Blame It On The Mistletoe - A Novel of Bright's Pond

by Joyce Magnin

  "No, no, my heart is warm and therefore all of me."

  Mildred helped Leon in her cruiser. He seemed almost happy to be going to jail but then again, it is part of the story. Don Quixote was imprisoned. I figured this arrest only empowered Leon.

  "I think I'll stay here, in Paradise," I said. "Maybe I can learn something. And I still need to speak with Rose about the scenery."

  "Suit yourself," Mildred said. "I need to get him processed. Honestly, I think he likes this."

  "He does. But, Mildred, take it easy with him. He's really not out to hurt anyone. Don Quixote wanted to do chivalrous things, defend the poor, help damsels in distress."

  "Yeah, yeah, and the Easter Bunny is real, too."

  I watched them drive off and then headed out back to take a closer look at the bottles. From what I remembered of the book, Don liked to mix potions and such. It wasn't difficult to believe that Leon Fontaine, if that was really his name, was mixing up something for the folks at Greenbrier. I knew I was invading the man's privacy, but I really wanted to help. I was hoping to find something that would get him off the hook.

  I searched through boxes and found small pieces of paper and some black markers. And then I found the most damning bit of evidence.

  "Oh, Don," I said. "You're in trouble now, I think."

  That was when Asa sneaked up behind me.

  "What are you doing? This is private property."

  I spun around on one foot knocking a case of bottles to the ground.

  "Oh, Asa," I said. "I'm glad to see you."

  "I don't understand. Why are you going through Leon's shed?"

  "We didn't expect to, Asa. Mildred—you know who I mean—Mildred Blessing, Chief of Police in Bright's—"

  "Yeah, I know her."

  "Well, she thinks Leon is responsible for what is happening up at Greenbrier. We came up here to ask a few questions. He didn't answer his door so we came out here looking for him and found this." I pointed to the boxes of bottles.

  "So what? It's bottles."

  "And I found this, just now." I handed him the funny label.

  "It says Fountain of Youth Water. I still don't get it."

  "Isn't it obvious? Leon Fontaine has been bottling water from that fountain he built and selling it to the residents of Greenbrier as water from the Fountain of Youth. The man thinks he found the secret of longevity, right here, in Paradise."

  Asa took a step back. "Ohh, so that's why—"

  "They're all acting so crazy. They really think Leon Fontaine found the Fountain of Youth in Paradise. And so does he. He really believes it—I think. Unless this is his thing, going from trailer park to trailer park building fountains."

  "Oh, man, I knew the guy was a little off his nut, but I never pegged him for a fraud or a con artist."

  "Ar-teest," I said. "And in all fairness to him. He's not a fraud. Leon really believes this—that's probably why the residents at Greenbrier believe it. He can really sell it because I think he's convinced that water from the fountain over there is magical."

  "So what now?"

  "Not sure. Mildred arrested him and—"

  "Arrested him? For what? Giving people water?"

  "Nah, she got frustrated. You know how he talks circles around you. She took him down to the jail just to scare some answers out of him—I think. Although, I doubt she'll get any further."

  Asa looked into the shed and scratched his head. "I had no idea he had all this stuff. I knew about all the garbage he collects for his sculptures, but that's his business, long as he keeps it to himself. But this, maybe he is the problem."

  "It's really pretty sad, but yeah, it looks like Leon is creating the problems over there."

  "How's it going up there anyway? Are they still all—" Asa turned his index finger in the air and made the universal crazy gesture.

  "Not sure about that either. Maybe we just leave them alone for now. Wait until Mildred gets some answers, then I guess she'll talk to Doctor Silver."

  "OK, but in the meantime, maybe I should turn the fountain off."

  "Nah. I wouldn't. He's not hurting anyone—well, one broken hip and a bloody lip but you really can't blame him."

  "I don't know, Griselda. I think you need to go right to the head of the nursing home and tell him. As manager of Paradise—I still enjoy saying that—I can't just let it go. What if someone decides to sue us?"

  "It's not Paradise's fault."

  "But now I know about it. Well, I am at least going to speak with Hazel Crenshaw."

  "Who?"

  "Hazel Crenshaw. She owns Paradise. She lives down the road a piece. She'll know what to do."

  "I guess you have to do what you have to do. But I'd hate to see Leon go to jail or get kicked out of Paradise for this."

  "Nah, he ain't the devil. Just a little—misguided," Asa said with that calm tone I had come to expect from him.

  "He thinks he's a hero, a knight in shining armor come to help people," I said. "He'll probably just move on after all this settles down. It's how he lives."

  "Oh, he's helping all right," Asa said.

  "Gotta admit, it's a great fountain."

  "That much is true, at least."

  "Well, I drove up here with Mildred, but I actually came to see Rose. Have you seen her?"

  "She's one of two places, I reckon. Her trailer or Charlotte's."

  "Thanks. Which way—"

  "Rose's trailer is just down that way. You won't miss it. It's the one with the giant cement hand in the yard."

  Asa looked at the bottles and shook his head. "I still can't believe this."

  "It's not as bad as all that. It will get figured out and all will be well again."

  "I suppose you're right," Asa said. He closed the shed door. "And listen, I can drive you back to town after your time with Rose if you'd like."

  "Oh, thanks, Asa, that would be great."

  "Just come by the office. I need to go into town anyway and see Stu."

  "OK, I shouldn't be too long. I want to ask Rose if she'll help paint the scenery for the Sunday school Christmas pageant."

  "Oh, she might do it. Long as it can be done up here."

  "This way?" I pointed to the east.

  "Yep. Just go to the corner, turn right and then about halfway down. You'll see the hand."

  And he wasn't lying. A block or so down the road I saw it, the famous giant hand. It stood about eight feet off the ground with a rickety-looking ladder leaning against it. Part of me wanted to climb on up and see what it was like up there.

  The rest of Rose's property was what I'd expect for an eccentric artist. The trailer was bright, sunflower yellow with images painted all over it—like one giant mural. She had hanging baskets of flowers and colorful pinwheels and whirligigs poking out from what amounted to a bed of weeds.

  I knocked on her door and waited. No answer.

  "She must be with Charlotte."

  Fortunately, I knew where Charlotte's trailer was nestled amid the others, and I headed in that direction. But first, I couldn't fight the temptation anymore and climbed up the ladder and into the giant hand. I felt comforted right away if maybe a little damp from a small puddle of water leftover from the last rain. I lightly touched all the names so carefully painted there.

  Now I will admit that I felt a little silly, but after a quick peek around and seeing that no one was looking, I sailed my own prayer. A prayer about Zeb and me asking for God's clear direction. I sailed a prayer for Leon and all the folks at Greenbrier, and I sailed a prayer for Mercy Lincoln as she came to mind. Such a sweet child living in such deplorable circumstances. But I knew God had her name written on his palm also.

  After another quiet minute I climbed back down. "Uhm," I said to myself. "I think I'll come back here."

  It still seemed remarkable to me that I didn't see any of the other trailer park residents as I walked toward Charlotte's. I smelled cooking though, onions frying, maybe bacon, barbecued chicken for sure. But the only life
I saw was a stray kitten drinking water from a birdbath in someone's yard.

  When I turned onto Charlotte's street I saw the long red car first, a convertible with several yards of gray duct tape on the convertible roof. "Must have sprung a leak at one time."

  Charlotte's wooden walkway was slightly reminiscent of the one Nate Kincaid built for last year's Spring Dance. We had a Western theme and everyone dressed like cowboys and cowgirls. Except Cliff Cardwell, who was dashing enough in his bomber jacket. But I smiled at the memory of Nate wearing a skinny bolo tie with a silver clasp.

  Charlotte's trailer looked old and out-of-date compared to some of the others I passed, but I did like the hanging baskets of autumn wildflowers she had dangling from the makeshift porch roof. I knocked on the door and then I heard a dog bark. Then I heard Charlotte. "Lucky, come on boy. Let me get the door."

  The door opened.

  "Griselda," Charlotte said. "What are you doing here? Come on in."

  I stepped over the threshold and into another world. Charlotte's trailer was very much a trailer on the outside, but inside it was like a regular home with regular furniture and carpet, curtains, and the cutest little kitchen I had ever seen. But how she made all those pies in that space was beyond me. Charlotte Figg was truly a pie genius.

  "I was here with Mildred and actually came to see Rose. But she wasn't at her trailer so I took a chance that she might be here."

  "I am," Rose said coming out of the bathroom. "How are you, Griselda?"

  "I'm fine. I was just telling Charlotte that I came with Mildred but I was really looking for you."

  "Is she still after Leon?" Charlotte asked showing me to a sofa. "Sit. I can make coffee, and I have pie."

  That was when I noticed the large silver trophy on a long side table.

  "Pie?" I said. "Do you have cherry?"

  She smiled. "Uh-huh."

  "Charlotte always has cherry pie," Rose said. "It's become her signature." And that was when I noticed Rose was not wearing her usual brown sweater. I could see all her tattoos plain as day. The stories were correct. That woman had the entire gospel played out on her two arms and clear up to her neck. I saw a shepherd and a tomb and three empty crosses among other images that were difficult to make out depending on how she bent her elbows.

  I supposed we could have gotten into big old conversation about the reasons she had the picture made, but it wasn't my business—not then. Maybe one day.

  "Yes," I said bringing myself back to the moment. "Mildred came to speak with Leon, but I came to speak with you, Rose—about our annual Sunday school pageant."

  "Me? What can I do for the pageant?"

  "Well, I hear you're an artist."

  She nodded. "I like to paint, if that's what you mean."

  "Well, yes, I know. I saw the pictures on your trailer. They're beautiful."

  "Thanks."

  "Anyway, I was hoping you might consider painting the scenery for the play. Not much, just a manger scene and maybe a shepherd's field, some stars in the sky, that sort of thing."

  She looked at me for a long few seconds, almost like she was trying to look right through me and I felt a little uneasy. I thought I might have offended her sensibilities but if she had all those tattoos then . . .

  "Why not?" she said. "It would be fun. But, can I do the scenes up here? I'd feel better than going into town."

  "I don't see why not. Asa and Stu and probably Nate Kincaid can haul them down to the church when you're done."

  Charlotte returned with a Christmas-y tray with pie and coffee on it.

  "Help yourself," she said. "And Rose, I think that sounds like a fabulous idea. About time you used your talent outside of Paradise."

  "It does sound like fun," Rose said chewing a bite of cherry pie. "But you're gonna help me, Charlotte."

  "Me? I can't paint."

  "If you can work a brush you can paint sky and grass. I'll add the details."

  It was as though Rose had already imagined the entire scene. She knew exactly what she was going to do.

  "I'll get started right away," Rose said. "But I need some materials."

  "I'll have Nate bring you the stuff. He has these giant rolls of paper."

  "Good and thick, I hope," Rose said.

  "Yep. He gets leftovers from the printer in Shoops."

  We finished our pie and sipped coffee and enjoyed a bit of small talk about Christmas and such. Charlotte was looking forward to the parade.

  "Do you know I have only seen Christmas parades on the TV? I never been to one for real. Not a single one. Herman always said parades were stupid and he didn't want to stand out in the cold watching a bunch of idiots parading around like they were better than everyone else."

  "Geeze," I said. "I'm sorry you missed out. I think you'll enjoy this parade. We do it every year and it's always a lot of fun."

  That was when I spied the trophy a second time and an idea popped into my head. "Charlotte," I said. "I have a grand idea. Why don't you not only watch the parade but be in it?"

  "What? In the parade? But why?"

  "You and the Angels can ride on one of the floats. Maybe even have your own."

  Rose looked at Charlotte and the two of them burst into huge smiles. "Oh my goodness," Rose said. "That is a great idea. What do you say, Charlotte?"

  "I love it. The Angels will all be there—in our uniforms!"

  "We never had a softball float," I said.

  Charlotte sniffed and I think she might have wiped tears from her eyes. "I love it here. I never felt so at home in my life."

  Rose poured me more coffee. I also asked for another slice of pie—a sliver. The conversation lulled for a minute.

  "How's the pie shop coming along?" I asked

  Charlotte laughed a little. "Oh, that will be a while. I thought I might have it up and running for Christmas, but it doesn't look like it. Asa says it needs a lot of work to get it up to code— whatever that means. So I'll just take my time. I'm in no rush. Maybe by spring."

  She handed me a yellow plate with a perfect slice, more than the sliver I asked for of cherry pie. It could have been in a picture in a magazine.

  "How do you do this?" I asked. "I can't make pie to save my life. Crust is so hard."

  "It is tricky, but I had so much practice. My dead husband loved his pie."

  "I'm sorry for your loss." I took a bite of pie.

  Charlotte sat in her rocker across from me. She held a slice of pie on her lap. "Oh, thank you, for your concern," she said. "But don't be sorry, I mean—gee, that sounds terrible—I'm sorry he died and all and I guess I still grieve for him in ways, but it wasn't a happy marriage."

  "Is that why you said what you said?"

  "What did I say?"

  "You told me to tread softly with Zeb the other day."

  "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to rattle you. And here you are all engaged and everything. I'm just a little leery of—men."

  "So your husband, did he—"

  "Let's just say he was a bit domineering."

  I swallowed more pie. "Oh, Zeb isn't domineering. He just gets so jealous whenever I try to do anything on my own—fly an airplane for instance."

  "Fly an airplane?"

  "Yeah, that pilot fella, Cliff Cardwell, they talked about him at Thanksgiving, he's been giving me lessons."

  Charlotte nodded her head. "Oh, and Zeb is jealous."

  "Uh-huh."

  Charlotte looked at me for a long few seconds. "Should he be?"

  I finished my pie. "Cliff likes me and all, but I just like his plane. At least I think that's all I like."

  Charlotte clicked her tongue. "You better make certain. Make very certain Zeb's the right choice."

  "How can I tell?"

  "Ha! That's the question for the ages. I was sure when I married Herman. But then it all went wrong. And I let it fester for years and years. It would still be festering if he hadn't taken that stroke."

  "Stroke? Yikes."

  "Dr
opped him like a sack of potatoes."

  "Wish someone could tell me if I was making the right decision."

  "Pray about it first. And, then, I think you need to talk to Zeb about your concerns. Tell him—now."

  Charlotte was correct, of course, so I decided that I would tell Zeb my feelings that night. I felt good about it too. I had agreed to marry him but there was still time to be sure. And it would seem to me that of all the decisions I needed to make in life, certainty about marriage rated pretty high.

  Charlotte ended up driving me back to town. We let Asa know first and he was fine with it. Rose went along because she wanted to go into Shoops and get some paint she would need for the scenery.

  "Just give me the receipts and I'll get the church to reimburse you."

  Rose waved her hand. "Nope. It's on me. All part of my tithe."

  "As long as you're sure," I said.

  They dropped me at the town hall. I liked riding in her convertible. It was sleek and fast. Not like Old Bessie, who drove like . . . well, a truck.

  "I hope Leon isn't in any trouble," Charlotte said before I opened the door.

  "Me too. I kind of like him, and I really don't think he's trying to hurt anyone."

  "Leon? No. He's just weird is all," Rose said.

  "Thanks for the ride and the talk."

  The jail was little more than a locked room with no windows in the basement of the town hall. We didn't even have one until Mildred came to town. She insisted on it.

  "Got to have a place to lock the perpetrators up," she had said. "I can't be driving them all to Shoops all the time."

  I don't know why she thought Bright's Pond had a crime problem, but her jail was voted on and passed. Nate and Studebaker put the heavy-duty lock on the door and declared it the Bright's Pond Prison. Even hung a sign on the wall outside the room. Harriet Nurse embroidered it with big block letters but the tiny rosebuds seemed to take away from the seriousness of the place. I had only been in the basement a couple of times, usually to look for something missing from one of the town celebrations. It was where they kept the town nativity and Santa Claus decorations.

  Mildred was sitting outside the room reading a newspaper.

  "What's up?" I said.

  "If he isn't the most exasperating little man on the planet. I can't get a word out of him that makes sense. He just talks in circles and repeats things. I figured I'll let him stew in there for a while, then maybe he'll talk."