by Joyce Magnin
Ruth, who was sitting next to me, grabbed onto my hand. Sometimes I think the woman had a sixth sense. She held on tight and whispered in my ear. "You'll get it figured out." We held hands for almost five minutes, and I appreciated the comfort it brought.
After the service, Ruth and I headed up to the Paradise Trailer Park for the Blessing of the Fountain. I had not been in Paradise since Ruth and I went up there to watch one of the Angels softball games. Charlotte Figg was not only a tremendous pie baker, but she was also the Angels coach and nearly coached the team to a championship. From what I understood, she had moved to Paradise after her husband died. She started the team because she didn't think there was enough community spirit in the trailer park. Apparently it worked because ever since then everything I hear about Paradise is positive and sweet.
I couldn't help smiling when I drove under the Paradise Trailer Park sign. There was something totally endearing about the place. I enjoyed seeing all the colors of the trailers— everything from bland gray to turquoise. Now I don't mean no disrespect but trailer parks do seem to attract a different kind of people. They are their own culture. And Paradise was, of course, no different. But I suppose the strangest thing in the park was the giant concrete hand that Rose Tattoo had in her front yard. It was there that she and some of the other residents went to pray—safe in God's hand.
Studebaker told me that he and his cousin Asa rescued it from a defunct amusement park. They hauled it back to Paradise, and Rose immediately set it up in her front yard. Then, Stu says, she proceeded to paint the names of every individual in the park on the hand. Stu said it was a physical manifestation of the Scripture that tells us we are all safe in God's hand and that our names are written on his palm and nothing and no one can pluck us from it.
I've seen the hand only the one time, but I will admit that that day I wondered if maybe some time in God's giant palm might help me think through my quandary.
"Maybe I'll do it," I said.
"Do what?" asked Ruth.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm thinking out loud. Maybe I'll sit in that giant hand they got here and pray about Cliff and Zeb."
"Couldn't hurt," Ruth said. "And while you're up there, Pray for my Thanksgiving."
We drove a little farther down the road. People were walking toward the center of the park carrying lawn chairs and blankets and covered dishes.
"Looks like they're gearing up for the festivities," I said.
I parked the truck against a curb between a black Oldsmobile and a yellow Duster. I haven't seen such a gathering since the night Studebaker unveiled the welcome sign to honor Agnes Sparrow and the supposed miracles she was performing. The sign was wrong in many ways from spelling to purpose and the festive feeling failed. Now that was the debacle to end all debacles and in my opinion was far greater than what was happening at Greenbrier. I caught a glimpse of Asa making his way to the front of the crowd.
Asa was himself quite a character. He was missing his right arm. The story goes that he blew it off playing with dynamite when he was teenager. I saw children carrying American flags. And every so often a firecracker would go off. Studebaker said Asa had gotten his hands—or I should say hand—on some real fireworks, and they were planning on setting them off after dark.
I sailed a silent prayer that when the fountain was revealed, nothing would go wrong.
The Paradise folk gathered in a small crowd near the fountain. From where Ruth and I were it was hard to get a good look unless we could stand on something. But I didn't see anything that would accommodate us.
"Come on," I said grabbing her hand. "Let's get closer."
I saw Rose Tattoo standing next to Ginger Rodgers, the little person who played shortstop on the Angels softball team. I never met her before, but I watched her play in a couple of games. She could run like greased lightning. Next to her was a tall woman, skinny as a rail with long hair tied in a ponytail that hung down her back and reached to her waist. I didn't recognize her. But next to her was Charlotte Figg holding what had to be a pie.
"Let's go stand with Charlotte and her friends."
"You think it's going to be all right?" Ruth asked. "I wouldn't want to intrude. It is their fountain."
"Oh, don't be silly, they won't mind. Come on."
"Hi, Griselda," Charlotte said. "I'm glad you could make it. Do you know my friends?"
"Of course she does," Ruth said. "I told her all about them. This here is Rose, the woman with all the tattoos."
I shook Rose's hand and noticed green, scraggly tattooed vines encircling her wrist and one finger. I tried not to pay it any attention. But she smiled into my eyes like she knew the best secret in town.
"Nice to meet you," she said. "We've heard a lot about the Sparrow sisters."
"And this is Ginger Rodgers. She's a Little Person. They don't like being called midgets."
"Nice to meet you too," I said to Ginger.
She shook my hand seemingly unaffected by Ruth's remark. I will admit it was a little like taking the hand of a child.
Ruth swallowed about a dozen times trying to get her bearings. A tattooed woman and a little person might have been a little much for her to introduce all at once. She became a bit rattled and starter to sputter her words. She was like an outboard motor having trouble getting started. Or she fibbed and has been sucking down coffee like wild again.
"This is my friend Ruth Knickerbocker," I said. "I don't believe you and Charlotte have met."
"Ruth," Rose said. "Are you Vera Krug's sister? The woman on the radio?"
"In-law. Sister-in-law."
"Oh, well, anyhoo, I saw her earlier. She's probably gonna report about the blessing on tomorrow's show."
"Dandy," Ruth said.
One of those silent, awkward pauses passed through our little group until Ruth blurted out, "I'm just so excited that you're all coming to Thanksgiving dinner."
"I was meaning to ask," Rose said. "Would it be all right if Asa came along? Otherwise he'd just be here by himself."
Ruth's table was going to need another leaf, or we were gonna have to rent out the town hall to get everyone accommodated.
"Absolutely. I just hope my turkey is big enough," she said looking at Ginger Rodgers. "But I don't suppose you eat much now—"
I elbowed her spleen.
"Don't let my size fool you," Ginger said. "I can eat like a lumberjack."
"How . . . delightful," Ruth said.
The crowd continued to grow and then all of a sudden music blared through the PA system. "The Stars and Stripes Forever." Some folks clapped but most grew quiet. I noticed a few men take off their hats, placing them over their hearts in a silent meditation.
The music faded off and so did the noise from the crowd. Asa stood on a homemade podium that seemed a skosh crooked to me. "Leon must have made it," I whispered to Ruth.
Asa spoke into a microphone and his voice was transmitted over the speaker system. I figured they could hear him clear to Scranton.
"Welcome," he said. "Welcome to the Blessing of the Paradise Fountain."
A cheer went up through the crowd.
"Some have said that the fountain would never flow again. But they were wrong."
Another cheer, but smaller and shorter.
"Thanks to our new friend, Leon Fontaine, the waters flow again." He indicated for Leon to join him on the podium. Leon had been sitting up front in one of the wooden folding chairs arranged for the VIPs. I saw Pastor Speedwell and Boris Lender also.
Leon, a little troll of a man with a long crooked nose, long curly hair, and a chin the size of a Granny Smith Apple, stood to a resounding round of applause and cheers. Then he sat back down.
"He must be shy," Ruth said.
"Leon didn't want to speak today," Asa said. "We are all so appreciative of his great effort and skill. Thank you, Leon Fontaine."
Leon stood and took a deep bow, swiping the ground with his hand.
Another cheer and then Boris Lender stood near the h
uge tarp that hid the fountain from view.
"It is with great honor and excitement that I now ask First Selectman Boris Lender to unveil our Paradise Fountain."
"Thank you," hollered Boris. And he gave a great yank on a cord and . . . nothing happened. He pulled a second time and still the tarp held fast.
"Oh, dear," Asa said. "Just a moment, folks." Asa ducked behind the tarp and we heard some rustling and cursing until he popped back out. "Now, Mr. Lender, drop that tarp."
BAM! The tarp fell; the cheers rose to the heavens and then stopped as all eyes gazed upon the wonder that was the Paradise Fountain. A peach-colored brick wall, six courses high encircled the area. Inside that wall was another square red-brick enclosure with small gargoyles perched on each corner. The gargoyles looked handcarved from chunks of granite. They were skinny and weird with arched backs and wings. But not too unfriendly.
The actual fountain was inside the circle. I saw one large pipe and three smaller ones.
"Would you look at that," Ruth said. "What are those little creepy things on the corners? They look kind of like bats."
"Gargoyles," Ginger Rodgers said.
"Yes, they're actually traditional and were used as waterspouts on rooftops to drain away rainwater," I said.
"Um," Ruth said. "Librarians."
Asa moved to the podium again. "And now with no further ado, Leon Fontaine will turn the water on."
Leon moved to a small, crooked shed with a crooked cupola behind the fountain. He disappeared inside and then seconds later the water flowed in great gushes and spurts and seconds after that the water ran from the gargoyles' mouths into the square section of the fountain which began to fill and then recede.
"Well," Rose said. "I must admit that it is . . . spectacular. Almost makes my giant hand pale."
"Don't you ever talk like that," Ginger said. "It's no comparison. Not at all. What you got is the Hand of God."
Pastor Speedwell walked to the podium next. "I stand in awe and wonder today at this magnificent sight. A sight that will not only bring joy and beauty to Paradise but a sight that will remind us all of the Living Water available for each and every one of us to drink. Namely, Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior. Let us pray."
It took a second or two but Pastor was off into one of his Holy Ghost–raising prayers that made you afraid to open your eyes for fear you'd see the spirit of God moving through the crowd.
All at once, a woman I didn't recognize burst into an a capella rendition of "There Is a Fountain". "There is a fountain filled with blood," she sang, "drawn from Emmanuel's veins; and sinners plunged beneath that flood lose all their guilty stains."
She completed three of the four verses and then sat down with tears streaming from her red face. But then cheers and calls went out through the crowd as this tiny trailer park community united in a common theme of joy and identity made possible by a strange little man with a funny nose and a funny name that for right now, at least, was Bright's Pond's numberone suspect.
9
The next morning, Monday, I drove Old Bessie up to the top of Filbert Street near Hector's Hill and tuned in to radio station WQRT. Rassie Harper, the biggest jerk on planet Earth as far as I'm concerned, did the morning talk show. Ruth's sister-inlaw Vera Krug had a small spot on the show called Vera Krug's Good Neighbor News. She mostly reported on what was happening in Shoops but often stuck her nose in the business of Bright's Pond.
I waited a few minutes listening to Rassie go on and on about political nonsense. He was still harping on about the war in Vietnam that nobody understood. Rassie hated Richard Nixon's guts and was thrilled as peaches and cream the day the president resigned.
"And now," Rassie said, "let's spend a few minutes with that friend to you and me, that lovely lady of the radio. Here she is, that winsome woman of the airwaves, Vera Krug here with your Good Neighbor News."
"Thank you, Rassie," Vera said. "Vera Krug here with your Good Neighbor News, for Monday, November 25, the Monday before Thanksgiving. I hope you all got your turkey ordered from Brisco's Butcher Shop, your shop for the tastiest, tenderest, meats in town. Mr. Brisco says there's still time to order your turkey, but do it today or you are out of luck."
That reminded me that I promised Ruth I would take her into Shoops the next morning to do just that—get the turkey. For once, I was grateful for Vera Krug.
"And speaking of Thanksgiving," Vera said. "The folks up at Bright's Pond were at it again. Well, the Paradise section of the town, you all know that funny little trailer park they got up there with all them pretty-colored trailers? Well, guess what? Now they got themselves a fountain. A real fountain that flows water and everything. I was up there yesterday—" she paused and coughed and it sounded like she took a sip of something—"yesterday for the Blessing of the Fountain. It was a nice time, except I got to tell you folks that the odd little man that built the fountain, a man they call Leon Fontaine, is one strange fella—looks a little like the gargoyles he carved for the fountain."
I laughed right out loud because she was right. Leon Fontaine did look a gargoyle.
"And not only that," Vera continued. "But am I the only one that smells a rat in Paradise? I mean it, really, Leon Fontaine. Isn't that just a little too convenient a name for a fountain builder? I looked it up. Fontaine is the French word for fountain and wasn't that explorer fella, who was looking for the Fountain of Youth named Leon? Leon Ponce a Tawney or something?"
"Ponce de León," Rassie broke in. "The explorer was Ponce de León."
I think my heart might have stopped beating for a second or two. I hadn't taken notice, but bless her soul, Vera was right. Mildred was right. The deck was quickly getting stacked against the man and the sooner Mildred or somebody figured it out the better.
I turned up the radio. "And that ain't all," Vera said. "I hear there are some strange doings up at the Greenbrier Nursing Home. I've had reports that some of our octogenarians have been acting quite a bit odd—riding tricycles and pitching woo like they was teenagers. Woo hoo, Bright's Pond is going nuts."
"What?" Rassie cut in. "When did all that start?"
"Don't know for certain but my sources tell me that ever since that Leon Fontaine, if that's his real name, and I'm betting it's not, came into town and started working up at Greenbrier the people have been acting weird, all young and all."
"And you think he found the Fountain of Youth?" Rassie said.
"Now I didn't say that, Rassie. I just said I see some coinky-dinks that are kind of hard to swallow."
"You keep your reporter's nose to the air," Rassie said. "We'd all like to know what's going on up there."
"I bet you would," I said to the radio. "You just love digging up dirt."
I turned off the radio and the windshield wipers. For some reason the station always came in better if I had the wipers going. I headed straight for the town hall. I needed to talk to Mildred Blessing about all of this. I hoped she had learned something more.
But before I could drop the gear shift into drive there was a tap on the window. It was Cliff Cardwell.
"Hey, Griselda, what are you doing up here. Looking for me?"
"N-N-No, Cliff. You startled me in fact."
"I'm sorry. It's hard to creep up on a person without scaring them."
"I came up here to listen to the morning show. Vera Krug's show."
"Oh, yeah, I heard about her. She's a pip from what I hear."
"Yeah, she is. But maybe smarter than we give her credit for."
"Um," Cliff looked into my eyes. "I still think you are the prettiest woman in Bright's Pond."
"Cliff, I told you. I'm not interested—"
He put his head through the window and kissed me.
"You were saying," he said.
I took a breath and swallowed. "I was saying that I need to be going. I got something to do and then I have to open the library and tomorrow is turkey day and then it's Thanksgiving and Ponce De Leon is in town and—"
"Slow down," Cliff said. "You're a little rattled."
"I'm sorry. But I really need to go."
"OK. I have to fly to Binghamton this morning and pick up a package for someone in Shoops. Want to come?"
"No, Cliff. I just told you I have things to do." He tapped the door. "Right. Things." He stepped away from the truck as I pulled away. When I figured I was out of sight, I banged the steering wheel. "I am so mad. I hate the effect he has on me."
But I pushed that thought aside and made my way straight to the town hall. Mildred Blessing had a small office inside. I parked next to her cruiser and dashed up the steps and through the door.
"Mildred," I called even before I got to her door. I looked inside. She was sitting there looking through a stack of papers.
"Mildred."
She looked up. "Oh, Griselda, morning. Why do you look so flushed? Been seeing that sexy pilot fella again?"
I shook my head. "No, now listen." I sat in the leather chair. "Did you listen to Vera Krug's show this morning?"
"No," she said still looking through papers. "I was going to but I had to come here instead."
"She reported about the fountain blessing and—"
"So, what's that got to do with anything?"
"It might have everything to do with what is happening at Greenbrier. I just can't figure out how. The connection I mean."
Mildred's eyes brightened. "Ohhh. You got something, Griselda. So there is a Paradise connection?"
"Not sure. I mean I don't have any evidence. I don't have any facts. I only have what Vera Krug said."
Mildred laughed. "So you got nothing. Just the babbling remarks of a postmenopausal busybody with nothing to live for but rumors."
"Now that isn't nice."
"OK, I take it back. I'm just in a mood."
"Is it your time?" I said. "Have a little visit from Aunt Flo?"
"Aunt Flo? Oh, I get it. No. That's not it. I just lost some permits I was supposed to have and if I don't find them I could be in a heap of trouble."
