Blame It On The Mistletoe - A Novel of Bright's Pond (2 page)

I visited with Agnes for nearly an hour. It wasn't that we had a whole lot to talk about except, of course, Cliff Cardwell. It seems that ever since that pilot fella landed in Bright's Pond, he and I have been the talk of the town. It's probably because I started taking flying lessons from him and now everyone naturally assumes we're an item or something.

"You still involved with him?" Agnes asked with a bit of a grin.

"Who? Cliff? I keep telling you and everyone else that Cliff and I are just friends and he is only teaching me to fly his airplane, nothing else."

Agnes peered out the window. "Uh-huh, I suppose there can be more than one connotation to the word
fly."

"Agnes. That's ridiculous. Just because Zeb and me broke up again doesn't mean I'm flying—that kind of flying—with Cliff Cardwell."

Zeb Sewickey and I had been dating on and off since high school. I would have married him a long time ago—I think. But he always had one excuse or another. It usually had to do with his business. Zeb owned and managed The Full Moon Café in town. It was kind of a diner and looked a bit like a solid steel train car with windows. Zeb was also the chief cook and bottle washer, as he always said. Or he would use Agnes as an excuse to break up. But that was back when Agnes still lived with me. Except, he still finds ways to blame Agnes. I suppose everyone wants to blame things on something or someone besides themselves.

"But you do like Cliff," Agnes said. "And you did break it off with Zeb."

"I just got sick and tired of the way Zeb smothers me, and orders me around like I was one of his waitresses. I need space, room to breathe. And up there, in the clouds, is where I have felt the freest. It's like being almost weightless."

"Now that fat Agnes isn't taking up your living room," Agnes said in her best little-girl voice.

"I didn't say that, but I am not going to lie and tell you or anyone that I haven't enjoyed living by myself." I looked into her beady little round eyes. "But that isn't to say I don't miss you. I love you, Agnes. I do miss you. Many nights I wish you were still at the house, and I was making tuna sandwiches for you."

"You do make the best tuna salad in Bright's Pond."

I patted her hand. It felt warm—too warm. "Maybe I'll sneak one in the next time I come."

"Will you? That would be scrumptious."

"But I don't want to mess your diet up too much. You look like you're losing some weight. Lots of it. Seems just last week that wheelchair was a snug fit."

Agnes moved her butt in the chair. "It does feel a bit roomier. My rear end doesn't rub so much on the sides."

"Pretty soon you'll be up and running down the halls."

"Nah, not me—not unless whatever bug bit Haddie bites me too."

I was glad we had gotten off the subject of Cliff Cardwell and Zeb Sewickey.

"Well, look Agnes," I said. "If you don't need anything else I should be getting back to town. I'm taking Ruth into Shoops to shop for Thanksgiving." I saw the change in Agnes's countenance.

"Thanksgiving? You having dinner with Ruth?"

"Me and a few others. But I'll be coming by to see you. I promise to bring you a plate. I doubt even Nurse Sally would deny you Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings."

Agnes didn't say a word. The look in her eyes was enough to tell me that missing Thanksgiving at home would be hard. I patted her hand and then hugged her the best I could. "I know it's hard. But look, I'll come by the nursing home with Ruth and Stu and Ivy and whoever else wants to come along. We'll make it a party—just like old times."

Agnes pushed herself toward her bed. "It'll be nothing like old times. No matter how you slice the pumpkin pie, the fact remains I'm here. It's not home."

She was correct. People are supposed to go home for Thanksgiving. "We'll make the best of it. You'll see."

"You ever eat nursing home food?"

"No, well, at the cafeteria—a little. It was pretty wretched."

"Imagine Thanksgiving nursing-home style."

"It's not all about the food."

Agnes looked up at me. I watched her eyes glisten with tears. "I know that, but good food goes real well with good friends, like hand and glove, Starsky and Hutch."

"We'll find a way for you to have both." That was when Ivy appeared at the door with Mickey Mantle. "Hey, Agnes," Ivy called with a wave. "I saved the best room for last. I always said you have the best view."

"Howdy, Ivy. Bring that pooch over here."

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."