Blame It On The Mistletoe - A Novel of Bright's Pond (26 page)

"No, we'll see you to the door," I said.

I turned on my light and directed the beam in the direction Mercy pointed. It landed on a small shack with a slanty roof and a tiny porch. I saw a dim light through a small window.

"Is that your house, Mercy?" I asked.

Mercy stopped walking. I showed my light near her feet. "Is it?"

"I'm sorry, Miz Griselda."

"For what?"

"For lying to you. My Mama never told me it'd be OK to play-act Mary. I never told her. I told her I was going to the library just to do homework. She'll be awful sore if she finds out where I was. Mama said God is no God if he can let us live the way we do—eating canned beans one night and going without the next. Mama says God don't play fair. She said God would never give me such a bad daddy if he was a good God, and now we got nothing but what the Society ladies bring us from time to time."

"But, why, Mercy? Why did you lie?" I asked.

"On account of I just had to play-act Jesus' Mama. I thought that would make him happy, you know, and maybe he'd help us more if I did it real good, real sweet you know. I figured God would have to love me and Mama then."

I swallowed. At that moment I had no idea what to say. "It's OK. I won't tell her." I gave her a little nudge. "Now you go on but be sure and come back Sunday, five o'clock for the real thing. I won't tell," I said wondering if I was doing the right thing.

Ruth and I watched until Mercy was inside the ramshackle dwelling.

We walked silently with only the crunch of dead leaves underfoot, until we reached the truck. I think both Ruth and I held our breath the whole time. It was one scary walk even with the flashlight.

"Come on, come on," Ruth said. "Let's get out of here."

"We're safe."

"Now what?" Ruth said. "Are you gonna let Mercy do the play without permission?"

"I'll do it. Get permission, I mean."

The dark seemed a little darker that night, and I drove off a little quicker than usual and was thankful Bessie didn't complain.

"You know," Ruth said when we reached her house. "It's too bad that Leon Fontaine doesn't have some potion, some power of suggestion to give Mercy and her mama. Something that would make them rich."

"No, that's impossible. Leon is selling what amounts to a lie, even if he believes it with all his heart. What Mercy and her mama need is the truth."

"Best thing you can do is help the mama stop hating God. Find a way to show her that God loves her, even if her circumstances don't say so."

Saturday. My big day. Well, my second big day. I was supposed to meet Cliff Cardwell at Hector's Hill bright and early. We were scheduled to fly into Scranton where I would take my pilot's license test. I was a nervous Nellie. I couldn't eat and could barely get a cup of coffee down.

I pulled on a pair of blue jeans and a turtleneck sweater. Then I fed Arthur, who I believe thought I was crazy for going out on such a cold, cold day—only twenty-seven degrees that morning, cold even for Bright's Pond standards. I wondered if we could even take Matilda up in such conditions. I figured Cliff would let me know if we had to call off the test.

Old Bessie didn't want to start that morning. She complained three or four times and then started. "There you go," I said patting the dashboard. "Don't fail me now."

There wasn't a soul on the streets, but the Christmas lights that hung from the posts and the wires and hedges and trees still lit my way. I arrived at Hector's Hill and saw Cliff standing near Matilda.

"Hey," I called.

He waved but from the look on his face I thought we might not be going.

"Everything all right?"

"Oh, Matilda's fine, but I'm not."

"What's up?"

"I have to fly into Binghamton, right now, first thing and pick up a sales rep for some rug company."

"Oh, no, so we can't—"

"Sorry, Griselda. How about next Saturday or one day during the week?"

"No, that won't work. We'll have to forget about it for now. I have so much to do to get ready for the wedding. It's in less than three days now. And the parade is Monday night, and we still have some details to figure out—"

Cliff twisted his mouth. "Looks like next year."

"I guess so. I was really looking forward to this."

"Me too," Cliff said. "But don't worry. Think of it this way: next year when you go for your license you can use your married name and you won't have to worry about switching it."

Seemed a miniscule consolation. "That's true."

I watched for a minute as he did his check, but the cold air got the best of me. "I'm gonna get going."

"I'm really sorry, but I need this job and—"

"I understand. Next year."

I started to walk away but then turned. "Hey, are you coming to the wedding? It's Christmas Eve, Tuesday at noon at Greenbrier. The gazebo."

"What about Zeb. Think he'll mind?"

"No. He'll be all right."

Frankly, I was a wee bit relieved that I didn't have to take a solo flight that day. My mind was not exactly on flying and flying alone to boot. I kept thinking about Mercy and Leon. One second I was worried about Mercy and the next I was thinking about Leon and trying to figure out where in the heck he could have run off to. And that made me think about Haddie Grace in the hospital, unconscious. Then my mind switched back to my wedding and I worried about the details and Ruth. My mind was spinning in a hundred directions.

I went to the café where Zeb prepared me breakfast—eggs and scrapple. I didn't tell him that my plans got canceled. I was banking on the notion that he had forgotten.

"Weren't you supposed to go to Scranton today?" he said as he placed a plate of food on the counter.

"You remembered?"

"Sure, Grizzy. I remembered."

"Cliff had to cancel. He's flying to Binghamton. Work."

"Oh, too bad," Zeb said. "I was getting ready to tell everyone that I married a pilot. She really does have her head in the clouds."

"That's sweet. Well, maybe next month or maybe in the spring."

"Spring gets my vote," Dot said. "Whooeeee, I was not looking forward to watching you get married with two broken legs or something. And maybe by spring you'da forgotten all about it."

"I would not have crashed," I said. "I am a pretty good pilot, you know."

"OK, OK, Miss Amelia Earhart," Zeb said. "What else are you going to do today?"

"Not sure. I thought I'd check on Ruth. She's making Agnes's dress for the wedding, which reminds me, did you talk to Studebaker about—"

"Yes. Stu said he'd be proud to be my best man. Wants to throw me a bachelor party."

I laughed. "Sure. That sounds nice. I can see the two of you now."

"Now hold on. I got more friends."

"OK, OK, but after a couple of hours at Personal's Pub you'll all be asleep."

"Don't you count on it. We can get wild."

"Wild for you is putting food coloring in your meringue."

"Or horseradish in the meatloaf," Dot said.

Zeb kissed my cheek. "I got potatoes to fry."

Dot wiped the counter next to me. "So Ruth is really making a dress for Agnes?"

"Yep. I can't wait to see it."

"Me neither."

"Oh, Zeb, I almost plumb forgot. We have to go see the pastor Monday morning."

"Milton Speedwell? How come?"

"To talk about the ceremony and, I don't know, don't they always talk to the bride and groom before the hitching?"

"Yes, I suppose, but we are not teenagers. We know what we're doing."

"I know, but we still need to see him and we need to get a license. I think Boris can handle that."

"Oh, yeah, I already talked to him. You need your birth certificate."

"I do? I'm sitting right here. Do I really need to prove I was born?"

"Yep. We can go down to the town hall Monday, too, and get the license."

I finished my breakfast. Zeb was such a good cook but I had a feeling once we were married that I'd be doing the cooking at our house. I was a fair cook but nothing fancy. As long as he didn't expect much more than meat and potatoes and tuna salad we'd do fine.

"By the way," Dot said. "Any news on that poor old woman that slipped her trolley?"

"It was a tricycle," I said. "And, no. I also need to check on her today. I just wish we could find Leon Fontaine."

Harriet Nurse, Filby Pruett, and the Tompkinses came into the cafe just as I was leaving.

"Oh, Griselda," Edie said. "I haven't received my invitation, or am I not invited? I told Bill that, of course, we were invited. I'm sure it was just an oversight."

I snapped my fingers. "Invitations. Edie, I never sent any out—to anyone. I just assumed you all, I mean everyone, knew you were invited."

"Well, of course, dear but how can we know what time and where. I assume the church but—"

"No, no. It's at Greenbrier. We're getting married in the gazebo."

"The what?" Edie's voice smacked of incredulousness. "The gazebo? Where is that? I don't remember there ever being a gazebo out there."

"It's new. You won't have any trouble finding it."

"In the cold? What if it snows or ices or sleets?"

"Don't worry, Edie. It will be fine. Just fine."

I dashed out of the café. I had not even thought about invitations. Now what? There wasn't time. I jumped into the truck. She complained again but started. I headed to Ruth's. Fortunately, I saw Ivy Slocum walking Mickey Mantle.

I parked the truck and then waved her down. She waited until Mickey Mantle finished watering some weeds and then headed in my direction.

"Griselda, where have you been? I haven't seen you in days."

"I know it. I have been busy with—well, with everything."

"The wedding, I would imagine."

"Yes, and today I found out that I plumb forgot invitations."

"Do you need them? Just get the word out. You know how stories fly around here—quicker than flies on manure."

"I know, but don't you think I need something more . . . formal. Fancy?"

"How many do you need?" She pulled on Mickey Mantle's leash. "Come on boy. Just sit a minute."

"I don't know, fifty or sixty?"

"Um, it would be a stretch but how about if we buy some of them blank postcards and just handwrite them. And I guess Mickey Mantle and me and maybe Studebaker can pop them in everyone's mailbox—Pony Express."

"Really? You think we could? I mean you'd do that?"

"Sure. How hard can it be. Just write out the information."

"You mean like Mr. and Mrs. So and So invite you to . . ."

"Not that exactly, what with you and Zeb being adults and all."

"OK, I'll write it down and drop it by your house. I can't tell you how much I appreciate this."

"I have to walk Mickey Mantle anyway, easy enough to drop a card in the mailboxes. But I suspect most people already know, and well, you know Bright's Pond. They'll invite themselves."

"I suppose but, boy, getting married is complicated."

"No, it's just all the stuff around it. Keeping everyone happy. Weddings tend to bring out the best and the worst in people. Everybody wants a slice of the pie."

"And I feel like a great big Full Moon Pie right now."

"It will be over soon and you and Zeb will be happily married. Imagine that, Griselda Sewickey. Has a nice ring, don't you think?"

"I suppose it does. I'm kind of partial to Sparrow, but Sewickey has a nice sound, too."

"You'll get used to it. I'll head on down to the five-and-dime and buy the postcards and then get the stamps from the mailman next time he comes past."

I hugged Ivy. "You're the best."

As I walked to Ruth's house, I was struck with a sudden wave of melancholy. I missed my parents even though they died when I was just a youngster. Who would walk me down the aisle? There was no
Mr. and Mrs.
to invite anyone anywhere. I guess, even at my age, I wanted a daddy to give me away.

I sighed deeply and pushed open Ruth's yellow door. "Yoohoo," I called. "Ruth?"

"In here. The sewing room."

I found her under a mountain of bright red satin and crinoline.

She looked a fright, like she had been up all night. Her hair was mussed with two pencils sticking out of it, her glasses hung low on her nose like she was simultaneously trying to look over and through them. And she had kind of a wild look in her eyes.

"Ruth, are you OK?"

"Mm-hmm," she said with pins in her mouth.

"Take the pins out before you swallow them."

She poked seven pins into a small tomato-shaped pincushion with a little green stem coming out the top. "I'm trying to get this done so we can take it out there and fit it on her."

"How much longer do you think?"

"Oh, not long. What do you think?" She held out a long red skirt with fancy crinoline underneath. "I'm still sewing the elastic into the waistband.

"It's gorgeous," I said. "I think you're going to make Agnes look very pretty."

"Good. I still have to make the blouse and then assemble the hat. Don't forget to cut me some sprigs of holly. Griselda, do you realize you're getting married in three days?"

"I know. It's a little scary."

"Now tell me about your flowers."

"Flowers?"

"Of course. All brides carry a bouquet when they walk down the aisle. You need something to toss to the single women in the crowd."

I sat with a thud onto an overstuffed chair. "Oh, criminy, Ruth. Flowers, invitations, music, dresses, license. This is getting out of hand."

"Every bride deals with this. That's why you have a maid of honor. She can help you with this stuff, unless, of course, your maid of honor is—well, you know."

Oh, boy, was Ruth just telling me that making Agnes my maid of honor was a mistake? I knew I should have picked Ruth. She would be a much better help than Agnes. But I couldn't disappoint Agnes.

"I've been thinking, Ruth," I said after the pregnant pause lifted. "Is it OK to have two maids of honor? Double maids? Comaids?"

"Don't know." She continued to push material through her sewing machine. The rhythm was soothing. "Don't see why not."

"Then Ruth, will you be my second maid of honor?"

"I never thought you'd ask. Of course."

"Good, you and Agnes can wear matching dresses."

"Uh-oh, that means I'll need more fabric."

I smiled. This idea was the first one that actually made me happy right down to my toes. Ruth was such a good friend and who cares if we were throwing convention out the window? Probably Agnes.