Blame It On The Mistletoe - A Novel of Bright's Pond (15 page)

I couldn't help it and laughed right along with Sally and Agnes and Zeb.

"We found no fire. But we did find this—are you aware this is a flammable liquid?"

I laughed harder. "Yes." I managed to say through tears and laughter. "I brought it so I could flame Agnes's pineapple surprise."

The fireman looked at me like I was the worst criminal on the planet. "You what? Flame what? Pineapple what?"

"Surprise," I said. "Kind of like cherries jubilee only it's pineapple mango upside-down jubilee or something like that."

The officer handed me the jar. "You could have created a serious situation here, Ma'am."

"Yes sir," I said. "I won't do it again."

"Happy Thanksgiving," he said. Then he called his men to the truck. "And get those people off my truck." And off they went.

It took a little longer to get all the residents back into the building and into their rooms than it did to get them out. Sally had to take an inventory and make sure every person was accounted for. Zeb and I helped as much as we could.

"That was fun," Agnes said when we arrived back at her room. "I can't believe how fast you got me out of here, Zeb."

"You're getting lighter, Agnes."

In a way it was nice. Nothing like a good old-fashioned false alarm fire drill to make people friends. Impending disaster was great for soothing old wounds.

I was still laughing as Agnes finished her cake. "At least they didn't confiscate your cake."

"It's good," Agnes said. "I got to hand it to Ruth. Make sure you tell her how much I enjoyed it."

Zeb stood near the window looking out at the gazebo. "That's quite a piece of craftsmanship. I wonder why he makes everything so crooked."

"Because he's a crooked little man with a crooked nose and so he makes crooked things," Agnes said. "He might even be a little cross-eyed."

"I don't know," I said. "I think it's awfully suspicious. I think he has something to do with the people acting so weird around here."

"Ah c'mon," Zeb said turning around, "what could he possibly have to do with it?"

"Ever hear of the Fountain of Youth?" I asked.

I thought Agnes was going to choke on her cake. "Are you kidding?"

"I don't know what to think," I said.

Zeb pulled me in for a hug. "Let Mildred and the folks in charge of Greenbrier figure it out. We have a wedding to plan."

Agnes choked again.

"Rrr-right," I said. "The wedding." I buried my face in Zeb's shoulders as a shiver wriggled down my spine. A
wedding.

My mind was just not on my work at the library—which wasn't all that invigorating—I restocked books, dusted, opened mail, and read a magazine.—After I finished, I decided a long walk home might be the ticket. All I kept thinking about all day was Zeb and planning a wedding. I had no clue where to even start. I just figured we'd invite folks to the church, pastor Speedwell would do his thing, and then it'd be done. But as I leafed through some of the women's magazines— including
Modern Bride,
my hands got sweaty and my heart pounded. Cake, flowers, reception, music. It all sounded so daunting and not the least bit enjoyable. But maybe it had less to do with the work involved and more to do with Zeb. I was feeling so mixed up I was driving even myself nuts over it. But I couldn't help feeling like something was missing between us.

One of the magazine articles said something about speaking with the pastor before the ceremony. That might be important. As weird as I thought our pastor was, he was still our pastor. He would still be the one to do the pronouncing, so I'd ask Zeb to make an appointment.

As I straightened up and made sure windows were locked and shades drawn, I remembered that Clive and Faith were set to tie the knot the next day. "I bet they didn't plan some huge affair," I said out loud. "I bet they just got a license, scheduled Boris, and paid him ten bucks to do it." Short. Sweet. And to the point. I hated rigmarole.

The day was cold but nice. Winter was definitely in the air and I thought I even smelled a hint of snow in the air as I started down the library steps. I heard a rustle in the bushes. "Mickey Mantle," I called. "You come out of there."

I waited, but he didn't show. So I spread apart the branches and much to my surprise saw my little friend Mercy Lincoln. "Mercy. What in tarnation are you doing in those bushes?"

She pushed her way out. "Just playin', Miz Griselda. I was hidin' from that Mickey Mantle, but he took off long ago and hasn't come back to find me."

I helped her onto the pavement. She was only wearing a little blue windbreaker and thin pants. "Where's your heavy coat? It's downright cold today."

"Mama didn't get one big 'nuf. I done outgrew my other."

"Oh, Mercy. OK. I'll get you a coat. Now you run back home and I'll get it to you. Don't want you catching a cold."

"Oh, no, I won't catch no cold. I never catch cold. Not like some of the other children. Some of them been coughing something fierce."

"OK, Mercy. I'll ask Doc Flaherty to stop by and see if he'll check out some of the families."

"Thank you. But . . . I was wonderin' something, too."

"What's that?"

"I was wonderin' if I could get me another book ta read. I plumb read all I got."

"You finished
Heidi
and
Sherlock Holmes
already?"

"Oh, yes'm. That Mr. Holmes is one right smart fella."

"Where's the book?"

"It's ta home."

"Well, the library is closed right now so—"

But Mercy had a way of looking at me that pierced my heart every time. And besides, a short visit in a warm place might do her more good than sending her back to the hovel right away.

I opened the door and in she ran straight for the radiator. She warmed her hands like it was a fireplace. "It's so nice and warm in here. A body could live in a place like this. With all the books. Then I'd never run out."

"I can't let you do that, Mercy. But let's go find you a new book."

A few minutes later, I checked out a copy of
Moby Dick
for Mercy.

"Now it's a big book, with lots of adventure and lots of stuff about whales."

"Oh, I know that. I heard of this here book."

I locked up and turned off the lights. "Now you go straight home. No more chasing Mickey Mantle."

"OK, Miz Griselda. Now that I got a new book to read."

And off she ran toward the backwoods where she lived with just her mother and a few chickens. Most of the families in the backwoods were poor as dirt and relied on others to keep them in clothes and sometimes food. The Society of Angelic Philanthropy was great at keeping the little ones in shoes and the adults when they could. I planned to tell Tohilda Best, this year's current president of the SOAP that Mercy Lincoln and her mother needed warm coats and some looking after.

I still felt like walking and made my way toward Hector's Hill. It was a special place for me and probably for many of the folks in town. The hill overlooked the town on one side and the mountains always seemed closer on the other. It was where we flew kites as kids and where Cliff Cardwell made his emergency landing a few months ago. He kept Matilda, his airplane, parked there.

Boy she looked nice, Matilda I mean. Cliff kept her clean and in excellent running order. I stood there looking at her like she was a long-lost friend and imagined flying solo, dipping my wings as I passed over the town. I imagined soaring over the Blue Mountains and turning right at the first star I see and flying straight on 'til morning.

My reverie was broken by Cliff's soft, leading-man voice.

"Hey, Griselda, you looking for me, kid?"

I turned. The sun glinted off his bomber jacket as the light breeze rippled his hair.

"Cliff. No, I was just taking a walk and came by here."

He walked closer. "I understand congratulations are in order."

"Congratulations?"

"Yeah, silly, you and Zeb. Engaged. To be married." He held up his left hand and pointed to his ring finger.

"Oh, yeah. Word gets around fast."

"I was just at the Full Moon. Zeb is on cloud nine. So is Dot Handy. It's all everyone is talking about. This is going to be some wedding. I bet every single person in Bright's Pond and Paradise will come out."

My stomach wobbled as I swallowed what seemed like a large, sour lemon drop.

"Oh, yeah? That's . . . great. It will be fun—the wedding I mean."

Cliff walked right up to me. "Why don't you seem so happy?"

"Oh, I am." I looked away from him. "I guess it's normal to have some nerves."

"I thought the guy was supposed to be the one with cold feet."

"It's not that. I'm sure I'm ready to get married. I'm only wondering about the changes it will bring. I lived with Agnes so long and now I'm finally on my own—mostly—and now I'll be living with . . . a husband."

"I'm gonna hate myself for saying this but you and Zeb belong together. It's one of those marriages made in heaven. It just took you both some time to see it."

I smiled. "Are you taking her up?"

"Yeah, I have to fly into Wilkes-Barre and pick up a passenger and take him to Philly."

"Philly? That's a long flight."

"Kind of long. Don't usually like those flights. But the money is good."

"He sounds important."

"She. And I don't know anything about the situation. I just fly them where they want to go. But it's not unusual for a business person to hire a private pilot when they have an important business matter."

"I suppose so." I rubbed the wing again. "Have a good flight."

I started to walk away. Cliff grabbed my elbow. "Griselda. I really am happy for you." He looked into my eyes. "If this is what you want, that is. I know what I just said and all but . . . but are you sure he's the one for you?"

"He is, Cliff. It's just a lot to get used to."

He let go and I walked back toward the street, fighting the urge to look back. When I got to the street, I waited until I heard the engine start and watched Cliff take off into the clouds.

Monday after I shooed the last of the students out of the library I headed for the café. The Yuletide Committee was meeting. At our last meeting, we learned that the Moose had decided to pull out of the parade unless the mystery of Greenbrier was resolved. I couldn't blame them, not really. They were, after all, a group dedicated to civic duty and pride. A drug scandal would not be something they'd like to be associated with.

Everyone was there this time, which for a Bright's Pond committee of any sort was a rarity. Dot Handy sat with her handy dandy notebook, Studebaker and Boris were yakking about something. Ruth was sewing something on her lap. Mildred was standing up, leaning against the counter like she was poised to dash out the door in case of emergency. Even Nate Kincaid showed up. Nate was our best carpenter and generally saw that the floats were assembled in time.

He usually kept them on his farm property. It was the only place in town big enough. The Bright's Pond Christmas Parade was a sight and well worth it to stand in the cold night air and watch her go by. The parade was always held at night on account of the lights. And that way, mothers and daddies could get their kids home and straight to bed after the festivities.

This year we scheduled the parade for Monday, December 23, and as usual, it would start at the Kincaid Farm on account of that's where the floats were and travel down Filbert into the town square and then head east toward the church and the town limit. Then the whole shootin' match would be turned around, regrouped, and paraded back down Filbert, past the town hall and up toward Paradise.

It was Studebaker's job to organize the parade and the order in which the participants walked or drove or marched. At various places along the parade route, the entire thing would halt while the onlookers enjoyed a performance.

"And then," Studebaker said, "that is where the high school choir will sing a few carols, and Miss Almira's Dance Academy will do their usual tap dance to 'Jingle Bells.' "

Boris hung his head. "I hate tap dancing."

We all knew that. He said it every year.

"But those girls dance their hearts out," Ruth said. "There. All finished." She held up a long, brown robe. Only three more to go. We got some tall shepherds this year. I've had to alter them all. Must have been a mass growth spurt. I still got the sheep to mend. But they're easy."

The sheep were always played by the little kids—the toddlers, and invariably one of the sheep, would lose his way during the play and need to be brought back into the fold. The sheep costumes were simply white sweatshirts with cotton balls glued and sewn all over them. The sheep heads were hoods with sewed-on ears. Every year some of the cotton got lost or crushed and needed to be replaced, and an ear or two would need fixing.

Dot coughed. "Who is driving the Grand Marshal, and—by the way—who is the Grand Marshal this year, and what will they be driving?"

"Didn't you hear?" Zeb said. "They were thinking about making Cliff Cardwell the Grand Marshal on account of him being a pilot and all. Course they didn't ask the committee."

I swallowed. "Really? But—" I looked around the group. It was useless to argue, but I asked the question anyway. "When was that decided?"

"Oh, Nate and Stu and Boris were down at Personals Pub the other night and got to talking about it," Zeb said. "Cliff seemed a natural choice—to them. I wasn't too hepped up on it when they told me."

"I think he's a great choice," Nate said. "We never had a bona fide pilot in our parade before. The kids will love him."

"Yeah, he can hand out red buttons and licorice," Dot said. "The kids love them, and they love him, and isn't that why we have the parade every year? for the children?"

"Yes, of course," I said. "But this committee does operate by a democratic process. It's not right that you all went off and made the choice without consulting the rest of the committee."

"Oh, don't be such a stick in the mud," Stu said. "Cliff is the best man for the job. Who else is there?"

I looked at Zeb. We were both thinking the same thing. It wasn't really about Cliff being the right choice for Grand Marshal. We were upset because it was Cliff and neither one of us really wanted to work with him. But Nate would take care of it, and hopefully Zeb and I would only have to wave as he passed the reviewing stand.

Boris banged his gavel on the table. Zeb winced. "I wish you wouldn't do that to my table," he said. "Just tap your water glass, for corn sake."

"Sorry, force of habit," Boris said. "I am a judge, you know. So it's decided. Cliff Cardwell is this year's Grand Marshal."

"Looks that way," Zeb said. "Has anyone told him?"

"I did," Nate said. "He's happy to do it. Thought it might even be fun to tow Matilda down the street. What do you all think about that? Maybe Santa can arrive in Cliff's airplane instead of that rickety old sleigh you pull out of Ivy Slocum's garage every year. That thing is older than the hills, and it's a wonder it doesn't just crumble away."

"That's a great idea," Boris said. "The kiddos will love it. Santa in an airplane. What a hoot."

I looked at Mildred who had been very quiet through the whole meeting. "Any problem with towing an airplane down the street, Mildred?"

She looked up from whatever thought she was deep into. "No, no. I think it will be OK."

"Uhm, hum," Zeb said, obviously wanting to divert the attention away from Cliff. "Now what about food? I suspect we'll have the usual pies and soft drinks, coffee, hot chocolate."

"Yep," Dot said. "I got the church ladies on it."

Our dear friend Cora Nebbish had always been in charge of food. This would the first year without her. She died several months ago. I knew it was still hard on Zeb. She had been his waitress for many years and they were very close friends. It would be sad to get married without Cora.

"OK, good," Stu said. "You can set the tables out as usual right near the town hall. Just make sure none of the Sterno pots get tipped over this year. Don't want the paper snowflake doilies catching fire again."

"I'll keep an eye out, Captain," Dot said with a salute.

"Don't make light of it," Mildred said. "Fire is serious business. The food tables must be manned at all times."

"They will be," Dot said. "All I do is serve food."

"And what about the ice skating afterward? Will the pond be frozen enough?" Studebaker asked. "I tested it just yesterday and I got to say I'm a little concerned."

"Let's just call the skating off," Boris said. "We can schedule a town skate sometime in January."

"Works for me," Zeb said. "We can do a weenie roast out there and build a bonfire."

"I move we cancel ice skating this time around," I said. "We don't want any kids slipping through the ice this year."

"Second," Ruth said. She liked to second. It was like her main job in the committee. That and sewing.

The meeting went on for another hour or so before all the questions had been answered and schedules planned and floats named. Nate said he had six on his land, including the Frost sisters' annual
O' Holy Night
tractor, complete with nativity, and Zeb's Full Moon Café entry. It was pretty much the same every year—a small flatbed pulled by one of Nate's tractors. A giant full moon hung over a replica of the café counter. Bill Tompkins usually rode on it dressed as a snowman and handed out lollipops.

"That reminds me," I said. "What about the pageant? The kids' play. Has anyone found a Mary?"

Glances were exchanged around the table.

"Guess it'll have to be Babette again," Ruth said.

"Well, I have a suggestion. How about Mercy Lincoln?"

"You mean that backwoods girl you're always telling me about? The little girl who comes to the library?" Ruth said.

"Yes. I ran into her a little while ago. She's cute and curious and smart. I think she'll be perfect and love the chance to do it."

I watched as more glances and raised eyebrows were passed around the table. I figured everyone would agree that it was a good suggestion except maybe Nate Kincaid. I was correct.

"Isn't she a Negro?" he said just as blatant as a wart on a thumb.

"Yes, but why should that matter?" I said.

"Mary was not . . . colored," Nate said. "It . . . it wouldn't be right."

"But that's not the point," Studebaker said. "Jesus was born for all mankind, not just the white folk. I say Mercy Lincoln should be our Mary. All in favor say aye."

All hands around the table shot up lickety-split. All except Nate who reluctantly and only after a nudge from Stu. His hand raised just slightly.

Nate shook his head. "I'll go along with it because the majority rules, but I want to go on the record as saying I was against it."

"Did you get that written down, Dot?" I said. "Nate Kincaid is prejudiced."

"I am not," he said. "I was just trying to keep the play . . . authentic."

"Uhm-hum," Ruth said. "This from a man who raised an orange pumpkin like it was his own kin."

Boris laughed so hard I thought he might swallow his cigar, which thankfully was not lit. The man just couldn't stand to be without a cigar in his hand. It was his trademark, kind of like George Burns, only George Burns was funny.

"I'll ask her today," I said. "Just think of it. Maybe some of the other families back in the woods will come out. Could be a good thing."

"Yes indeedy," Ruth said. "The SOAP ladies have been trying to get some of them families out to church for years. But they stick so close. It might not be as easy as you think to have Mercy play the part. Some folks back there could get up in arms about it."

"Thanks, Ruth. I'll be sure and speak with her mama."

"Just don't go alone," Zeb said. "Those woods can be dangerous."

"I'll be fine," I said. "The Society ladies go back there all the time."

"As long as she's with Mercy, no one will bother her," Ruth said.

And she would know from her work with the SOAP. Those women knew their way around the backwoods, and more important, they knew the proper protocol when it came to calling on one of the families.

Stu looked over his clipboard. "I think that about wraps up all that was on the Yuletide Committee agenda. If there are no further remarks or questions, I move the meeting be adjourned until December 19 at 6:30 p.m. at which time we will discuss any last-minute issues that arise. Other than that, I say we're good to go."

"I second the motion," Ruth said.

"Meeting adjourned," Boris said with a rap of his gavel. "Now, on to more serious business. Mildred," he said turning in her direction, "any progress on Operation Greenbrier?"

Mildred straightened up. All the men smiled as she pulled herself up to her full height. "I have a little news to report. But not much. It's still a mystery, but as you all know I am investigating a Mr. Leon Fontaine."

"The man who built the fountain?" Boris said.

"That's correct, sir. There's some scattered reports that Leon claims the water in that fountain has certain . . . properties."

"Properties?" Boris said. "What in tarnation are you saying?"

"She's saying that people are thinking it's Fountain of Youth water, near as we can ascertain," I said. And with those words the entire committee lost control and laughed so hard I thought they'd all split a gut. Well, all except Ruth, who kept right on sewing the ear on a brown sheep hood.

When they quieted down I spoke. "We know it sounds silly, but what if he's convinced the residents up there that it is the Fountain of Youth and he's giving them water and—"

Boris banged his gavel. "Griselda, you've slipped a gear. There is no such thing as the Fountain of Youth, and even if Leon Fontaine is giving people the water and claiming it's got youthful properties, it doesn't work."

"I know. I know," I said.

Zeb came to my rescue. "Maybe we should let Griselda finish saying what she has to say."

I smiled at him. "Thank you."

Studebaker chuckled. "Should that be, 'thank you, darling'?"

"I will admit that Leon is a little weird," I said, choosing to ignore Stu's comment. "And the odd behavior did start after he got to town. But we can't go arresting him on trumped-up charges. There's no proof he's really done anything wrong."

"Still no such thing as the Fountain of Youth," Boris said.

"Why are you defending him?" Zeb asked me.

"I kind of like him. He's like a knight in shining armor or something. Out to save the world."

"But he's a shyster," Zeb said. "Plain and simple."

"Not really. He believes all this. So that makes him more, I don't know, unstable, but still, I don't see any need to go off and arrest him," I said. "Maybe it's just the power of suggestion. Maybe the folks are doing it to themselves. He's just making the suggestion."

"Power of suggestion?" Nate said. "You mean like hypnosis? That's mind control, and in my book it's just as bad as the power of drugs or that wacky weed the kids smoke."

"No one is smoking wacky weed at Greenbrier," I said.

"Yeah. I'd a smelled it," Mildred said. "Can't miss that aroma."

"Maybe you better get out there and see what you can find," Boris said. His voice took on a decidedly authoritarian tone. Every so often he liked to show off that he was, after all, Mildred's boss and kind of the town mayor, even though it wasn't official. "Ask some questions of them old people. Look for signs of goofy water being sold or drank or . . . something. Lord knows we don't need anyone getting hurt out there on account of whatever it is Mr. Leon Fontaine is up to."

"Heading out there today, sir," Mildred said. She didn't let Boris get to her. She knew he was mostly bluster and had very little bite. But she did like to treat him with the respect a man in his position deserved even if the rest of the town didn't.

Ruth continued to tug and pull at the sheep head costume. She had seemed oblivious to the whole conversation about Leon. It became obvious that she was when she lifted her head and spoke. "I think Mercy Lincoln will make a very nice Mary. Only trouble is, since the family never goes to church, how am I supposed to fit her costume? I'd be afraid to go out to her home with Mary robes. I could get my rump filled with buckshot. Most of those folks have very definite opinions about God."