. That fancy teashop down the road has them. I don't need many."
"Tea shop?"
"Yeah, I saw it the last time I was here. It's the very last shop on Main Street. It's a little scary on account of she has a sign outside—one of them wooden tent signs touting something about having a tarot card reader psychic woman in there. And it is called Madam Zola's Teashop and Psychic Fare."
"Ew, that's weird. Not sure how I feel about all the mumbojumbo."
"Well, I'm sure. I hate it, too, but it's the only place to get my macadamia nuts this time of year without going all the way to Hawaii, and I can't do that. And I figured with you along it will be less scary. Hope she doesn't have skulls and voodoo stuff in there. We'll just pop in, buy the nuts, and pop out."
"OK, Ruth, let's get inside the grocery store. It looks like a storm is rolling in."
"Oh, gee, you don't think it's because I want to go into a voodoo shop, do you? Do you think maybe the Good Lord is trying to warn me?"
"Nah, I think it's because the clouds are heavy and need to rain."
"Know-it-all."
It took the better part of an hour to find all the ingredients Ruth needed for her Thanksgiving luau at the Piggly Wiggly. I was surprised we found fresh pineapple. Mangos were another issue but she found a jar of already sliced fruit that had some mango in the mix. She grabbed three jars. She bought canned pineapple also—lots of cans. I pushed the heavy cart to the checkout and we waited and waited for the line to move. It gave me an opportunity to read the sensational headlines on those extraordinary news magazines. My favorite that day read, "World's First Mutant Turkey Over Five Feet Tall."
"I ordered our turkey from Brisco's Butcher Shop," Ruth said when I showed her the headline. "But it won't be here until next Tuesday, so I'll need to come back. I ordered a twentypounder. Do you think that's big enough?"
I nodded. "Yep. I don't think we need a mutant turkey."
"Probably tough and dry as shoe leather," Ruth said. It was hard to know if she believed the headline or not.
"And just let me know when you're ready next week," I said. "I'll drive you back down."
We finally had all the groceries bagged and out the door. We placed them in the truck bed. I pushed some other boxes I had in there near them, like a wall, to keep the bags from toppling over when we drove over the bumps on the way home.
The Madam Zola Teashop was the last in a row of stores that included Yost's Hardware, a Rexall Drug Store, and Mrs. Deeter's Fabric and Notion Shoppe. Ruth was not kidding; there was a yellow plywood tent sign outside touting psychic readings, tarot cards, and crystals in giant red letters with an image of a crystal ball on it. It gave me the willies just to look at it.
"Are you sure you want to go in?" I asked.
"Well, it's the only place I can get my nuts, Griselda, unless you want to drive to Hawaii, and that's just not very practical now is it?"
"Whoa, fine. The place is just a little spooky. But come on, let's go inside."
"I'm sorry," Ruth said. "I think I might be a little nervous about making such a large and difficult meal. I never cooked all by myself for so many people, and I'm trying some new recipes and, well, that's always nerve-racking."
"It's OK. I understand. And don't fret, I'll be there to help, and Ivy will pitch in. And I hear Studebaker mashes a pretty mean potato—you are having mashed potatoes?" I had just that moment realized Ruth did not purchase any potatoes— yams, yes, but no regular russets.
"At a Hawaiian Thanksgiving luau? Nope." Ruth picked a stray hair off her wool coat.
My heart sank. Thanksgiving without mashed potatoes is like a face with no eyebrows, Snap and Crackle with no Pop.
"But Ruth. You gotta have spuds. Mashed potatoes are the most important side dish. They're like the second-in-command of the dinner."
"I bought sweet potatoes—they're more . . . tropicallooking."
"Are you gonna mash them?"
"Yes."
"OK," I said even though I knew I would not be the only guest at Ruth's table missing traditional white, creamy mashed potatoes with butter and gravy. But believe me when I tell you there will be a bunch of us meeting at the café afterward for some serious albeit sneaky turkey and gravy snacking. Zeb would most likely have some Thanksgiving specials left over.
Ruth and I took deep breaths, and I pulled open the teashop door. A buzzer buzzed as we stepped across the threshold. The store felt and looked creepy with all manner of odd items everywhere. A wide assortment of teas was arranged on a large bookcase that looked like it came out of a medieval castle. The
teas were in jars and cans. A metal scale hung from the ceiling. Tables strewn with all sorts of crystals and incense burners, and other strange apparatuses made it difficult to negotiate the tight little store.
Madam Zola sat behind a counter with an old-fashioned cash register. She was heavyset, wearing a dark blue scarf with yellow stars on her head. Frizzy red hair shot like flames from underneath. She wore a long striped skirt and a gauzy white blouse. Chains hung around her neck, and long earrings with crescent moons dangled from her ears. I figured her to be in her sixties.
"Velcome, Velcome to Madam Zola's," she said not looking up from what she was doing. "I can see you've come for zomething . . . out of zee ordinary today."
I waved with three fingers. Ruth took a step back and whispered, "How does she know that?"
"Look around," I whispered back. "Everything in the store is out of the ordinary. It's not a tough call."
"Vhat vill be your pleasure today?" She spoke with what I decided was an affected quasi-Russian-slash-Transylvanian accent. I'll bet she was from Northeast Philly.
"Macadamia nuts, please," Ruth said as though she had just approached the Wizard of Oz.
"For tea. You like for tea? I have some nice macadamia nut tea here." She reached behind her on a shelf and pulled off a small yellow tin with orange writing. "Ve only stock zee best. And this tea is right from the island of Molokai vhere zee lepers are."
I swallowed. It didn't sound good.
"Oh," Ruth said. "I don't zink—I mean think—I want leper nuts."
Madam Zola chuckled with a boisterous chuckle. "Oh, no, no." She clicked her tongue. "Zay are harvested vis only ze best hands but grown in the most sorrowful soils—making ze best tastes for you."
"But I need whole nuts," Ruth said.
"I got those," Madam Zola said. "Zay are over dare." She pointed a gnarled finger toward the front of the store. She moved from behind the counter and took hold of a long, rickety cane with a serpent head and glaring green eyes. She tapped the cane twice on the floor. "Follow me."
We did. She limped and dragged one of her legs behind.
