Getting Rid of Mabel

by Keziah Frost

  Norbert, Birdie and Carlotta found themselves standing alone, watching Margaret, now out on Main Street, moving fast in the direction of the retreating yellow dress.

  Within ten minutes, Margaret returned, out of breath.

  “Norbert, that woman looked no more like me than you do. What’s wrong with your eyes?”

  Norbert pushed his coke-bottle glasses back on his nose.

  “You know,” said Margaret, “I’m starting to think about hiring a Private Investigator. Like Birdie’s nephew, Reggie Di Leo, for example.”

  “A detective!” exclaimed Carlotta, dabbing at the powdered sugar left on her lips by a lemon kolaczki. “Why, whatever for, Margaret?”

  “Well, to get to the bottom of this whole thing. A detective could tell me Mabel’s full name, where she came from, where she’s staying, if she’s leaving soon, if she has a police record, who her associates are, and, well, details that could give me some idea of how to deal with this problem.”

  Birdie, looking over the heads of them all, said, “Reggie is highly perceptive.”

  Margaret, Carlotta and Norbert, suddenly remembering her presence, turned to look at her.

  Birdie said, “Since childhood. He gets to the bottom of things. That’s his special skill.”

  “Exactly!” agreed Margaret. “He was glad to help us once before. Of course, he’s not the one who saved the day.”

  Norbert said modestly, “He would have, though, eventually.”

  The little group reflected for a moment on the previous winter, when Norbert displayed true heroism.

  Returning to the matter at hand, Carlotta sputtered, “Oh, Margaret! You don’t want to waste your money on a detective. What good will it do?”

  Margaret’s tone was decisive. “It will be worth the money. Enough already! I intend to find out who this Mabel is, and then I plan to deal with her!”

  -8-

  After all the others had gone, Carlotta and Lorraine found themselves in another tête-à-tête about Mabel and her destructive path.

  Lorraine, high on the success of her art show, was full of energy and self-esteem. Carlotta was drained from the whole Margaret-Mabel thing.

  “It’s gone too far,” said Carlotta. “Mabel’s out of control. Not even Norbert knows how to stop her.”

  Lorraine arched an eyebrow. “Mabel’s out of control?”

  “Yes, she is. She’s not a joke, Lorraine. She’s a threat now. She could ruin our friendships. She just appeared out of nowhere—.”

  “She appeared out of your imagination,” amended Lorraine.

  “OK, sure, but she may as well have appeared in flesh and blood. She’s become real somehow. We’re all expecting Mabel to turn up at any moment. So, she does exist—in our minds. How do we manage Mabel now that she’s here?”

  “Tell the truth.”

  “No! Margaret will hate us!”

  “It’s just a joke that’s gone on a little too long. That’s all it is.”

  “Is it a joke? Or is it a mean-spirited lie?”

  Lorraine hesitated.

  It was Carlotta’s turn to say, “Tell the truth!”

  “Well, maybe it’s both.”

  “Coward’s answer!” Carlotta pulled the Gallery keys from her purse. “Margaret could forgive a joke. She’s forgiven a thousand. But we’ve kept it up even when we knew she was getting upset. We were laughing at her—that’s how she’ll see it. You know how proud she is.”

  “So if we tell the truth—.”

  “It could tear the Club apart.”

  Lorraine pushed a box of tissues toward Carlotta. “And if we don’t tell the truth—”

  Carlotta dabbed at the corners of her eyes and inspected the tissue to be sure her mascara wasn’t coming off. “If we don’t tell the truth, then Margaret is scared and anxious, because she doesn’t know what Mabel will do next.”

  Lorraine opened her dramatic eyes wide: “Nobody knows what Mabel will do next!”

  “Stop that.”

  -9-

  Carlotta was enjoying a croissant with tea and the company of her remarkable granddaughter Summer at the Good Fortune Café on Main Street.

  Carlotta needed a pair of fresh ears, a fresh brain, to go over the facts of Mabel and to consider what was to be done. Although Summer was a mere baby at twenty-six, Carlotta thought she was smart for a baby. Of course, she would no more have sought advice from Summer than from the tomcat sunning himself on the sidewalk outside. Still, she needed to hear herself state the events to an impartial, uninvolved party. Besides, Carlotta loved any excuse to get her granddaughter one-on-one—she loved her youth, her clarity, her young-generation-lightness. Summer had helped Carlotta many a time with her cell phone, printer and TV. Summer, meanwhile, did not seek the wisdom of Carlotta’s advanced age. Apparently young people had replaced the wisdom of their elders with Google. But she did pay Carlotta the compliment of admiring her sharp mind and laughing at all her jokes.

  This whole Mabel-thing only started out of Carlotta’s unceasing desire to create entertainment, to always be the amusing one, the smartest person in the room. Carlotta only ever meant to be witty, so everyone would love her. She never meant to be unkind, and certainly not to one of her most treasured friends.

  It was supposed to be funny.

  It was funny, dammit.

  As Summer settled in for a good story, Carlotta looked around to be sure she would not be overheard. It was a quiet moment in the café. At a distance, in his booth, Carlotta’s erstwhile protégé, Norbert, sat reading the fortune of a Hawaiian-shirted tourist. Norbert’s little business was humming along. And it was all thanks to Carlotta, who had gotten him started in the psychic business. Surely that proved that she was a good person, didn’t it?

  As Carlotta told Summer about how she and Lorraine had set Margaret up, instead of presenting it as a dilemma, she found herself telling it as an entertaining story. She could not help herself.

  Summer threw her beautiful young head back and laughed.

  “God, Gramma,” said Summer with respect. “You and your Club are such Mean Girls!”

  Carlotta’s smile faded, and her heart sank.

  -10-

  The next Tuesday evening at Oil Painting with Carlotta, Margaret announced to the whole class:

  “You may all be interested to hear that I have engaged the services of Reggie Di Leo, Private Investigator.”

  Liam, not looking up from his canvas, chuckled, “Cooool!”

  Birdie, tuned in to Earth’s frequency for the moment, told the group, “My nephew Reggie has a nickname: ‘the Human Lie Detector.’ Ever since he was a little boy, he could see through people.” She smiled, her face serene.

  Was she playing cat and mouse? Carlotta wondered.

  “Reggie sees beyond,” added Birdie, focusing her dreamy eyes on the evening sky outside.

  “Oh, another one who sees beyond! Great. It must run in the family,” said Lorraine.

  The young mother said, “That’s just what you need, Margaret.”

  That silly young lady was on Carlotta’s last nerve.

  Adding insult to injury, Norbert continued, “You could maybe have him start by interviewing Ernest at the bank.”

  “Oh Margaret, why are you so stupid!” Carlotta burst out.

  The class turned to look at her in surprise.

  “I’m sorry. I do apologize.” Carlotta hated to get flustered. “It’s just that I feel we’ve had enough of the subject. I, for one, am tired of it. We’ve talked of nothing else for three weeks!”

  “Well, excuse me for living, Carlotta,” huffed Margaret. “But when your life is in an uproar someday, I think you’ll appreciate it if your dearest friends don’t get ‘tired of the subject.’”

  Carlotta wanted to apologize again, better this time, but Liam, his voice cracking with adolescence, squeaked, “Mrs. Birch, did you know? They say if you meet your doppelganger, you will die.”

  Now all eyes were on Liam.


  “Repeat that?” Margaret squared her shoulders.

  “I looked it up online. You never want to meet your double. It portends evil. And after you meet, you usually die.”

  Lorraine repeated with ironic emphasis, “You usually die. What are they teaching kids in school these days?”

  The young mother spoke up: “I knew there was something creepy about meeting your double. I bet that’s true. You’re not going to meet Mabel, are you, Margaret? Please don’t! If I were you, I’d hide in my house until she leaves town!”

  Margaret, quick to anger (ever since, in the 1940s, a young man told her she was beautiful when angry), declared, “I most certainly will not hide in my house. You hide in your house, young lady! I never heard anything so ridiculous. And who’s to say I’m the one who dies if we meet? Maybe she’s the one who dies if we meet.”

  Liam looked stumped for a moment. “Uh, I dunno.” He scratched his ginger head. “I think you both die.”

  -11-

  Margaret marched with vigor and purpose to Birdie’s Watercolor Class on a Wednesday afternoon in July. She nearly tripped, clambering up the stairs, she was in such a flurry of excitement. As she entered the studio, she heard Carlotta and Lorraine drowning each other out and competing for center stage. She breathed deeply, knowing that in a moment, all eyes would be on her.

  The delectable scent of honeysuckle was traveling in through the screened window. Carlotta had tut-tutted that honeysuckle was an invasive plant in New York, and the offending growth should be dug up, but Birdie had pleaded to allow it to continue blooming beneath the studio’s north window. She claimed that its fragrance exerted a healing and transformative power. And Margaret, ever-proud of her Celtic heritage, had claimed that growing honeysuckle near your door warded off evil, according to Scottish folklore. Margaret argued that she, for one, thought it was always a good idea to ward off evil, whatever anyone else said. At last, Carlotta had “let” the honeysuckle stay.

  Margaret put her supply box down noisily. She was about to make an impression. For once, she would be the one with the best story.

  She waited until the Club filled their coffee cans with water and taped their Arches watercolor paper to the table. There should be no interruptions or distractions once she began. She waited for the room to fall quiet.

  “Turns out,” she said, and all eyes turned to her. She basked in the warmth of their rapt attention. Really, it had been very nice, these past few weeks, being the center of everything for once. It would be a pity to let it go. She took her time.

  “Turns out, I called Reggie Di Leo off the case.” Margaret thought that would be the correct P.I. term: to “call him off the case.”

  Carlotta exhaled audibly. “That was smart, Margaret.”

  Margaret thought how irritating Carlotta could be, always assuming that she was the one to judge who was smart and who wasn’t.

  “Yes,” said Margaret, “it was. Because it turns out, I don’t need him.”

  Carlotta and Lorraine exchanged glances.

  Norbert appeared in the doorway, calling, “Kolaczkis!”

  The four women glanced at him in a way that told him to put the bakery box on the counter and pay attention. The spotlight returned to Margaret.

  “I don’t need the Private Investigator, because I’ve met Mabel myself.”

  Margaret smiled. She hadn’t felt this powerful in a very long time. Not since she was young and breathtakingly beautiful.

  “When I left here last night, it was still light out. I just love these long summer days, don’t you?” She was stalling. They waited.

  “People were strolling downtown. I was noticing the big white ceramic pots along the sidewalk. What are those flowers they’re putting in them now? Asters aren’t they, and these leafy things. Someone said they’re called ‘ornamental cabbage.’ Such creative arrangements they make nowadays. Oh, and all the shops were busy, and the breeze coming off the lake was perfect. Refreshing! Do you ever just feel amazed to be living in such a beautiful place?”

  “Margaret?” prodded Carlotta, “Tell us how you met Mabel.”

  Margaret pretended to start with surprise. “Oh, yes! I almost forgot what I was talking about. Well, I turned down Quaintance Court, and there she was. Walked right into me. I guess it was bound to happen, in a town as small as this. I said, ‘Mabel?’ and she said, ‘Margaret?’ It seems she’d been hearing about me, as well. Although the stories she was hearing must have been very bland in comparison to what I was hearing about her.

  “So we went to Renata’s for pasta and wine. We dined on the terrace with little fairy lights lining the brick wall, and we chatted all evening. I had the best time.

  “You should have seen the people looking back and forth from me to her and back to me. And she’s a firecracker, I’ll say! A bit crude, it’s true, but such a good-looking woman.” Margaret said this without a trace of humor.

  “I wanted to give her what-for. She’d been going around town behaving terribly and letting people think she was me. But you see, she didn’t know anything about me, at first. She was only being herself. It is a free country. She was very kind and flattering to me. Really, Mabel is the most charming person I’ve ever met.”

  Margaret let her audience envision two tiny identical octogenarians sipping wine at the Italian restaurant and admiring one another.

  “I invited her to come here today. I thought we could offer her a complimentary watercolor class.”

  Carlotta, Lorraine, Norbert, and even Birdie all held their breath. Margaret loved the moment and couldn’t bring herself to release it.

  Finally, Lorraine shook herself free of the spell.

  “Let me guess. Mabel can’t make it.”

  Margaret reluctantly released a little of her power.

  “No, she can’t make it. For one, she says, art is not her thing. ‘I’m not creative like you and your friends,’ is what she said. Because I told her all about you. Of course. And secondly, by now she should be on her bus back to Rochester. That’s where she lives. She was just here for a little vacation.

  “I asked if she’d come back and see us, but she said, ‘To be honest, Margaret, I really don’t think so. This is the most boring and small-minded place I’ve ever seen. Life is too short.’ So,” said Margaret firmly, “we won’t be seeing her around town anymore.” She fixed them all with her bright blue stare.

  Margaret was the first to lift her brush. Her friends were still gazing at her.

  Mixing a little Titanium white with a little Prussian blue, Margaret delighted in the delicious thought, Who’s the smartest person in the room now?

  -12-

  Carlotta was eighty-one years old the day she sat down to write her first book. She intended to live to one hundred at least, so she was in no hurry. She had been planning on writing her memoir since she danced the Hully Gully with the high school football captain in 1954, when she was eighteen. From that day forward, in preparation for beginning her manuscript, Carlotta had been collecting note cards and filing them under colored tabs marking the years.

  Writing a book, thought Carlotta, is one part inspiration and three parts organization. A place for everything and everything in its place.

  The note cards now filled four boxes. From time to time she would pull out a card or two and read a stimulating remark that she had heard from a passerby on the street in 1963 or a striking observation she had written about one of her friends in 1975.

  Carlotta had every confidence in her literary power. She had earned her Bachelor of Arts degree in English from Grendel University in 1958, and had led lots of book clubs over the years. She had written many excellent letters to the editor of the Gibbons Corner Gazette, and they all had been published. As for intelligence, she was smarter than many people who wrote books: especially those who were writing them nowadays—of that she was sure.

  Anyone can be an author. Nothing to it.

  Her working title was: The Golden Bonds of Friendship. Carlott
a was to be the protagonist and her friends, the props, in her own memoir—or was it to be an autobiographical novel? What was the difference? A memoir was supposed to be entirely true, wasn’t it? An autobiographical novel, on the other hand, was allowed plenty of wiggle room.

  It seemed to Carlotta, then, that this wiggle room would offer more opportunity for creative license, that is, permission to make things up about people. That, in the end, was what she was after. Yes, autobiographical fiction would be the more thrilling genre for her book.

  Carlotta sat in her living room at her French provincial writing desk and wrote on blue paper. She had read somewhere that the French writer Colette wrote exclusively on blue paper. Carlotta wrote with a black calligraphy felt-tip pen, because she liked the flourishes she could make with it. The flourishes were elegant, and while she was thinking, some of them grew organically into tree branches and leafy vines. The composition itself, however, was not moving in a forward direction, and a forward direction, generally, was what one wanted.

  Carlotta shifted operations to her dining room table, where she spread out her note cards and matched them with photographs pulled from albums. There, before her, was her wedding day, when she stood holding hands with Ed in front of the United Methodist Church, young and clueless as to the faithlessness of man. And there was a photograph of her little boys, angelic, immaculate and dressed like angry little models. And here were the early days of the Club, where she achieved that sense of being entertaining and the center of everything—that sense of importance which she so craved. A picture of Margaret, not yet forty, looking like a movie star with sunglasses pushed to the top of her platinum hair, and her three children clinging to her shirtwaist dress and looking like small bewildered refugees. There was a shot of Birdie in her twenties, wearing pink and purple concentric circles (it was 1967, but still, those colors, with Birdie’s red hair?) gazing dreamily over the top of the camera; Lorraine in her late thirties, one hand fluffing up her plentiful black curls and the other making a peace sign. Photographs of other Club members—wearing turbans and bouffant hairstyles—who had come and gone. Photographs of all their children playing together. Photographs of oil paintings that Carlotta had won prizes for or sold. Photographs of vacations and adventures, of décor that had since been disposed of and replaced. The sheer volume of it all became unmanageable.