Blame It On The Mistletoe - A Novel of Bright's Pond (6 page)

I hope Mildred gets to the bottom of the troubles around here," Agnes said. "I can't take anymore outbursts like that nonsense with Haddie Grace."

"I know." I sat in the visitor chair. "Mildred will figure it out, and Doctor Silver won't let Haddie get into anymore trouble."

Agnes slapped her knee. "Oh, I hate the thoughts of that poor old woman getting locked away in the booby hatch."

"Me too. But let's just pray that the docs can figure out what's causing her odd behavior and take care of it."

"I guess that's all we can do." She lightly touched one of the scrapes on her cheek. "She was truly like a mountain lion, Griselda. She came into my room and . . . pounced on me."

"Well, she's sedated now. She won't be coming back in here tonight."

"Sure could use a slice of pie," Agnes said as she looked out the window. "It's getting dark. My bones are telling me a storm might be brewing."

"I think I heard the weather lady say some rain was moving in."

"Yeah, yeah, that's typical for November around here."

I stayed with her a few more minutes, but my thoughts kept returning to Zeb.

"Listen," I said, "I think I should be getting back to town. I haven't fed Arthur yet today, and maybe I'll try and catch up with Zeb."

Agnes snorted. "Zeb. I wish you two would decide once and for all time if you were getting married or not. My heart can't take all this back and forth. And besides, Griselda, you ain't getting any younger."

"OK, OK. I hear what you're saying Agnes." Although to be honest, I didn't know if I could believe that she really wanted me to marry Zeb. "I just need a little more time," I continued, "and then we'll settle one way or another. Maybe after I get my pilot's license."

"Pilot's license? Are you still going through with that dumb thing?"

I felt a bit insulted by her tone. She made it sound so silly. "Yes, Agnes, I am. And pretty soon I think."

She glared at me. "Well, maybe you just need to get all this airplane business out of your system before you can say 'I do.'"

I didn't know how to respond, except to say, "I guess it's really up to me and if getting my pilot's license is something I need to do before I settle down, as they say, then I guess I better get on it."

"Just don't go crashing into the mountains." Agnes smiled. The little knobs of her cheeks reddened like two cherries. "Seriously, Griselda."

"Nah." I patted her hand. "I just want to fly over them."

It was nearly nine o'clock when I got back to Bright's Pond. The town was still and quiet and illuminated mostly by porch lights and streetlights. Mine was the only vehicle on Filbert Street. Rain started to fall fast and hard the second I reached the café. The lights were on so I reckoned Zeb was inside cleaning up the grill, sweeping, and maybe even making pies. One thing I can say for sure about Zeb, besides the fact that he can be as jealous as all get out, he was faithful—to his business— and industrious. I think he actually loved cooking and baking and handling customers even when he complained. But sometimes I wasn't sure how he would squeeze a wife into his days and nights.

I thought about stopping but a yawn made me realize that it had been a long day. And another argument with Zeb was not what I needed just then.

Arthur was fit to be tied when I went inside the house. He sat in the kitchen near his empty food bowl like a mountain lion—or maybe I should say like Haddie Grace—ready to pounce.

"I'm sorry, Old Man," I said. "Busy day."

The rain fell harder. Large, heavy drops splattered against the kitchen window and blew the curtains. I left the window open only an inch but the rain still came in. I closed it with a bang and Arthur mewed.

"Sorry, Artie."

I dumped Purina Cat Chow into his yellow bowl. I rinsed his water dish and filled it. He was hungry and wasted no time chomping down the kibble. He took some in his mouth and then chewed, all the time keeping an eye on me. I couldn't tell if it was consternation or if he was making sure I wouldn't leave. So I sat down next to him on the floor.

"I hope that poor old woman doesn't have a brain tumor. She's so sweet ordinarily, and who cares if she's riding through the nursing home on a tricycle? And who cares if Clive Dickens and Faith Graves want to get married; they must be in their nineties. Imagine that: getting married at age ninety."

Arthur looked at me and winked with both eyes.

"Yeah, yeah." I rubbed my hand down his back. "I better hurry up and marry Zeb before I'm ninety, is that your opinion?"

Arthur mewed and then yawned.

I yawned. "I should go to bed. Lord knows what will happen this weekend."

Arthur finished his meal and followed me upstairs.

Ruth was banging on my front door the next morning. She woke me from a sound sleep at seven o'clock.

"Ruth," I said when I pulled open the door. "What in tarnation are you doing here?"

"I need you to taste this. I've been awake since four o'clock making it." She held a pot covered with a white dish towel.

"What is it?"

"My stuffing mix. Remember? The macadamia nut stuffing I was planning to make, well, I am just so worried about it. I need you to taste it." She almost pushed me aside and headed straight for the kitchen. A macadamia nut slipped out and landed on the floor.

"Ruth, you're losing your . . . marbles," I said and followed her into the kitchen. "But I didn't even have a cup of coffee yet. Not a single cup and—"

"Oh, you poor dear. I've had six—maybe seven."

Obviously.

"Tell you what. You go on and put some clothes on. I'll make a pot and then you can taste my stuffing. I am just so worried about it. But I wanted to try it. They say you should always try a new recipe before serving it to guests. And so that's what I did. I mixed up a small batch and now—"

I thought she might cry. "OK, OK. Let me put some clothes on. You make coffee and settle down a minute. It's just stuffing."

"No, it's more than that. It's
Thanksgiving
stuffing. It smelled so good early on with the onions and the butter and the celery sautéing, but something happened when I added the spices and the nuts."

Actually, Ruth's turkey stuffing woes were a welcome relief from the events of the day before. I dressed, brushed my teeth, and got back to the kitchen in time to see Ruth trying to persuade Arthur to eat a morsel of the stuffing.

"He won't eat that," I said. "Arthur is picky, and I suspect celery and macadamia nuts are not his choice at seven in the morning."

"Oh, well, you'd think an animal that would eat fish heads would appreciate something else." Ruth said. "But he's just so picky. Now you sit down. I'll pour your coffee."

Ruth set a mug of steaming coffee in front of me, made just the way I like it. Extra cream, no sugar.

I sipped. "Thanks. This is good." I stared at the pot on the table. The stuffing at least smelled good, even over the coffee smell. As a matter of fact, the two aromas kind of complemented each other. I thought that was a good sign.

"Did you hear about what's going on up at Greenbrier?" I asked.

"Greenbrier? Nothing with Agnes I hope."

"Well, not directly, except, of course, Haddie Grace tried to beat her up yesterday."

Ruth fell into a chair. "She what? Agnes? Haddie Grace? That little old woman—older than dirt, with the wrinkles and those little kneecaps that stick out like elbows? I swear that woman's got four elbows."

"She's the one. Only she's not so old anymore."

Ruth looked at me the way Mickey Mantle looks at Ivy when he's confused.

"You mean she died? Well, no one can be surprised I mean she did go to the prom with Moses."

"No, no, she's very much alive. Too much alive. Didn't you just hear me say she tried to beat the living daylights out of Agnes yesterday?"

"I heard that but she coulda expired afterward."

"OK, here's what happened." I sipped more coffee then I told the whole story. At least I told her everything I knew so far about the people, the way they're acting, the gazebo, and the tricycle.

"So I don't know," I said, "if Mildred has talked to this Leon fella yet. I imagine she did."

Ruth poured herself a cup of joe.

"Are you sure you want that?" I asked. "You seem a might . . . jumpy."

"Uh-huh, I get the feeling this holiday season is shaping up to be a doozy, and I'm gonna need to stay awake for it. Now try my stuffing before it coagulates into something unrecognizable."

I lifted the towel off the bowl and there it sat. A mess of cubed-up bread with celery and onions and macadamia and only God knew what else at that moment in time. I'm pretty sure I saw pineapple and maybe coconut. I never liked coconut. But I couldn't say that to Ruth. Not then. Ruth snagged a large tablespoon full of the brownish bread mixture.

"Go on, taste it."

I swallowed another swig of coffee hoping that maybe the coffee taste would linger on my palate and make the stuffing go down easier. I had severe concerns for Ruth's stuffing.

I tasted it. I chewed and chewed. My eyes watered, my nose tickled. I wanted to spit it across the floor, but I managed to swallow. Whatever spices and flavors she had in there were not mixing well. I could have just licked the bottom of a hamster cage and gotten the same effect. I sipped coffee to wash the taste away. "OK, Ruth, what is in that? It's pretty awful."

"I knew it was bad." She looked sad.

"What did you put in it? There's a taste or two that just doesn't make it. Now I did like the one macadamia I crunched into but—"

"Pineapple and passion fruit," Ruth said. "Too much pineapple, too much passion fruit, and then all that sage and thyme and . . . Oh, heavens to Betsy, Griselda, your face is red as a tomato. I hope you aren't allergic."

My stomach rolled.

"Pineapple and passion fruit in turkey stuffing?"

"It didn't sound like a bad idea," Ruth said. "It's all tropical you know. My theme."

"Maybe it isn't the fruit. Maybe it's more about the proportions and the spices you chose and, of course, the coconut. Ruth, I hate coconut."

"How can you hate coconut? You mean you don't like Mounds Bars?"

I shook my head. "Nope."

I took another, small pinch of the stuff off the side of the bowl and closed my eyes praying that God would not let me die a turkey-stuffing death. "Mm, now see, I just a tasted a bit that was not bad, not bad at all."

Ruth tasted it. "I see what you mean. Maybe if I tone it down. Oh, dear, I have less than a week to get everything done. And I wanted the stuffing to be delicious."

"It will be."

"Maybe a shot of rum, you know, just for taste."

I shrugged and sipped my coffee.

"I'm not at all worried about the rest of the meal," Ruth said.

"I got everything else under control. Wait until you taste dessert. I'm not telling you what it is. It's going to be a big surprise. A big surprise." She held her hands about four feet apart.

"I can't wait. I know it's going to be great."

"Oh, that reminds me. Can you drive me down to Brisco's on Tuesday to pick up the bird. Mr. Brisco says he has a nice one for me."

"Sure. I said I would, remember? Let's go early though." Ruth had been getting more and more forgetful lately. Mostly little things. It concerned me, but I chalked it up to getting older and the stress of Thanksgiving. She stayed a few more minutes until I told her that I needed to get to the library. Fridays were not a busy day but I liked to open the doors anyway just in case a kid from the high school needed something.

"Oh, sure, sure. I'm feeling a bit better," Ruth said. "I'll go home and rework this stuffing."

"Good idea. I'll see you later."

"Can I bring another sample over if I need?" My heart wasn't in it but I said, "Sure. Of course."

"Now if Agnes was still living here," Ruth said on the porch.

"She'd know what was wrong with my stuffing right away."

"That's true. But sorry, you only have me. Maybe Ivy can help."

"Ivy," Ruth said looking down the road. "I'll try her."