by Keziah Frost
Queen’s face was expressionless, unreadable.
Hope went on, “I bet Aunt Carlotta will take you to see Aunt Birdie. She has a parrot called Tetley and you can play in her pretty garden. And you’ll visit Aunt Margaret. She has a cat called Myrtle and as you heard, she’s a good cook! And Aunt Carlotta will take you to see Aunt Lorraine, who used to be a teacher, and you will learn lots of stuff.
“Now, on Tuesdays, you’ll be with Uncle Norbert—that will mean sitting in the café again, near his booth, for few hours while he reads cards. But he will keep an eye on you and talk to you in between customers, and you can read and paint, like you said. But all the other days you’ll be with Aunt Carlotta. Aunt Carlotta always has lots of ideas, so it will be sure to be fun.”
“And Sunday is your day off,” resumed Queen, “and we will be home together.”
“No. I actually don’t get a real day off. Not regularly. Once in a while I can get one, if I leave Liam in charge. But he’s just a teenager, and the café is a big responsibility. I have to put in a lot of hours there every day.”
“Then what happens to me on Sundays?” And although Queen’s voice sounded challenging, Carlotta heard the vulnerability beneath.
Carlotta and Mabel spoke up together: “You’ll be with me!”
A sudden, loud clap of thunder made everyone jump.
“That must have been close,” observed Norbert, looking toward the window where the rain was now pelting with vigorous intention.
Mabel, raising her voice above the rain, said to Carlotta, “I don’t think that’s fair. You already have Queen every day but Monday and Tuesday. You don’t need to take all the available days. What about the rest of us? We could divide up the week, and each take a day.”
“The rest of you don’t have the necessary energy to look after a child,” said Carlotta, matching Mabel’s volume.
“Well, that’s a load of blarney,” complained Mabel, looking around at the others for support.
“I believe you mean malarkey,” corrected Carlotta with good cheer. She wasn’t going to lose this one.
The Club was following this exchange with interest. Carlotta was glad to have them watch her winning something. And it was shocking to think that they would trust Mabel, who was, after all, a stranger, to look after a child.
“You are so busy with the Club, Mabel. And since Hope is my niece, that means that Queen is related to me. My foster grandniece. Blood is thicker than water.”
As Carlotta left Hope’s house, she basked in the gratification of having beaten Mabel out. And the little girl, surprisingly, was a reader, and that endeared her somewhat to Carlotta’s guarded heart. However, this whole foster care thing was a terrible idea. She would just have to stand by her niece until Hope would see that for herself.
-44-
When the crowd had gone, Hope asked Queen, “What did you think of your new uncle and aunts?”
“They’re not my uncle and aunts.”
Hope took the armchair opposite Queen.
“They may be yours, but they aren’t mine. And I’m not calling them ‘aunt’ and ‘uncle,’ either.”
“Why?” asked Hope, with a sinking heart. “Didn’t you like them?”
“Not a matter of liking,” said Queen. “It’s a matter of facts. They aren’t mine. Not gonna call them aunt and uncle. That’s it; that’s all.”
“That’s fine,” assured Hope. “But you will have to call them something, won’t you?”
“Easy,” said Queen. “I’ll call them by their names.”
“By their first names?” asked Hope.
“What else?” answered Queen. “I’ll call them Lorraine, Birdie, Norbert, Carlotta, and those twin ladies—Margaret and Mabel. I think I’ve got them all straight already.”
Hope explained that the two ladies who looked alike were not twins, but doubles. Queen seemed skeptical.
“Is that true?”
“Of course, it’s true. Why would I lie?”
“People lie about all kinds of things. All the time.”
Hope considered this. Of course, Queen was correct in her surmise. People did lie all the time. But a child of nine is not supposed to be so aware of the duplicity of adults.
“You’re a quick learner,” said Hope, “to get everyone’s names so fast. But we may have a little problem to work out. You see, the older generation is not always so keen on being called by their first names by children.”
“That still doesn’t make them my aunts and uncle.”
“Okay. But what can you call them, to show respect for the age difference?”
Queen reflected, interested in this conundrum.
“You mean I should call them something like ‘miss’ and ‘mister’? Like, ‘Miss Carlotta’?”
Hope shook her head vigorously. “Oh, no! Not that. That’s too… southern plantation-y.”
“Well, then?”
“You could call them the way you do your teachers, maybe? So: Mrs. Moon, Mrs. Walsh….”
Queen resumed: “Mrs. Andretta, Mrs. Birch, Mrs. Paine, and Mr. Zelenka.”
“Good job! You even caught all their last names! But… is it too formal? I wish there was something else….”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Something like, ‘Mother Carlotta,’ ‘Mother Birdie,’ you know, to show that it’s a closer relationship.”
Queen poked out her pursed lips and regarded Hope for a moment.
“I do not know what you’re talking about, ‘closer relationship.’ Just because they brought me presents, now I gotta have a ‘closer relationship’ with them?” Queen had raised her voice suddenly and was levelling a hostile stare at Hope. She shoved her pile of treasure away from her. “They can take it all back then. I’m not calling them ‘aunt,’ ‘uncle,’ ‘mother,’ or none of that. Now what?”
“Right, all right, no family names, then.” Hope agreed. “Well, we’ll start off with Mr. and Mrs. Maybe someday you’ll upgrade them all.”
Queen made no comment.
Hope asked shyly, “And what would you like to call me?”
Queen, solemn, paused and considered Hope.
Hope hastened to add, “It’s okay if you don’t want to call me ‘Mom.’”
Queen shook her head.
“You got any idea how many women I’ve called ‘Mom’? And now, to tell you the truth, I can’t even remember any of their faces. Maybe that’s because I called them all the same name. They all blur together. You shouldn’t call two people by the same name. A name is important. Now, my real mother, I call Mama. I have never called anyone else that. But all those women I called ‘Mom’—I bet they don’t even remember me anymore, either.”
Hope swallowed her disappointment.
Queen seemed to sense Hope’s feelings.
“Hope is a beautiful name,” said Queen. And it did sound like a beautiful name, when Queen said it. “It’s lucky when you have a name that means something. I would like to call you Hope. May I?”
“You may,” Hope smiled. “And you’ll see, the people you met today are very kind. You’ll grow to like them.”
Queen twisted her mouth and looked directly at Hope.
“I don’t see any black people here. That’s okay. I’m used to white people. But I can tell, you all aren’t used to black people.”
Hope paused to consider what might have happened in the visit to give the child this impression.
“Why do you say that?”
“I say it because it’s true,” said Queen simply.
“I mean, what makes you feel that we aren’t used to black people here?”
“I can just tell. If you’ve been around a little bit, it’s not hard.”
-45-
On this sunny and windy September day, Birdie Walsh was inhaling the wet earth and walking to Carlotta’s house, mentally rehearsing the opening to the conversation she intended to have. The trouble was that there was always so much spiritual distraction around Bird
ie that she seldom was able to really think anything through.
Wherever Birdie walked, she walked with unseen companions. They were the spirits of her departed loved ones, as well as the ghosts of random strangers who had come in with the antique items that furnished her home. So many of them get in that way, reflected Birdie, if people only knew. When she stopped and spoke to people in town, as likely as not she would see vaporous entities behind them, causing people to stop talking suddenly and look warily over their shoulders. For Birdie, there was no partition between the land of the living and that of the dead.
The red and orange leaves were floating, as if on unseen hands, down through the air all around her. Crows peered down from the trees and announced the passage of Birdie and her entourage.
Birdie had told Norbert that the spirits at her house were restless. Some of her friends jokingly said they suspected, but only Norbert had heard it from her, that she saw ghosts. It was, to Birdie, the most important thing about her, and at the same time the one thing she could not share. Lorraine would have laughed at her, Margaret would have been frightened out of her wits, and Carlotta would have wanted to exploit her for the Club’s entertainment. She had to be on guard to not become another one of Carlotta’s projects.
Birdie’s sensitive soul felt Carlotta’s pain. She knew that Carlotta felt abandoned by the Club she had led and nurtured for most of her life. Carlotta was larger than life. What if she was bossy, as Lorraine said? Hadn’t they always accepted that about her? Didn’t she have some right to be bossy if the Club had always chosen to follow her and benefit from her constant flow of inspiration? Who, after all, was perfect? Wasn’t it heartless of them all to leave her now, just because Mabel had come to town?
What Birdie had in mind was a little chat to clear the air, and bring Carlotta back to the center of the Club, where she belonged. Lorraine had said such a talk was not possible. Birdie, hearing herself cheered on from the Other Side, would see for herself.
Carlotta smiled brightly as she opened her door.
“Birdie!”
They kissed cheeks.
“Come on in! I’ll just close up my desk here so all these papers won’t be in our way. I’ve been working all morning. I was starting to get writer’s cramp,” said Carlotta, with a light laugh.
If Birdie was supposed to ask what Carlotta had been working on, she missed the hint, because there was Ed, Carlotta’s departed husband, nodding a greeting at her from his spot in front of the fireplace. At the same time, Toutou was wiggling in polite greeting at her feet, and Birdie kneeled to pet her and bury her face in Toutou’s fragrant curls.
That was Birdie’s day-to-day life: the spirit world merged with the real world. Was she delusional? She didn’t think so. She only knew what she saw and heard, and that it was different from what everyone else seemed to be experiencing.
“Just back from the groomer’s!” said Carlotta cheerfully. “Look how proud she is! That’s enough, Toutou. Go lie down.”
Toutou hesitated, looking at her bed under the table, and then at Birdie.
“Oh, all right. You can cuddle with Birdie. It really is peculiar, the way all animals love you. You’re an animal charmer, that’s what you are!”
“It’s been that way all my life. Animals seek me out and want to sit by me. I love that, actually. I always feel better with animals nearby. The only creature I’ve ever met who doesn’t come to me is Myrtle. She seems to love only you, but….”
“Please! Let’s not waste time talking about cats, for heaven’s sake! I’ve lit the fire, as you can see, for our lunch. I don’t know why, but it still seems so cold in front of the fireplace. Isn’t that odd? It must be the cold draft, coming down the chimney.”
Birdie was used to cold spots in houses, but did not remark on this. Ed rested his elbow on the mantel, smiling and shrugging at Birdie.
Carlotta had made buttered toast and lentil soup.
“Simple and warming,” she said, bustling. “And tea for me, and water for you,” added Carlotta, knowing that Birdie drank nothing but room temperature water.
“I like water,” Birdie said, “it’s so clear, energetically.”
Lorraine, had she been there, would have made a wisecrack about that remark just to make Birdie feel silly. Carlotta only smiled kindly. What Birdie loved most about Carlotta was how accepting she was of Birdie’s ways and observations. She never criticized or excluded Birdie, as most of the world had done before she met Carlotta. And now, here was Birdie, seeming to exclude Carlotta. Her remorse was deep and heartfelt.
Birdie, stirring her soup, launched right in, before she could forget why she came. Carlotta’s mother was standing behind Carlotta’s chair and singing a popular tune from the twenties, which made it hard to concentrate.
“Carlotta, it’s a shame, what’s happened, and I want to tell you that I am truly sorry.”
“What do you mean, what’s happened, Birdie? Has something happened?”
“Oh, you know, about Mabel and everyone being kind of excited about her.”
“Oh. Are they? I’ve been so busy, I haven’t noticed.”
Birdie persevered. “I know it seems like Mabel is the center of things now….”
Carlotta conceded, “I am just a little surprised at Mabel’s popularity with the Club, Birdie. Aren’t you? She’s rather crude and unintelligent, isn’t she?”
Birdie paused.
“Actually, I don’t experience her that way.”
Birdie “experienced” people very much the way they experienced themselves. Judgment was foreign to her.
Carlotta’s eyes opened wide in surprise. She changed the subject.
“Birdie! Do you know, I just remembered I have a pineapple upside down cake in the fridge. I almost forgot. I would have been so mad! I made it for our lunch. It’s very moist. Let me tell you how I made it.”
Carlotta recited the recipe and narrated each step in detail, filibustering to keep Birdie from discussing that which Carlotta would not discuss.
Lorraine was right.
Birdie, walking home again through the quiet streets and the autumn chill, said aloud, “I did try.”
-46-
In the Kitchen with Margaret turned out to be an absorbing project for the Club, while Carlotta maintained her exile. They talked about it during painting classes.
At one o’clock on Wednesday afternoon in Birdie’s Watercolor Class, they were all abuzz with their community television certification class lingo and plans for filming.
Mabel, who had tired of modeling for the art classes, was dabbing at her own abstract painting experiment while she talked.
“See,” said Mabel, “if we were doing an interview show, or even a painting show, we’d just film in the studio. But if we do a cooking show, we’ll need to film in a kitchen. Probably Margaret’s kitchen. It’s do-able. We’ll have to rent a video camera….”
Lorraine said, “Carlotta, whatsa matter with you anyway? I can’t believe you’re not working with us on this. You’re missing out. You would love it!”
Carlotta dragged a watery brush over her Arches paper and then laid down some dots of cool color and watched them expand into little stars. She shook some grains of salt over her paper to increase the star effect.
“You know,” she said, “I’ve been very busy.”
They aren’t going to ask what you’ve been busy with. Just tell them.
“You’ve been wondering what I’m so busy with, so I won’t keep you in suspense any longer.” She paused. She took as long as she dared before losing their attention. “You will be surprised to know that I am writing a book.”
Excitement broke out around the studio.
That’s the way to get them back.
Carlotta thought with satisfaction that she had sprung the news on them at just the right moment.
“Oh, Carlotta,” said Lorraine, with real feeling, “you always wanted to write that book! And now you’re doing it! That’s wonderful! I’m pro
uda you.”
“Oh,” enthused Margaret, her blue eyes sparkling, “I’ve always wanted to write a book, too. I’m going to write mine posthumously, though.”
Lorraine smirked at Carlotta and said, “For that, you’re gonna need a ghostwriter.”
Birdie looked up with interest, and then gazed off into space, her default expression.
Carlotta felt warmly reassured by Lorraine’s smirk. They were still friends, then.
Carlotta explained to Margaret, “You can’t write a book posthumously. I think you mean to say, anonymously. You can write a book anonymously if you use a pen name. Posthumously would mean you would write it after you’re dead. Which would be assuming an extra challenge. Writing a book while you’re still alive is hard enough.”
“It could be published posthumously, though,” said Lorraine. “You could write it anonymously and then it would be published posthumously.”
Margaret pouted, “Can we stop talking about death, please?”
Mabel asked, “Well, what’s it about—this book of yours?”
“Why,” said Carlotta, smiling her sweetest smile. “It’s about all of you.”
The Club, ignited by self-interest, pressed Carlotta to tell them more.
“Am I in it?” asked Mabel.
“And me?” asked Lorraine.
Carlotta, expert in the skill of manipulation, knew that this was the moment to step back and withhold information.
“Now, didn’t I just say I’m writing about all of you?”
“Ooh, what are you writing about us?” asked Margaret. “Good things, I hope!” She tittered.
“I’m sure you must know that a writer cannot talk about her work in progress. It kills the inspiration. You’ll read it when it’s published.”
“You’re publishing it? Whadda you—have a contract or something?” asked Lorraine.
Carlotta smiled her best enigmatic smile.
Let them feel that pull of unsatisfied curiosity. It would be good for them.
-47-
The following morning, Carlotta opened the door of her home to Arnie Butler, that dear young man. A forty-something balding fellow with a slight paunch can qualify as a young man when you’re eighty-one.