Me and the Helpful Hurricane (Good Grief, Idaho)

by Gussman, Jessie

  And I turned my back on that. I can say that she was wearing pink nail polish. Bright pink.

  On her toe.

  The whole thing was embarrassing. To say the very least.

  Anyway, sometimes I feel like I’ve turned into my ex-wife, who was most definitely a princess. It was apparently very shocking to her to find out that when men are at home, they don’t smell like woodsy aftershave all the time. In fact, after I get done in the restroom, it definitely does not smell like woodsy aftershave, and that seemed to surprise her.

  Surprise might be too low-key of a word.

  She was astonished at that.

  She was also astonished that my body produces gas constantly.

  I don’t know why men’s bodies are different than women’s and constantly produce air that needs to be expelled, but they do.

  Anyway, enough about my ex. She’s in California with our kids.

  California is where I grew up, but after she left me, I took the first job that would hire me.

  That’s how I ended up in Idaho.

  The people are nice here, and the scenery is gorgeous, but it’s a dangerous country and also very conservative.

  Senior living center residents can’t run around half naked. I’m never going to get Cherry Tree filled up to capacity if that’s what I have to contend with.

  Regardless, Ms. Harding is on reprimand, and I know that today will be a quiet day at the assisted care facility.

  Still, after I’ve done my yardwork and straightened the bricks in my flower planters and hosed off my driveway, I have a little time before sunset, and I decide to take a ride.

  If my ride takes me past Cherry Tree on the outskirts of Good Grief, my, then I guess it does.

  After all, it’s Good Grief, and there aren’t a lot of places to ride, unless you have an ATV. Or a snowmobile in the winter.

  Ms. Harding did take the ladies on snowmobile rides one night this past winter. It was a full moon, and she claimed it was as bright as day, but still, the ladies should not be out in that cold weather.

  Plus, I’d like to attract some men to our facility. We only have two. But with the ladies being as crazy as they are, it’s going to be very hard to find men brave enough to risk living around them.

  I’m driving down the road, Cherry Tree is on my right, and I look casually over, knowing that there is not going to be anything to see.

  If I had been maybe seven seconds later, that would have been true.

  Without those extra seven seconds though, I see something that’s enough to make my eyes narrow and my hand hit the turn signal.

  It’s a shadow, dark, and maybe I would not have paid any attention to it at all, except there is a bright halo of orange on top of the dark shadow, which looks suspiciously like Miss Harriet’s hair.

  Now, Miss Harriet by herself is a sweet lady and one of my favorite ladies in the nursing home, if a director is allowed to have favorites. Which, really, I don’t.

  But when you get Miss Harriet hooked up with Miss Agnes and Miss Gertrude and Ms. Harding, I can guarantee there’s going to be trouble.

  I don’t see any of the other three ladies that I just mentioned, but it does seem a little suspicious that Miss Harriet appears to be hunched over and walking the way you might expect a Marine going through an obstacle course to walk.

  Even with her Velcro strap shoes that look kind of like army boots, Miss Harriet still does not look the part.

  I haven’t seen the other ladies, but I can almost guarantee you that they’re there.

  I pull into the drive, slowly, my eyes roving across the front lawn.

  How did I miss the fire truck?

  Funny that I would see Miss Harriet’s hair before I see an actual fire truck sitting in the lawn.

  It looks like a couple other government cars are sitting in the nearby parking lot. At least, they have official-looking words on the sides of them.

  Like I needed to see it before I could believe it, my phone rings.

  I answer using the hands-free of course, since I’m still pulling slowly forward toward a parking spot.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Ripley?” an official-sounding voice asks.

  “Yes,” I say in my most businesslike voice, which I have to say sounds quite professional.

  “Are you the director of the assisted living facility?” he asks.

  “I am,” I say, wishing with all my heart that I wasn’t. I know this is not going to be good. There are actually two fire trucks and four government cars, and I see several people running around with HAZMAT written on their uniforms.

  My hands clutch the wheel. I might not be able to find a replacement, but I need to fire Ms. Harding. Today.

  I haven’t seen her yet, but I know this is all her fault.

  “We have a situation at the Cherry Tree Senior Living Center, and we need you to come immediately.”

  “I’m here, actually. I’ll be over in a minute as soon as I park my car.”

  I don’t think my jaw can clench any tighter without breaking teeth. I want to strangle a certain long, slender neck.

  I’ve had the urge to strangle her almost since we met, but I’ve never been able to figure out if it’s just because I want to touch her so badly or because I really do want to strangle her.

  In my prior life, pre-Ms. Harding, I never wanted to kill anyone.

  Even my ex, who did try my patience at times.

  All the time.

  But I was just as hard for her to deal with, from what she said, so yes, we deserved each other.

  I hope the guy she’s with now has more patience than I did.

  I hope he has less gas too.

  And when he’s done using the restroom, I hope it smells like woodsy musk.

  It irritates me, the thought that some other man gets to raise my kids. It hardly seems fair that I only get to see them over the summer.

  I shove the thoughts of my ex and my kids out of my head.

  This is by far the worst “situation” that I’ve had to deal with. Working with Ms. Harding is like trying to stop a hurricane.

  At first, I thought she did everything on purpose, just to make my life miserable. I have to admit, after my experience with my ex, women aren’t high on my list of people that I think are nice.

  After being around Ms. Harding some, I really don’t think she means to do all the terrible things she does. I think some people just have that kind of personality where they have the tendency to get themselves involved in things they shouldn’t.

  I suppose it’s kind of hopeless to think she will improve.

  I thought the reprimands might help. But they haven’t.

  I slam my car door shut, glad that I put on a pair of casual slacks and a collared shirt. At least I look the part of a director.

  Even if I don’t feel it right now. I’m pretty angry.

  My temple is throbbing by the time I walk across the yard to where the fire trucks are parked. I see Ms. Harding’s mother, Mrs. Harding, and she throws a hand up.

  She and I aren’t exactly on the greatest terms, since the last time she was here, she was called to put out a fire, and instead of putting it out, she actually added to it.

  I can’t say anything more about that, it’s kind of embarrassing, and I’ll just say it’s shocking what ladies will do with their undergarments.

  And that’s all I better say.

  Maybe if I was in a better frame of mind, I would take a minute to admire the sunset. I grew up in California, and while that’s a beautiful state, I never failed to be amazed and astounded by the natural beauty of Idaho.

  We have the best sunsets ever.

  It was just coincidence, or maybe God working, that caused me to move to Idaho to begin with. But I’d like to stay.

  Which means I’d like for Cherry Tree to stay in business.

  “Mr. Ripley?” An official-looking man in a jacket that says HAZMAT on it approaches me.

  I nod. “That’s me.” />
  He sticks his hand out. “Richard Woodring, director of the rural branch of the Boise hazmat center.”

  I shake his hand and try to ungrit my teeth. What in the world have the ladies—Ms. Harding—been doing that would have precipitated a call to the hazmat center?

  “Apparently you have some folks in your facility who are digging, and they didn’t call 611.”

  “Digging?” I want to say, “they’re eighty-year-old ladies!” but I don’t.

  It’s not like age precludes whether or not you can dig. But, seriously, shouldn’t they be inside knitting? Or playing bingo? Or reading or something? Aren’t there TV programs on during the day for eighty-year-old ladies?

  I know there are. I know they could. I know that’s what they should want to do. All of my training points to that. All of my experience as well.

  Why have I landed at the one assisted care facility in the entire United States where Ms. Harding is also on the payroll?

  I blame everything that’s happening on her.

  Of course, I don’t tell Mr. Woodring that.

  “Yes, digging,” he says, checking his clipboard. “Apparently, one of the ladies had digging a tunnel to China on her bucket list.” He shakes his head a little, as though not quite sure what to do with that information.

  Neither am I. After all, I know that the ladies know that it isn’t possible to dig a tunnel to China. I know they know that.

  “So apparently, they knew they couldn’t dig to China.” He says that rather dubiously, like he’s not even sure why he’s talking about digging holes to China at a senior care facility. “I don’t really care whether they dig or not, but they happened to strike the sewer line with one of their shovels, and we have a leak.”

  “A leak?” This doesn’t sound good. My job might be on the chopping block as well. My fingers clench. Unfortunately, they are not gripping Ms. Harding’s neck. A man can dream. In fact, I have often dreamed of Ms. Harding. The coverings episode—and the prom dress one—has given me plenty of visuals to populate those dreams.

  “When the call came out, we heard raw sewage was flooding the highway, but that turned out to be inaccurate. Apparently, there are a couple of transplants from New York City who have a few Jersey cows on their commune, and they got out.” He lifts his shoulder, like he sees this all the time. “I personally don’t think human waste and cow manure look anything alike, but sometimes people, especially city folk, can’t seem to tell the difference.”

  “I see,” I say, even though I really don’t.

  Mr. Woodring continues. “So, while they did hit a sewer line, and there was a small leak, it’s nothing that we need to deal with on a global basis. However, just to be on the safe side, we’re securing the area and waiting for the replacement pipe to arrive.”

  “How big is it?” That seems to be a pertinent question, although this is my first time dealing with anything like this, and I’m not sure what to say.

  “I’d say we maybe lost a cup, a pint at most, of sewage. The ladies donated the bags they were using to cart the dirt from here over to the dirt pile behind the facility to put the contaminated dirt in, we shut it off at the main control, asked the residents to not flush for a few hours, and we have the leak contained. Like I said, we’re just waiting for the pipe. Since the ladies have already dug it up for us, it shouldn’t be any trouble to change it out. We have a plumber, and we have a backhoe on call, just in case the ladies aren’t enough.”

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost think Mr. Woodring’s lips twitched. I suppose, if this weren’t my facility, and this wasn’t my problem, I could see the humor in the elderly ladies being backed up by a backhoe.

  But considering this is my facility, and this is my problem, I’m not ready to laugh at it yet.

  “So if you don’t mind, I’m going to see if I can find the ladies and chat with them?” I say, trying to sound professional and not annoyed, and not exactly meaning “ladies.” I mean Ms. Harding. I’m looking forward to this, as I always do.

  It’s so hard to be professional and not annoyed. Annoyance is definitely getting the upper hand.

  “Sure.” Mr. Woodring crosses his hands behind his back and rocks back on his heels. “I’ll let you know if we need anything. I’ve got your number, although I’ll be around until this is taken care of. Do you have any floodlights?” he asks almost as an afterthought.

  “We do. They’re in the shed. If you’ll let me go get them—”

  “No. Just tell me where they are, and I’ll send one of my guys.”

  I tell him, clamping down tight on my annoyance and getting away as soon as I can.

  I admit I’m marching as I walk away, determined to find Ms. Harding and let her know how I feel about the situation.

  I’m also going to let her know that she no longer has a job.

  Chapter 3

  Leah

  “Stupid cows,” Agnes says, one hand on her hip, her shovel dangling from the other.

  The officials who came took our bags to put the “contaminated” dirt in. So we no longer have those, and we’re out of the hole-digging business.

  Harriet only had four bags.

  I bet next week this time she’ll be stocked up again. That’s just the way she is. If I didn’t know she lived in Good Grief all her life, I would have thought she was a wilderness guide...or a drug dealer. Always prepared, always with the right tools and equipment.

  Regardless, I know it is just a matter of time until my boss shows up and I’m fired.

  I’m trying not to let my disgust with the situation affect the ladies.

  Agnes is disappointed she didn’t get this crossed off her bucket list, but everyone had fun.

  Even the other seven residents are out watching the action.

  One thing about Cherry Tree, you can’t say it’s boring.

  “I think it would be more accurate to say ‘stupid people,’ right?” Harriet says, her orange hair shining with the fading glow of the sunset.

  Someone has brought floodlights over and is turning them on. They make her hair glow a metallic shade of orange.

  “I agree. Anyone who can’t tell human waste from cow waste belongs back in the city where they came from.”

  “Don’t say that,” I say quickly. “City people can be residents here just as easily as Idaho natives.” Their money is just as good. Sometimes even better. While there is a lot of natural beauty in Idaho, there aren’t a lot of high-paying jobs.

  That’s true for any small town, typically. But people also don’t generally live in small towns to make a lot of money. They live there because there are other things that are more important to them.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be racist or homophobic or whatever. I was just saying, it’s not that hard to tell the difference between a cow patty and human waste. A cow patty is bigger, for one,” Gertrude says, backing off her prior statement, which she didn’t mean anyway. She just said it because she is frustrated.

  We had the cave big enough to fit three. If they hadn’t insisted on including me, we wouldn’t have hit the pipe, and all of this craziness wouldn’t be happening.

  It is just a matter of time before Doug shows up.

  I’ve barely had the thought when a figure that is wearing what looks like slacks and a collared shirt approaches. The clothes aren’t what clue me in that it is Doug.

  It is the stomping.

  He is the only one I can think of who would have any reason to stomp. Especially coming in my direction.

  I brace myself. I don’t really want to lose this job, but I’ve been jobless before, and I was looking for a job when I got this one. I’ve heard people say that, and it kind of makes me feel braver anyway.

  “Mr. Ripley,” Agnes says, doing some kind of sidestep thing that puts her in front of me, and she all of a sudden looks like an old lady rather than a vagabond who’s been digging a hole all day.

  Agnes’s ability to go from looking like she is about twenty to
looking her age never fails to mystify me.

  Regardless, she wobbles over to Doug, who stops long enough to talk to her. Even Doug can’t resist Agnes and her old lady sweetness.

  Which makes me think he’s not quite as big of monster as what I think he is.

  I might be wrong about that.

  In fact, I think I am.

  “Mr. Ripley, this is all a very big misunderstanding, one that has to do with cow patties, and their size, and the inability of people from New York City to really know what one is, and their tendency to get manure mixed up with anything and everything, including human waste.”

  I laugh to myself. Maybe I’m about to get fired, but that doesn’t mean Agnes still isn’t old-lady sweet and so very cute. I wish with all my heart that the other forty spots in the nursing home would fill up, because she deserves to have not only more friends but also the chance for a winter romance. I think she’d enjoy that, and I think her bucket list is meant to cover the fact that she thinks she’s beyond the age of romance.

  I happen to disagree with her on that.

  I’m not a huge romantic or anything, but I do think that most people are happier with someone. That’s why God wants us to partner up.

  Not me. I’m the exception. I tried the partnering thing, and I am definitely much happier alone.

  “I already heard,” Doug says, not unkindly. “I understand there was a little bit of a misunderstanding, but that doesn’t explain the big hole in the front lawn of our facility.”

  Doug doesn’t sound quite as professionally stuck-up as he usually does. Agnes has that effect on people. Still, he doesn’t sound happy or nice.

  “Well, I can explain that too. I think I’ve mentioned to you a time or two before about my bucket list?”

  “You might have.” Doug looks impatient now.

  Every time we get into a scrape like this, Doug insists that it’s all my fault. He thinks Agnes is covering for me with the bucket list, and he doesn’t realize that it really is Agnes, and Gertrude and Harriet to a lesser extent.

  I go along with things, even help, just because I know the ladies need to have fun.

  What’s the point in living if you’re not enjoying it? Especially at their age.