Getting Rid of Mabel

by Keziah Frost

  “Arnie! Welcome! So happy you’ve come!”

  Arnie, greeting Toutou and playing with her briefly, refused coffee, tea, scones, and anything else that Carlotta might offer, suggesting that they get right to her laptop.

  Although he had never personally self-published a book, Arnie did take a look at the process on his own computer the night before. He was able to guide Carlotta through the easy steps toward creating a real book, one that would be available for purchase online, and one that he would be happy to stock for her at Butler’s Books.

  Carlotta felt a rush to the head, to see how simple it all was. She was vibrating inside, and had to take her own pulse. She was fine. She was just very excited.

  Arnie tempered Carlotta’s enthusiasm with some caveats.

  “Now, you do understand self-publishing is not like publishing with a well-known house, right? You won’t get the help with editing, promoting, and all of that. You won’t get a review in The New York Times. It won’t be a bestseller. You probably won’t sell very many copies, in fact.”

  Carlotta waved her hand in a dismissive gesture.

  “Arnie, anyone can write a bestseller. That’s not what I’m after. My readership is above the masses. But you will carry it for me at Butler’s Books?”

  “Oh, sure. That is, if you’ll pay for the copies upfront. Then I’ll pay you for them as they sell. That’s called ‘on consignment.’”

  “I know what ‘on consignment’ means, Arnie. You don’t need to explain the obvious.”

  Carlotta was reassured. She didn’t need a worldwide audience quite yet. If Gibbons Corner saw her book on display downtown, that was good enough for her. For now.

  Arnie complimented her. “You have quite a lot of handwritten pages of manuscript already.”

  Carlotta rested her hand atop the blue stack, to prevent Arnie from reading any of her prose.

  “I’ve had a few spare hours lately,” she observed, trying not to betray her sour feeling about the ample time she now had at her disposal.

  “Well, once you get it all finished and transcribed into a Word document, you have to edit it very carefully, of course. After that, you’ll need a professional editor to look for errors and areas for improvement.”

  “Oh, that part won’t be necessary,” said Carlotta. The very idea of someone “correcting” her work was impertinent. Her memoir would be published just the way it rolled off the pen: natural and fresh.

  “And then…” and Arnie showed her again the quick and easy steps.

  “And how much will it cost?” asked Carlotta, ready to pay anything at all. To become a published author, she would empty out a Certificate of Deposit.

  “Why, it’s free!” laughed Arnie.

  “How can it be free?”

  “Because it’s print-on-demand, you see. They don’t print the book until one is ordered and paid for. When that happens, why, then they send the book out to the buyer, and they send you your portion of the money.”

  “No!”

  “Yes!”

  Carlotta went through the steps on her own with Arnie observing, just to make sure she really understood.

  “Do you mean to say,” said Carlotta, “that when I just press this button here, the one that says ‘publish,’ my book will be published?”

  Arnie smiled and nodded, delighting in Carlotta’s delight.

  Carlotta sat, exultant, before the computer screen. The rush of power she felt was unlike any she had ever known.

  -48-

  Hope was deep into the famous “behavior problems” that Child and Family Services had warned her about.

  Just when she had begun to doubt that Queen actually had any behavior problems, they burst forth in full force. One evening Hope, preparing an easy Mexican dinner, couldn’t find tortillas in the refrigerator. Had she stored them in the pantry instead, contrary to her usual protocol? No, they weren’t in the pantry. Wait. Neither was the box of Cheerios. Nor the bag of potato chips. The package of dried cranberries was missing, too.

  Hope shut the pantry door with a sigh, and realized what must be going on.

  Food hoarding.

  Hadn’t she learned about this in her foster parents’ class?

  Children who have experienced prolonged hunger sometimes develop a habit of secretly hoarding food, so afraid are they that they will one day be hungry again. It’s not a “behavior problem,” as such. It’s more of an anxiety symptom. She would need to reassure Queen that she would always have food with Hope.

  Queen did not take the reassurance well.

  Hope sat on Queen’s bed and told her that she noticed some food missing. Was there anything Queen wanted to tell her?

  “Now,” said Queen, her eyes wide and her voice loud, “what would I have to tell you? You’re the one that came in my room. Looks like you’re the one that got something to tell me.”

  Hope had not expected this dizzying escalation.

  “I’m not accusing you of anything, Queen.”

  “Okay. That’s good. I’m not accusing you of anything either. So we’re done, then, I guess.”

  Queen shot a heart-piercing look of scorn at Hope. Hope looked down at her feet. There was a cracker box sticking out from under the bed. She bent and picked up the box.

  “I’m not mad at you, Queen. I understand. It’s okay. I just want to tell you--.”

  “I don’t know how that box got there. Don’t look at me.”

  “Queen, you don’t need to lie to me.”

  “Oooh!” yelled Queen, and there was surprising power in her voice. “Now you’re making me mad! Don’t you talk to me like this! Don’t you do it!” Queen took some deep breaths, as if trying to control herself. Then, in a measured tone, she added, “I—am—using—my—words.”

  Hope considered. The child seemed to be using some anger management technique someone must have taught her.

  Queen, regaining her composure, said, “We can forget all about this.” She sniffed. “Soon as you say sorry.”

  For a moment, Hope was at a loss. She wished she could channel The Wish Fairy or even Thundercloud to tell her the right way to handle this unexpected blow-up. She felt that saying “sorry” would be a mistake. But then, what to say?

  “Queen.”

  Queen sat with staring eyes and pursed lips, saying nothing.

  “Queen, I just want you to know that you are safe in every way, including safe from hunger. You might not be sure if that’s true right now, but in time, you will see.”

  Hope pulled the package of tortillas from under the bed. While she was at it, she gathered up the crackers, dried cranberries, and potato chips. She then left the child to think about their conversation while she made dinner.

  Queen, in the meantime, went to her white desk and sat down to write in her notebook.

  Forster mothers always like to tell you to sit & think about what they said like you got time to be thinking about them. I got my own things to think about like my Book which I am writting. They all might think it is just scribble scrabble or a journal. Thats another thing they Love to tell you write in a journal they say. No. This is reserch for a real book & I will publish it & people will read my book which will be called How to Sirvive Being a Forster Kid. & other forster kids will read it. & Bad forster mothers that I had will read it and they will cry and be sorry cause now there in a book & everyone will know how evil they are & they will wish they were Nice to me when they had the chance. This forster mother isn’t evil yet but I am nipping her in the butt.

  Dinner started off quiet and pleasant. Hope had asked Queen to choose the music they would listen to, and to her surprise, the child had chosen a CD called Meditation Music. Hope would have expected her to choose some current pop star. The soft flute-y music was just the thing to calm jangled nerves.

  “Do you meditate?” asked Hope, ready to be surprised.

  “No. I just like the swirly blue picture on the case.”

  Whatever anger management technique Queen
had practiced seemed to have worked for her, and Hope felt encouraged that they had just overcome their first bump.

  She had a topic of dinner conversation to bring up. She had read online that chores were important to family life. Chores, assured the writer of the article, gave children a sense of importance and belonging in the household, in addition to teaching a work ethic. Chores helped children to understand that “in our home, we all work together to make our living space nice.”

  Hope presented the concept of chores to Queen.

  Queen laid her fork on her plate and said, “I don’t do chores.”

  Hope said, “But I do chores.”

  Queen answered, “That’s because this is your house.”

  “But it’s your house now, too.”

  “Not yet. I’m just trying it out still.”

  Hope paused. This little girl had such a need to be in control. That wasn’t a bad thing. It was very understandable for a girl who had been sent from one place to another all her life. Still, Hope was the mother—no matter by what name. Aunt Carlotta had warned her about being too lenient, like “most parents today.”

  Hope smiled to let Queen know she was speaking from kindness. “Well, honey, while you are trying it out, you can help me with the dishes after meals. That’s only fair, isn’t it?”

  She was not prepared for what Queen would say next.

  “Don’t tell me what to do, please. I don’t like it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard.”

  Queen left her dishes on the table and returned to her room. Hope cleared the table, and wondered what a real mother would do. She certainly wasn’t a real mother, because she had no idea whether to nip this rebellion in the bud, or let it go this time.

  After doing the dishes, she sat in the living room with her eyes closed and her headphones on, drifting into the calming meditation music. She hadn’t listened to this CD in years. It was like therapy to her bruised spirit. Hope wasn’t used to disciplining children, and was afraid she’d never be good at it. The parenting classes taught her that the kids needed patience, firm limits and unconditional positive regard. As a parent, she was supposed to separate the act from the child. It had all made sense in the class. Now she wished she had asked more questions. She wasn’t ready to be a mom; she didn’t know enough yet. She thought of consulting the fortune-teller at her café. He had never been a parent, but he was wise and kind. She floated on the strains of the flute, and the world around her dissolved. She didn’t hear the front door gently open and close.

  -49-

  Carlotta sat hunched—she who had never hunched in her life—before her computer screen. She was transcribing her first blue pages into a Word document. She had taken a typing course in her youth, and enjoyed the mental and physical process of typing. She could not, however, take the leap to composing on the screen. She needed to begin by penning her prose in cursive. As she transcribed, she was able to edit. Publication was as near as her final revision. She was rushing to complete her narrative. The Golden Bonds of Friendship had been taking a darker turn at each writing session. The working title of her autobiographical novel would have to be changed. Carlotta typed: How Sharper than a Serpent’s Tooth. She borrowed this title from Shakespeare’s King Lear, where the suffering royal is shocked by the ingratitude of his favored and dearest. Of course, reflected Carlotta, King Lear was making a tragic mistake in judgment when he delivered his famous line: “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child!” It turned out that his daughter Cordelia was still as loyal as ever to him, and he himself was making a mess of things. The analogy could be stretched only so far.

  She enjoyed seeing her thoughts fly from her blue paper, through her agile fingers, to land on the computer screen. There, in Times New Roman, her prose looked official and powerful.

  Through all the decades, Regina Cassidy sacrificed unceasingly for her friends. Her every thought was for their benefit, their well-being, and their amusement. To think of her own interests would have been foreign to her generous nature. Regina poured into her friendships all of her considerable genius and creative energy. At times, she even put her friends ahead of her family. Never, in her goodness, did she suspect their moral bankruptcy. Never did she imagine the depth of their ingratitude and treachery. Her boundless faith in her friends was the great tragedy of her life.

  Her friends would all need new fictional names. She herself would keep the name she associated with royalty: Regina Cassidy. She hadn’t changed. But her friends would need names to reflect their false hearts. To Lorraine she would give the most traitorous name of all. Treachery, in American history, was associated with the name Benedict Arnold. Doodling, Carlotta assigned the name “Bernadette Arnold” to Lorraine. Dithery Birdie would now be “Debbie Dither.” And as for Norbert, the fortune-teller, she would call him “Professor Marvel,” the silly man.

  As she sat before the written history of her Club, Carlotta had a sinking feeling that she did not care for one bit. She had never been a woman to despair. She would not sit at her computer and feel unpleasant things. Action was the solution to any problem. She would stand and take some step toward getting her Club back under control. She needed to talk to someone who could give her counsel. She would see Norbert.

  Yes, she had just mockingly named him “Professor Marvel” in her book.

  But he didn’t know that.

  -50-

  Carlotta approached Norbert’s booth at the Good Fortune Café with a light laugh.

  “I just realized, Norbert, that since you have been in business here, I have never had a reading. I’ve come to support your little business.” She generously gave him his twenty dollar fee, even though she should be entitled to a free reading, considering that she had put him into this career to begin with.

  Norbert did not betray any sign of surprise. Smiling, he received Carlotta and her twenty dollar bill, and smiling, he laid her seven cards out in a horseshoe spread on the table.

  He studied the cards as Carlotta looked about brightly, to give anyone who might be looking on the impression that she was having a lark, and did not care at all what the cards had to tell her.

  Norbert’s deep brown eyes behind his thick lenses looked compassionate.

  Carlotta did not like that one bit.

  Norbert said, “I must tell you something that will upset you.”

  -51-

  Hope awoke to a vibration and knocking at the front door. She pulled the headphones from her head and ran to see who it was.

  It was Jenny, from across the street.

  “Hey, sorry to disturb you,” said Jenny, and she looked pained.

  “That’s okay. What’s wrong?”

  From a tote bag hanging on her shoulder, Jenny produced a fistful of necklaces and bracelets. They looked familiar. They were Hope’s.

  “I found these in Angelina’s room.”

  “They’re—they’re mine! How did Angelina get them?”

  Angelina was only six years old.

  “She said she bought them. With money from my wallet.”

  “Wait. What?” asked Hope. “How?”

  “She said the kid that’s staying with you—Queen, is that really her name?—she said Queen sold them to her yesterday. She said Queen told her to get the money from my wallet.”

  Hope took the jewelry from Jenny’s outstretched hand. All the baubles were presents from Aunt Carlotta and her cousin Summer. Hope had no idea of their worth; she seldom had occasion to wear them. Material things did not mean much to Hope. Still, Aunt Carlotta and Summer both had expensive taste. Their gifts probably had value.

  “Uh,” said Hope, “how much do I owe you? How much did Angelina steal from your wallet?”

  “Excuse me!” said Jenny. “Angelina does not steal!”

  “Sorry, sorry. I just woke up. I misspoke. Sorry.”

  “It was three dollars,” said Jenny.

  “Right. Sorry. Let me get my purse.” Hop
e hesitated. “Oh, come in. I don’t mean to leave you standing there on the stoop. Like I said, I just drifted off. Kind of groggy.”

  Jenny stood in the foyer and looked curiously as far as she could see into Hope’s house, as Hope rummaged in her purse for three singles.

  Jenny folded the bills neatly and tucked them into her jeans pocket. She showed every sign of staying right where she was. Jenny was a talker. Most of her talk revolved around trying to persuade Hope (and everyone else) to come to “socials” and “open houses” at her church, but any subject would do.

  “So, this kid. Where’d she come from?”

  “She’s my foster child,” said Hope. “She just got here a few days ago. I’ll bring her over to meet Angelina sometime soon.”

  Jenny recoiled. “Don’t trouble yourself. They’ve already met.” She tilted her head. “How long is she going to be here?”

  “She’s staying. I’m adopting her.”

  Jenny whispered, “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

  Hope opened the door and, taking Jenny’s elbow, propelled her through it. She shut the door and leaned against it, gathering her wits about her for a serious talk with her daughter.

  -52-

  Where was she?

  Hope checked every inch of the house, and as she went, she moved faster, her heart rate accelerating and her voice calling louder. The bathroom, closets, and space under the beds yielded no Queen. She wasn’t in the back yard.

  Hope dialed her neighbor.

  “Jenny!”

  “Hope? What’s up?” Jenny didn’t seem to hold any grudge about Hope’s abrupt dismissal of her a few minutes before. Maybe she was used to people pushing her out of their houses.

  “Queen’s not over there, playing with Angelina, is she?”

  “What? No!” Horrified. “Wait. Let me check.”

  A pause that seemed to last an eternity.

  “Hey! Angelina is locking all her dolls in the dog kennel. I said, what are you doing Angelina sweetie, and she said all her dolls are bad and she’s putting them in jail. Isn’t that cute? Wait a minute while I take a video to post on Facebook.”