Death of a Domestic Diva

by Sharon Short

  I had to smile, just looking at it.

  Then, after three or four tries, I got my ten-year-old Chevy started, and I pulled out of town, going kind of slow and looking around at Paradise, still quiet and asleep. I grinned to myself, feeling a tickle of excitement. I grinned at the lovely tree-lined streets—named, cleverly, after the trees themselves: Elm and Maple and Birch. I grinned at the pretty houses—little two-stories, most all bearing porches with swings.

  All is forgiven, dear Paradise, I thought! I was determined to get Tyra Grimes to come here, to get Paradise some attention, to get us back on the map. It would be a fresh start for all Paradisites, young and old! And I, Josie Toadfern, would make it happen! Soon, life in Paradise would never be the same!

  After all, it seemed like nothing could go wrong on such a beautiful spring day. Bright blue, cloudless sky. Birds singing. Trees leafing out. Nice little breeze, just right. Sun shining. Just like the day Mrs. Oglevee had told us about, when those founding fathers of ours had had a picnic lunch here, decided to stay, and called it Paradise . . .

  The likeness should have served as a warning.

  I swear I wasn’t really speeding.

  At least, not as much as Chief John Worthy said later, although I couldn’t be too sure, since the speed gauge on my car doesn’t work anymore. Still, it didn’t feel like I was speeding—more like I was just in a hurry.

  But about two miles out from Ed Crowley’s place, I heard the siren behind me. I looked in my rearview mirror and saw Chief John Worthy right behind me and gaining fast.

  Well, what I actually saw was a blue-and-white Police car. And it could have been any of the four officers at the Paradise Police Department. But something in my gut—which was feeling all hollowed out and queasy—told me that with my luck, it was Chief John Worthy.

  Now, on this one little spot on Sweet Potato Ridge, there are three quick rises and falls, right in a row.

  Since I was looking in my rearview mirror, I didn’t see I was about to hit them. My car went airborne on the first hump, bounced on the second one, and launched again on the third one. My books—and my letter to Tyra Grimes—slid into the floor. My coffee went flying and landed right on top of them.

  I screamed, put on my brakes, and grabbed for my letter. I jerked to a stop right by a cornfield—freshly plowed but otherwise empty. I turned off the ignition and moaned, picking up the letter, my hands shaking.

  My poor letter was ruined.

  At least, that’s what I thought at first. But I’m a natural born optimist, so other possibilities started rushing through my mind. Maybe Tyra Grimes would see the coffee stain on the envelope and think it was symbolic—what with me being a stain expert.

  Or maybe if I dabbed at it a little, the envelope would dry without wrinkling, and Tyra would think I’d used some fancy marbleized stationery, instead of just plain old white paper.

  Why sure, I thought, rubbing the envelope against my shirt (I could always use an all-fabric bleach on my shirt later)—Tyra Grimes would be mighty impressed with my fancy marbleized stationery. She couldn’t help but say yes to my offer to go on her show as a stain expert, and everything would work out just fine. I was close to downright happy again.

  Then I heard the tap at my window and saw John Worthy. I rolled down my window. He leaned in, his jaw so tense that his ears quivered.

  “Do you realize,” he said, his lips barely moving, “that I clocked you going 75 miles an hour?”

  “Really?” I said, genuinely surprised.

  Chief Worthy whipped out a pad of paper and pen and started writing. “Really. So I’ll be citing you for speeding—violation of code 618.62.” He flipped to the next sheet. “And reckless driving. Code 901.93.”

  I whimpered.

  “Failing to stop for an officer in pursuit. Code 110.61.”

  Now, that one irritated me. “I couldn’t stop because I was flying through the air.”

  He stuck his head into my car, glared at my dash. “Plus you still haven’t gotten the speedometer fixed since the last time I caught you for speeding, have you?”

  “It’s only been a week,” I said, “And I’ve been real busy—”

  “With this?” He snatched the envelope from my hand. “You planning on driving it up this morning to New York yourself?”

  I snatched my envelope back from him. “It’s a violation to take private property from a citizen without a search warrant,” I said. “And that’s not just a county code.”

  Chief Worthy’s smile disappeared, along with his lips, which he sucked right back into that thin line of mouth.

  “Josie Toadfern, I won’t write you up on all those violations, if you’ll just listen to me. Give up on this nonsense about getting on the Tyra Grimes Home Show!’

  For a second there, I thought he was going to predict a dire outcome if I persisted, like Lewis Rothchild had done.

  But instead he added, “I was up in Masonville yesterday on business and word’s already spread up there. They were all laughing about your plan up at the sheriff’s department. You’ve got to give this up—this crazy dream of yours isn’t going to come true anyway.” Then he grinned. “You just can’t resist thinking you can make things go your way, can you—Nosy Josie?”

  Now, I’ve got to take a break here to explain a few things.

  Back in high school, I was president of the Reading Club and worked on the school newspaper. I got a reputation for being nosy because I was ruthless about following up on any story I thought might interest more than two people.

  For example . . . young John Worthy, second-string quarterback for Mason County High School South, suddenly in a starring role? That was a great story, I’d thought. Just what did him dating the coach’s daughter have to do with that change? And, I thought, let’s get opinions from all the kids who knew John pretty well . . . especially John’s exgirlfriend. Which was . . . me.

  Yes, that story made for a sold-out issue of our little high school newspaper. It also got me thrown off the newspaper, because the advisor was the coach’s cousin. Then John got back at me by telling everyone something that was totally untrue—that I liked working in the laundromat with Uncle Horace and Aunt Clara because of all the secrets I could learn from other people’s laundry.

  Well, actually, that’s only partially untrue. I did (and do) like working in the laundromat. And you can learn a lot of secrets—or at least, pick up some mighty interesting clues—from other people’s laundry. Lipstick on a collar is just the beginning, believe me.

  Still, I’m not a gossip or rumormonger—unlike most of my fellow Paradisites. So it hurt when John started a rumor that I am, and gave me the nickname Nosy Josie. Not a fun taunt for a teenage girl. For a while there, that nickname even hurt my aunt and uncle’s business. Fortunately, even though the nickname’s stuck, everyone knows they can trust me not to gossip—which is why Paradisites tell me all kinds of things about themselves and each other. I admit I’m glad, because I have a deep and abiding curiosity in human affairs of all kinds. Which kind of does make me a nosy Josie, I guess. But I still hate that nickname.

  Now, I looked at Chief Worthy and said, through gritted teeth, “I will get Tyra Grimes to come here. You’ll see.”

  Chief Worthy ripped off the top ticket and handed it to me. “Speeding,” he said. The next one. “Reckless driving.” Then one more. “And failure to stop for a police officer.”

  He left then, and I sat there for a moment, still looking at the three tickets in my one hand and the coffee-stained letter to Tyra Grimes in my other hand.

  Then I folded up the tickets and put them in my glove compartment. I put my letter to Tyra Grimes back on the passenger seat.

  Fancy marbleized stationery, that’s what she’d think, I told myself. I drove on—going fairly slow now—knowing that somehow my friend Winnie Porter’d make me feel better. She’d know how to get my letter to Tyra Grimes.

  Then I rounded the curve and pulled up to Ed Crowley’s place�
�just in time to see her big red-and-white bookmobile pulling away.

  Two weeks, four days, and six hours later, on a Sunday afternoon at my apartment, my boyfriend Owen said softly, “Now Josie, you do understand that you’re not going to hear from Tyra Grimes, don’t you?”

  I glared at him.

  “I mean, not today,” he went on hastily. “Not on a Sunday. There’s no mail today and you can’t expect a business call. You even close the laundromat on Sundays, and . . . Josie? Aren’t you ever going to cheer up?”

  I closed my eyes and groaned.

  You see, I did catch up with Winnie and the bookmobile right after she pulled away from Ed Crowley’s place. I told her about the map and my plan and showed her my letter to Tyra Grimes, which she looked at for a while until she finally said, yes, if you squinted at it just so it really did look like fancy marbleized stationery, which she was sure someone of Ms. Grimes’s grand taste would truly appreciate. Winnie adores Tyra Grimes. She has taped every one of Tyra’s shows—and cataloged them.

  Then she looked through some thick reference volumes she keeps just below the back desk (built in, so it won’t slide around), and frowned and said, “Hmmm.” Then she poked on the computer, up front behind the driver’s seat, and frowned and said, “Hmmm.” Then she called someone at the main library, and frowned and said, “Hmmm.” Then she repeated the whole process, only this time through she frowned and said, “Uh huh, uh huh,”—a change in gutteralities I found encouraging. Sure enough, Winnie finally found it—the direct and specific address to Tyra Grimes’s office, not just a general TV show address. Winnie is magical when it comes to research.

  So I addressed the envelope and mailed it.

  But now here it was, Sunday afternoon, two and a half weeks later. Paradisites elsewhere had moved on with their lives—so I could now run my laundromat without being teased—but I was stuck. Stuck with a book I didn’t really want to read—The Idiot’s Guide to Home Decorating and Style in General. Winnie’d made me check it out because she said I should have at least a basic parlance with such matters if I was going to be on the Tyra Grimes Home Show.

  Which it didn’t look like I was.

  “How about we go see Guy?” Owen said gently.

  I opened one eye and looked at Owen. My community college professor, book-loving boyfriend was cute, I decided, in a goofy way, with his goatee and mustache and long, thin blond hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  “We haven’t done that for three weeks. What do you say, Josie?”

  I opened my other eye and grinned.

  “Bless you,” I said. I stood up, headed for my fridge. A six-pack of Big Fizz diet cola, and I was ready to go.

  “You could even wear your new Tyra Grimes T-shirt!” he said.

  I turned and gave him a look.

  “Uh—I guess that wasn’t such a great suggestion.”

  “No, it wasn’t—but not for the reason you’re thinking.”

  On the drive over to Stillwater, I’d explain to him why I couldn’t wear my red Tyra Grimes T-shirt to see Guy—or any red T-shirt, for that matter. Of course, I had no way of knowing that later on he’d get a personal demonstration of the reason that he’d never forget.

  An hour later, Owen and I were at Stillwater Farms, sitting in rockers on the back porch of the main building—an old farm house with lots of additions—with Guy between us. We rocked and whittled, not making anything in particular, not saying anything in particular, although every now and again Guy hummed.

  Stillwater—named that on account of the nearby Stillwater River—is a home for autistic people, about 15 miles north of Paradise, where the residents are more or less as independent as they can be. Some of them come just for the day. They all have routines and jobs, working in the pumpkin patches or flower gardens for the annual fall and spring sales, or taking care of the Angora goats, whose wool is shorn and sold every year. Guy’s about fifteen years older than I am, and he’s been there since he was twenty. Uncle Horace and Aunt Clara saved every penny above and beyond basic needs in a trust fund for Guy, so he will be able to stay at Stillwater the rest of his days. Plus after they died, I sold their house—just as their will ordered—and put that money into his trust fund. I’m Guy’s official guardian. I think leaving me the laundromat was their way of saying thanks, because they knew that of course I’d take on the role. Guy’s more like my brother than a cousin.

  Guy always likes it when I visit. I always enjoy stopping by, too, because I like Guy, and because visiting always reminds me that the truth is in how you look at things. Some folks think it’s sad, Guy and the others having autism severe enough that they must live in this quiet place, unable to make choices about careers and mates and such that the rest of us do.

  What I see is that each of them’s found a way to work with the life fate’s dealt them and to find a niche up at Stillwater, a way to do things that matter to them and to other people. The way I figure it, that’s all any of us needs to do. Guy’s specialty—growing pumpkins for the annual Stillwater Hayride and Pumpkin Picking Day—is closer than a lot of folks ever get to really making a difference in the world.

  This day, Guy gave me a big hug and even gave Owen a long look, which was progress. Being a person with autism, Guy really likes routine and gets upset about anything that throws off his understanding of his world. Owen had only been coming with me off and on for the past three months—we’d been dating for the six months since I’d taken his class, “A Review of Popular Movements,” up at the junior college.

  Most of the younger students seemed to think the class was going to cover dance steps to go with pop songs and ended up being disappointed and dropping out, so the class ended up being me, a young man who slept a lot, and two elderly sisters who giggled a lot because they thought Owen was cute (which he is).

  Owen was glad that I paid attention to his lectures on the Women’s Rights Movement and socialism and so forth. At my suggestion, Owen changed his course name to “Influential Sociopolitical Movements of the Twentieth Century,” (so he still gets only four students, but they at least all pay attention), and since then we’ve been dating, and Owen’s come to meet Guy a few times. Owen quickly understood how important Guy is to me, a fact that makes me like Owen even more than the other fact that makes me like him—we can talk about anything.

  Now, as we rocked and whittled, we mostly looked out at the pretty day and the fields that were being tilled for the gardens the residents would tend. Guy and some others would take care of the pumpkin fields, further out.

  But every now and then I looked over at Guy. He’s a big, hammy fellow, with overly meaty features, a full thicket of light brown hair that never quite seems neat, and green eyes—the image of Uncle Horace.

  It always makes me feel good to see Guy at peace. As I rocked back and forth and whittled it started not to matter so much whether or not I ever heard from Tyra Grimes.

  “Seeds started for the pumpkins?” I said to Guy. I knew that was one of his favorite things, putting the seeds in the peat pots, and seeing the little shoots pop up through the dirt.

  Guy didn’t say anything right off, just tottered back and forth in his rocking chair, rocking, whittling, rocking, whittling. But it didn’t bother me—I knew he would answer sooner or later.

  And sure enough, after a few minutes, Guy finally stopped rocking, jumped up and whirled so he stood in front of me, and hollered, “Greenhouse! Starts!”

  Then he sat back down and started rocking and whittling again.

  This was very good for Guy. A few years ago, he would have kept shouting in his odd, punchy voice—“Greenhouse! Starts! Greenhouse! Starts!”—over and over and over. Now he didn’t repeat things unless he was upset.

  We rocked awhile, whittled awhile, then I asked, “Can we see the pumpkin starts in the greenhouse, Guy?”

  More rocking and whittling. Me, waiting for Guy to answer, although I wasn’t really waiting. I was just going along with the rhythm we’d fall
en into, Guy’s rhythm. Poor Owen, though, still wasn’t used to the long waits before Guy replied to comments or questions, and he was practically turning purple with anticipation, looking like he was trying hard not to sneeze.

  Then, all at once, Guy was up and standing before me again—it’s always been his habit to make sure he’s facing anyone he’s talking to—hollering, “After! Dinner!”

  Then he went back to the rocking and the whittling.

  Suddenly, the quiet on the back deck was broken by the sounds of screaming and someone running. There was a blur of red as someone ran toward us—and I felt my heart start to race and pound, seeing it. Guy gets really upset at the color red—which is why I hadn’t worn my Tyra Grimes T-shirt.

  No one knows why red upsets him so. He’s never been badly cut. Or seen anyone else bleed a lot. Or had any other encounters with red that were horrible—but there it is. Guy hates red. One red tulip poking up among, say, a hundred yellow ones might be okay, but a whole mass would set him off—and the more red, the worse it is. The saying “seeing red” could have been made for him.

  Now here was not only someone wearing red, but running and screaming, too. Guy dropped his whittling, jumped up, put his hands over his ears, and started yelling, “No! No! No!”

  Guy doesn’t put his hands over his ears when he doesn’t want to hear something. He does it whenever he sees a lot of red. Maybe, at some level, he can hear red, and to him it’s a nasty sound.

  Owen jumped up, bewildered.

  And the person in red came to a stop in front of us, because the person chasing her grabbed her and began to hug her close.

  The person in the red shirt was Verbenia Denlinger, who’d been here a lot longer than Guy and was one of his best friends. The person who’d grabbed her was her twin sister, Vivian Denlinger. They’re not identical twins and Vivian doesn’t have autism. They’re forty and don’t look a thing alike—Vivian is squat and plain and brown-haired, and Verbenia is tall and lovely and blond.