The Dog Days of Charlotte Hayes

by Marlane Kennedy

  I wonder if I should make my way over to the chocolate Lab, where she has already been. But then I would have to pass her. I decide to remain with Grace and Luanne.

  Before Kathleen has even made it down to where we are, I hear a “Hey, I know you girls!”

  Grace and Luanne are nodding and grinning beside me. My face is frozen with panic.

  Kathleen points at me. “You brought in a dog. And then you came back with your friends because you were worried about him. Well, guess what? His owner’s been located!”

  I try to look surprised by this news. She did not mention the breed of dog, thank goodness. So at least no one can make a comment about me bringing in the exact same type of dog my family has.

  “Isn’t that great? Now you won’t have to worry about him anymore!” she says.

  Oh, if she only knew…

  Chapter 22

  Mrs. Walters gives Grace permission to go to my house after school and is nice enough to give me, Grace, and Luanne a ride there. After being clear most of the day, it has started to rain again, so at least we won’t have to face a wet walk home.

  I asked Mama last night if Grace and Luanne could come over, so she’s not surprised to see all of us tumbling through the front door. She stops folding a peach-colored towel long enough to tell me we are welcome to raid the snack cabinet in the kitchen. She actually smiles. Justin Lee slept through the night again.

  Justin Lee squeals and shows off his newfound talent to my friends: walking. He takes about six steps and then lands smack on his bottom.

  “Hey, you didn’t tell me he learned to walk,” Luanne says. She claps for him. “What a big boy you are!”

  Even though he fell, Justin Lee looks very proud of himself.

  I lead Luanne and Grace into the kitchen, get them each a chocolate chip granola bar from the cabinet for an after-school snack, and excuse myself so I can tend to Beauregard. I grab a beige umbrella from the front hall closet and head out the breezeway door. Since it rained earlier this morning and is raining again now, he really doesn’t need his water bowl filled up, but he does expect a belly rub. I make a face and kneel, my hand sweeping over damp, dirty fur. I guess one bath doesn’t mean he’s clean forever.

  “Won’t be long,” I tell him. “Just hang on for three more months, and you’ll get as many belly rubs as you want and you’ll be dry and warm when it’s cold and cool and comfortable when it’s hot. You’ll have a real home to live in—not a chain and too small doghouse.”

  Luanne, Grace, and I are walking down Fenton Street. Gray skies, but only a few little spits of water falling down now. Still, I make Luanne and Grace stay under the beige umbrella. I don’t want the moisture ruining their hair. I French-braided Luanne’s black hair just exactly as I did before. But I tried something different with Grace’s hair. I divided the hair in half and made two French braids, one going down each side of her head. I walk behind them, so I can admire my handiwork, an occasional splat of water hitting my shoulders since I am umbrellaless.

  Luanne leans in close to say something to Grace, and the side of her head brushes against the umbrella post.

  “Careful!” I call out. I don’t want a single stray hair escaping.

  Finally we are all three standing in front of Rhonda’s Cut and Curl. I open the door, which jingles, take the umbrella from Grace’s hand, and usher my two friends in.

  Rhonda is busy rolling some lady’s short gray hair into tiny pink rollers. “Hey, Charlotte,” she says, smiling. Another hairdresser I don’t recognize is snipping scissors through Dustin Greenfield’s mother’s hair. Mrs. Greenfield waves to me. I decide, since I’m about to get a job, not to hold a grudge about her son’s leaf raking and snow shoveling business, so I wave back.

  It’s been a while since I’ve had my hair trimmed up—about six months—and I notice that Rhonda has grown considerably since I saw her last. Well, at least her stomach has. She’s pregnant. Very pregnant!

  Rhonda says, “I don’t remember your name on the books, Charlotte. You don’t have an appointment, do you?”

  I shake my head no. “I just need to talk to you. But I can wait till you’re done.”

  Rhonda continues rolling up gray hair while Grace, Luanne, and I sit in the little waiting area. I try to busy myself by looking through some tattered hairstyle magazines.

  Ten minutes later Rhonda puts the pink roller lady under a hair dryer and walks over to us.

  “What can I do for you?” she asks. “Selling something for the school? Candy? Magazines?”

  “No.” I motion for Grace and Luanne to get up. I spin them around so the backs of their heads are facing Rhonda. “I French-braid hair. I’d like to work here after school.”

  Rhonda seems a little startled by this news. It takes a moment for her to find her voice. “Charlotte, honey, your friends look lovely. They truly do. I couldn’t do a better braid if I tried, really. But you have to go to school and get a license to work in a beauty shop if you want to do anything to another person’s hair. I’m sorry.”

  Luanne and Grace drop their heads in disappointment for me. They slowly turn around. I want to burst out crying. I thought for sure I’d have a job here at Rhonda’s Cut and Curl. I imagined five or six customers a day as news spread of my braiding skills. And money stuffed in my pockets.

  A motion catches the corner of my eye. The other hairdresser is sweeping up clippings from Mrs. Greenfield’s freshly cut hair.

  “I could sweep!” I say. “I wouldn’t need a license for that!”

  Rhonda gets this concerned look in her eyes. “Are you having some sort of financial problems at home? Did your daddy get laid off? Or leave?”

  Goodness, if I told her Daddy up and left us, she’d probably feel sorry for me and give me a job. But what an awful lie to tell. And finances are tight, but we aren’t in dire straits. Besides, the last time I lied to the shelter lady about Beauregard being a stray, things didn’t exactly turn out the way I planned.

  As it so happens, I don’t have to say a thing, though, ’cause Rhonda says real quicklike, “I guess it’s none of my business what’s going on in your house. That’s private. But you do need to earn some money, don’t you?”

  I nod.

  “Listen.” She pats her big belly. “I’m due in a couple of weeks. Julie over there will be filling in for me here for a while. She’s a friend of mine from West Townfield, and she just got her beautician’s license. But every day at lunch, around one o’clock, I go over to check on my husband’s great-aunt. She lives in that huge yellow Victorian across the street.” Rhonda points out the window.

  It’s the house my mama has always admired. The one she would buy and fix up if she ever won the lottery.

  “She’s eighty-three and had a stroke a few years ago,” Rhonda tells me. “Has trouble getting around, so I walk down the street to get her mail from the post office; she has a PO box there. I’ve been telling her to put a mailbox near her front door, but she’s quite stubborn. Always had a PO box and doesn’t want to change. I also run to the corner store—Grater’s—to pick up a few groceries for her if she needs anything. Then I spend a little time visiting with her. Anyway, I live about twenty minutes outside town, so once my little bundle of joy comes along, it will be harder to check on her; it won’t be as simple as just walking across the street. Maybe you could do that for me for six weeks or so? After school you could stop by for about an hour and make sure she has her mail and enough to eat and is okay. What do you think? I’d have to talk it over with her first, of course, but I’m thinking maybe she could pay you ten dollars a day. It will only be Monday through Friday. My husband checks on her during the weekend.”

  I stand there dumbfounded. Did she just offer me a job?

  Luanne nudges me. Grace is grinning like crazy.

  “Sounds good,” I say.

  “Stop by here tomorrow after school, and I’ll let you know if it’s a done deal or not.”

  I quickly calculate the numbers in
my head. Ten dollars a day, that would make fifty dollars a week. At six weeks, I’d make…three hundred dollars, most of what I need. And I’d have another six weeks or so left to somehow earn the remaining twenty-five.

  The door jingles behind us as Grace, Luanne, and I leave Rhonda’s Cut and Curl. Me and Beauregard are on easy street now!

  I stop for a moment to stare at the big monster of a place across the way. Peeling green gingerbread trim frames much of the house, and even though the wood siding is a faded yellow, it doesn’t exactly look cheerful. It has stopped raining altogether, but an unexpected bolt of lightning flashes from behind, making the place look like some sort of haunted house from a movie. I only hope the occupant isn’t as scary-looking. An eighty-three-year-old who has suffered a stroke. What, I suddenly wonder, have I gotten myself into?

  Chapter 23

  I walk to Rhonda’s Cut and Curl after school the next day, wondering if I have a job or not. Part of me is desperately hoping for the job, while part of me is desperately wishing Rhonda will say it won’t work out. I’m a little scared of going into that creepy old house and looking after what could be a creepy old woman. I feel guilty for being uncomfortable that way; just because someone is old and has had a stroke doesn’t mean she can’t be nice, after all. But still, I can’t shake the feeling things will be awkward.

  Mama and Daddy have given me permission to accept Rhonda’s job offer, if there is one. They both think it will be good for me. But if it weren’t for Beauregard, I doubt I’d even consider it.

  I think of Beauregard and how if I start going to Rhonda’s aunt’s house every day after school, our usual routine will be interrupted. I guess he’ll survive, though. Since the weather has been getting cooler, he doesn’t go through as much water as he used to. He should be able to wait the extra hour or so for his belly rub as well.

  When I step into the beauty salon, Rhonda is busy at the front desk, taking payment from Mrs. Conti, the mother of one of Agnes’s friends. Mrs. Conti’s hair is in tight ringlets. Must have just had a perm. I catch a whiff of the stinky chemicals too.

  Rhonda smiles at me. “I’ll be with you in a minute,” she says, and continues to chitchat with Mrs. Conti.

  So I stare at my fingernails and bite my lip while I wait, my heart beginning a nervous beat. The pounding rhythm at first saying, “I want the job, I want the job, I want the job,” then: “No, I don’t, no, I don’t, no, I don’t.”

  Finally Mrs. Conti wraps up her conversation with Rhonda and turns to leave. “How are you doing, Charlotte?” she asks, suddenly seeing me.

  “Fine.” I’m afraid she will begin talking and further delay the suspense over my possible job, but she hurries out the door, and I let out a sigh of relief.

  “Well, guess what?” Rhonda says, smiling. “You’ve got yourself a job!”

  “I do?”

  She nods, putting Mrs. Conti’s check in her cash drawer. “To be honest, it was a tough sell. Barth’s aunt thinks she can fend for herself after I have the baby, but we finally convinced her it would be for the best.” She looks up. “I have a hole in my schedule right now. Want to go on over and meet her? Julie can hold down the fort for a few minutes while I’m gone.”

  The phone rings, and Rhonda’s friend Julie picks it up and waves us on. And without even waiting for my answer, Rhonda ushers me out the door and across the street.

  Chapter 24

  Rhonda pokes her index finger on the doorbell. “Sometimes it takes a while for her to get to the door to open it,” she says. “You’ve got to be patient, so wait awhile before ringing it again.”

  A ghostly face stares at me from the side window panel. I let out a startled gasp.

  “Oh! Guess this time she must have been right near the door when I rang the bell,” Rhonda whispers.

  I hear the inside lock being fiddled with, and the door creaks open.

  “Come in,” says a voice that sounds slightly off-kilter, like an accent from a country I’m not familiar with.

  “Go ahead.” Rhonda practically pushes me inside. She follows me in, shutting the door behind her.

  The three of us stand in the foyer, in front of a worn staircase with a red patterned carpet runner.

  “This is Charlotte Hayes,” Rhonda says, gesturing at me. “Charlotte, this is Petunia Parker.”

  I want to make a good impression, so I extend my hand. “Nice to meet you…” I pause. Do I call her miss? Mrs.? I quickly decide on Ms. to be safe. “Ms. Parker,” I say.

  “My right hand doesn’t work right,” she says briskly.

  Oh, dear. Blushing from embarrassment, I withdraw my hand. The stroke, of course. Stupid of me.

  “And don’t call me Ms.,” she says, her voice slightly slurred-sounding.

  It’s then I realize she doesn’t have an accent after all. The left side of her face is drooping, her mouth turned down on the same side. Speech problems from the stroke.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Just call me Petunia.”

  “Like the pig?” I ask.

  Oh, great. I can’t believe I just said what I said. Daddy likes watching the channel that shows old cartoons a lot, and for some reason I couldn’t stop the pig comment from flying out my mouth.

  “No, not like the pig. Like the flower. I was named after my father’s favorite flower,” comes the reply.

  Rhonda is smiling at my goof, obviously amused. It looks like she is trying her best not to laugh. But it is hard to tell about Petunia, since her face is half paralyzed. I think I can see the right side of her mouth twitch, though.

  Petunia turns her back to us, leans on her cane, and walks away with a strange shuffle hop. “Well, I might as well show you around,” she says.

  We take a slow tour of the downstairs portion of the house. To the right is a small formal sitting room, which leads into the dining room and then the kitchen. There is a hallway to the left of the kitchen that meanders around the stairway and ends up at the front entry. Petunia’s bedroom is at the rear of the house, then a bathroom, and a big living room at the front of the house. So we have, in effect, just made a circle. Everything looks old-fashioned. Like I’ve stepped into a time warp. But the place is tidy. And so is Petunia. Petunia is kind of pretty, I decide. Her white-gray hair is gathered in a loose twist in the back and she is wearing blush, lipstick, and a purple skirt with a lightweight tan sweater. Noticing these things makes her a little less frightening somehow.

  “You have a nice house,” I say.

  “Thank you,” Petunia replies. And I think I catch a certain amount of pride in her voice.

  Rhonda explains the routine I am to follow. She gives me the key to Petunia’s post office box and tells me that Grater’s Groceries down the street has set up an account for Petunia. I’m to get the mail first, then check with Petunia to see if I need to run to the store for anything.

  Petunia remains silent through all this. It occurs to me that she is looking just as uncomfortable as I felt a few minutes ago.

  “Well, I need to be getting back,” Rhonda says, checking her watch. “I have a four o’clock client coming in for a trim.” She touches my shoulder. “I’m planning on working until I go into labor, so I won’t need you until I have the baby, but I’ll call you when I’m headed for the hospital. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I say, following Rhonda to the door. Petunia and her cane thump after us.

  “Good-bye, Aunt Petunia.” Rhonda leans over and kisses her on the cheek.

  “Good-bye.”

  I say good-bye, too, but without the kiss, of course, and follow Rhonda out the door.

  “Well, that didn’t go too bad,” Rhonda says, while waiting for the traffic to clear so she can cross the street. “It actually went a lot better than I thought it would. She likes you, I think.”

  “She does? How do you know?” I definitely couldn’t tell.

  “Well, it took her years to accept me. Believe me, if she doesn’t like you, she lets you know in
no uncertain terms.”

  I don’t ask for details.

  Beauregard lets out an excited bark when he sees me approach. He knows I’m late. Wish I could explain to him why. There’s still a little water left in his bowl, so I don’t feel too bad about keeping him waiting. He doesn’t even need to take a drink after I fill it full of fresh water. Just flops over for his belly rub.

  Once I’m done with the belly rub, I try to ignore the piles of poop that have accumulated since the last time I cleaned up after him, which was only a few days ago, but it’s hard to ignore poop ’cause otherwise you’ll step in it. I’ve done that before and don’t exactly want a repeat experience, so I go to the garage to get a shovel and stop by the kitchen for a plastic bag. Soon I’m wrinkling my nose as I wedge the shovel between the ground and one of the presents Beauregard left me. Earning that $325 can’t come quick enough.

  After dinner Daddy visits his breezeway studio, Mama gives Justin Lee his bath, Agnes giggles on the phone with Tom, and I pull up saintrescue.org with a satisfied grin, imagining what it will be like to see Beauregard’s profile there.

  I click off the Web site, though, when one by one my family starts drifting into the living room: first Mama and Justin Lee with his damp hair, then Agnes, and finally Daddy. Daddy has brought his painting with him. He is holding it gingerly from the back edges where the canvas is stretched and stapled onto the frame. “Needs to dry, but I’m finished,” he says. “For you, my sweet.” He presents the painting to Mama.

  Mama looks happy. Happier than I’ve seen her in a long time. “Thank you. It’s lovely,” she says.

  And it is kind of lovely. It doesn’t exactly look like the picture in the book—much simpler and flatter maybe—but it still looks sort of nice.