by Keziah Frost
Margaret was confiding to Carlotta that her new roommate had begun to grate on her nerves.
“I don’t know, Carlotta,” sighed Margaret as they walked. “Maybe it’s just that I’ve lived alone for so many years that I can’t adjust to sharing my living space. But honestly, Mabel, bless her soul, just creates chaos in every room she enters. I’m beginning to resent cleaning up after her.”
Carlotta, who couldn’t imagine cleaning up after another human being, struggled to empathize.
“Have you asked her to find another arrangement?”
“I don’t want to ask her to move out. You know how I am. I just wish she’d get the idea herself that she wants to leave.”
Just then, a strange man rushed toward them, jay-walking—actually, jay-running—across the street from the direction of the Good Fortune Café.
“Mabel!” he shouted.
He seemed about to try to hug Margaret, who took a step back behind Carlotta.
“Oh!” cried Margaret in distress, “It’s you again, from the bus!”
Gibbons Corner was a small town. It wasn’t possible to avoid anyone.
“Ha ha! Mabel, are you going to start that again?”
“I am not Mabel!” asserted Margaret.
The man hesitated, obviously confused. Then, seeming to make up his mind, he stepped forward and made a grab for Margaret’s hand.
Carlotta swatted him away as Margaret proclaimed, “Don’t you dare touch me!”
The color had risen to Walter’s lined face. “Then I’m leaving town, Mabel! You’ll never see me again. I came here to find you and see if we could make it work. Just one more try. But if you’re going to keep playing games, I’m outta here! There’s only so much rejection a man can take!”
Passersby stopped and gaped, and a thirty-something woman asked, “Do you want me to call 9ll?”
“No thank you, dear,” said Carlotta to the young woman. “We have everything under control here.” Carlotta, sheltering Margaret with her arm, was struck by a sudden thought.
The young woman looked doubtfully once again and the oldsters, and then went on her way.
Carlotta said to the bewildered man, “Excuse me. You are--?”
Her sharp mind had begun to percolate. This man was the one who had bothered Margaret on the bus. This man was the “womanizer” that Mabel had referred to. This man was, in short, the answer to getting rid of Mabel.
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“Let’s just step around the corner to Willow Park,” suggested Carlotta. “I think we can straighten out all this confusion in very short order.”
Walter and Margaret matched Carlotta’s brisk steps, while Walter shot reproachful looks at Margaret, and Margaret stared ahead icily.
The park, situated just behind Butler’s Books, was quiet on this school day. The hazy autumn air was sparkling gold and warm. A good day for sitting at a picnic table, admiring the changing leaves, and manipulating people into doing what one wants them to do.
“Walter Strand,” began Carlotta, who sat directly across from him with Margaret at her side.
Walter tore his eyes from the beautiful Margaret.
“Yes?”
“You are under the impression that my friend here is a woman called Mabel Paine.”
“Oh, now if you’re going to start that malarkey—.”
“Please, hear me out. This is not Mabel. This is Margaret Birch. The reason for your confusion is that Mabel and Margaret are actually doubles.”
Walter squinted skeptically. “Doubles? What do you mean? Twins?”
“No, not twins. They are no relation to each other. By pure coincidence, they look almost exactly alike.”
The women watched the emotions pass across Walter’s face as he doubted, considered, and doubted again.
“Look at Margaret’s forehead. It’s a little higher than Mabel’s. And Margaret’s nose…”
Margaret obligingly turned her profile to Walter.
Walter tilted his head. “Well. Well, I’ll be.”
“Exactly,” said Carlotta. Now she could really warm to her work. “Of course, it’s no wonder that you’ve been looking for Mabel. Mabel—oh yes, we know her, too—she is an extraordinary person. She is very… popular.”
Walter frowned. “Popular? You mean she has a lot of boyfriends?”
“Oh no, no, no,” Carlotta hastened to clarify. “In fact, she spoke of you to us, didn’t she, Margaret?”
Margaret looked at Carlotta and nodded. Carlotta was on a roll, and Margaret was rolling along with her. Carlotta was going to solve her roommate dilemma, and Margaret was grateful.
“What did she say, do you remember, Margaret? Wasn’t it something about ‘the man she couldn’t forget’—I think it was something like that.”
Walter sat taller and smiled.
Carlotta and Margaret sang Mabel’s praises then. What fun Mabel was! How exciting it was to be in her company! The uniqueness of Mabel!
When Walter could hear no more, he demanded, “Well, then, where is she?”
Carlotta said, “We could arrange a meeting. Would you like that, Walter?”
As Carlotta and Margaret walked toward home, they congratulated each other on their excellent team work regarding Walter.
“You said so many nice things about Mabel,” said Margaret. “I had no idea that you liked her so much. I thought you kind of hated her.”
“Hated? Oh, Margaret, you know I never hate anyone. Perhaps I did sometimes think she wasn’t clever enough for the Club, I’ll admit that. But she’s been so much fun! Only now, everyone is tired of her, don’t you think? Now, listen to me: you are going to have a good time bringing these old lovebirds together…”
“Oh!” said Margaret.
“And at the same time, getting your home back in order.”
“Oh!” said Margaret again. “Everyone wins!”
“Precisely.” Carlotta smiled widely. “You just have to play your cards right. You just do as I say, Margaret.”
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That evening Mabel and Margaret were quaffing their preferred beverages at the Alibi Bar. Mabel’s was a bottle of beer, and Margaret’s was a glass of fresh orange juice. She told Mabel she was “detoxing,” and Mabel shrugged, taking a long swig of her Corona.
“All’s you ever do is nurse one drink through the whole night. I don’t know how toxic you could be, but, hey, different spokes for different folks, as they say.”
Walter Strand was due to come along any minute. Margaret had called him and invited him to meet her and Mabel at the Alibi. As Carlotta had predicted, Margaret was enjoying being a matchmaker.
Mabel loved the idea of meeting Walter with her double at her side. She thought it would be hilarious.
Margaret remarked, “He’s a very persistent man, I’ll say that for him.”
Mabel laughed. “Well, I can’t say he isn’t. Persistent and persuasive. And you know what else? He’s ten years younger than me. But then, this isn’t the first time I’ve robbed the cradle. I’ve never met a man quite like him. We didn’t always get along. But I always considered him my soul mate. Whenever we were together, sparks would fly!” Mabel chuckled at her private recollections.
Margaret smiled, seeing that if she just followed Carlotta’s instructions, she’d soon have her condo to herself again.
“He sure is a handsome man,” encouraged Margaret.
Mabel, startled, took Margaret’s measure, as if seeing her for the first time.
“Now. Don’t you go getting any ideas. When it comes to my man, I don’t like to share.”
Margaret, taking inspiration from Carlotta’s years of example on the fine art of manipulation, said, “Oh? Is he your man? Because he does seem interested in me.”
Mabel stared at Margaret, as one cat stares at another who has wandered into her territory.
“Are you saying you’re going to try to take him?” Mabel set her bottle down on the table, just next to the coaster. She wiped her mouth with
the back of her hand. “I’d like to see you try. It takes two to tangle, I always say.”
Margaret always thought that it took two to tango, but she did not want to tango—or tangle—with Mabel. She just wanted Mabel to move out of her condo. And the way to make that happen was opening before her.
“Well,” said Margaret, “I’m not trying to do anything. I’d say that he’s the one doing all the trying, as far as I’m concerned.” Fully aware of Mabel’s growing indignation, she drew a pattern of moisture on the table with her frosted glass of juice. “And I don’t know how you can say he’s ‘your man,’ especially. I mean, you’re not married, are you?”
As if obeying the law of synchronicity, in the background the strains of a country song on the theme of man-stealing began to swell.
Just then, the women’s absorption in one another was broken, as Walter materialized beside their table. They had been unaware of his approach. He pulled out a chair and sat down between them. He took in first one lady, and then the other, while they both turned the full force of their charismatic beams toward him.
At last, he said, “Am I in Heaven, or what? Two Mabels?”
The two white-haired look-alikes laughed as if here before them was the most charming man in all the wide world.
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Mabel and Walter left town the following day, going on a “road trip,” to a destination that would be decided as they drove. Mabel’s parting words to the Club had been, “Don’t worry—I’m coming back! You can count on that! Ha ha! You know what they say: a bad pony always turns up!”
The entire Club seemed to take a huge breath of relief at Mabel’s departure. They had not realized the tension that Mabel had caused until she was gone.
In the happy space that Mabel left behind, Lorraine turned her attention to Queen. The school teacher in Lorraine was delighted by Queen’s obvious intelligence. She quizzed Carlotta on Queen’s reading tastes and on her grades. Carlotta didn’t know about her grades, but she was able to share some of Queen’s reflections from their literary discussions. The child had an understanding beyond her years.
“Why isn’t she in the gifted program at school?” Lorraine wanted to know.
Carlotta had no idea. She asked Hope.
“I never thought of it,” said Hope. “Does Aunt Lorraine think she’s gifted?”
“Yes, she’s said so many times.”
“If she’s gifted, won’t the school figure it out, and put her where she needs to be?”
“Lorraine says you need to advocate.”
Thus it was that Carlotta, Lorraine, and Hope found themselves in Queen’s classroom at Central School, face to face with Queen’s fourth grade teacher, Mr. Fisher.
He smiled wearily on being informed that Queen was gifted.
“Another one?” he asked. “There are so many gifted children these days. This class is comprised of forty percent gifted students so far.”
“Really?” asked Carlotta, astounded. “But that’s remarkable! Forty percent?”
“Yep. According to their parents.”
“Ah.”
Lorraine said, “Mr. Fisher, we have good reasons for saying that Queen is brighter than average. You see, I’m a retired teacher myself--.”
Mr. Fisher turned his kind eyes to Lorraine. “When did you retire?”
“In 1966. I know that seems like a long time ago, but….”
“It was a long time ago,” put in Carlotta, beginning to feel that their visit to the school was without basis now. If everyone these days thought that their own child was gifted, then perhaps they were being just as vain as everyone else, and needed to go home and let the teacher do his job without interference.
Mr. Fisher said, “I am actually very glad you stopped in to chat. I’m especially pleased to see the kind of support Queen has at home, and I’d be happy to learn anything about her that you think will help me work with her here at school. To be honest, the first few days, I was beginning to think she might need special ed services.”
“Why?” asked Hope.
Lorraine and Carlotta bristled, “Special ed? For Queen?”
“Well, you see, she didn’t say a word. I saw in her paperwork that she was a foster child, so putting two and two together, I began to wonder about her intelligence.”
Carlotta began to wonder about Mr. Fisher’s intelligence.
“But then, I was reading The Wind in the Willows aloud to the class--.”
Carlotta relaxed slightly. The man knew his juvenile classics.
“For most of them, it’s a reach to relate to the book. It’s kind of old-fashioned. I always read to them above their own reading level, and explain as we go along. But Queen raised her hand one day—the first time I ever heard her speak—and voiced her opinion that Toad was lucky to have friends like Rat, Badger and Mole who cared about him and he should appreciate them, because they were like a family. I thought that was a pretty profound assessment for a nine-year-old.”
The women smiled with pride.
“I’ve observed that Queen lights up whenever she’s reading, writing stories, or talking about fiction.”
The women nodded.
“Of course, she’s got a lot of catching up to do in spelling, but I’m not worried about that. That will come. The greater concern is that she’s very far behind in math.”
The smiles and nods stopped.
“How far behind?” asked Hope.
“She’s working at a second grade level right now.”
“Oh!” said Hope. “I didn’t realize. I mean, I know that I have to help her with math every night, but—second grade—you say?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Fisher. “But it’s understandable. I saw in her file that she has changed schools a lot. Really, it’s surprising that she’s as successful as she is in language arts. She must have gotten a good foundation somewhere. As for math, well, we do differentiate for that these days.” He turned to Lorraine. “I’m giving her work at her own level, and I can get some help from the math specialist for her, to see if we can bring her up to speed.” Turning to Hope, he said, “I’ll send a little work for you to do at home with her—not too much, just ten minutes a day on math facts; that’s all we need. But as for her reading level, she’s able to read middle school material already. She’s my best reader.”
The smiles came back.
“And the stories she writes! I’ve told her that I expect to see her name on the cover of a book one day.”
After the meeting, Carlotta, Hope and Lorraine all agreed that, as a teacher, Mr. Fisher was gifted. Carlotta wondered aloud if he was married, and noted that he seemed to be completely charmed by Hope.
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The Mexican Cantina was really pretty, with arched doorways and walls that were tangerine-colored and that bright yellow color of sunflowers. All around, there were ceramic suns with faces painted on, and the music playing was all in Spanish, but Queen didn’t understand it. Someday, she would understand all the words in Spanish songs. She was learning fast with Miss Moon.
That Mr. Arnie Butler was treating Hope and Queen to dinner. After placing their order with the server, Hope had gone to the restroom, leaving Queen stirring her straw around and around in her ice water and looking hard at Mr. Butler. Mr. Butler just kept smiling, like he thought he could make Queen smile back at him, but it wasn’t working.
Finally, he said, “Queen, let me ask you something.”
Queen pursed her lips and let her eyelids come down halfway over her eyes, to give him a look.
“Does Hope ever talk about me? Have you ever heard her say anything?”
“All I ever hear is how she doesn’t have time for you.”
That wiped the smile off that man’s face.
“She said that?”
He looked a little worried, then.
“I wonder if you would help me. See, I really like Hope, and I’d like to do something for her, or something, so she would know--.”
“Oh, you mean y
ou wanna give her a present? For her birthday?”
“Her birthday?”
“Yep. Her birthday’s Friday.”
Mr. Butler calculated. “October fourteenth? That’s her birthday?”
“Ah hah.”
“But I always thought she was a Taurus.”
“No. She’s a Methodist.”
“I am really glad you’re telling me this. Quick, before she comes back, what would she like for her birthday?”
“Well,” Queen’s imagination was offering all kinds of possibilities. “She’d really love it if you put stuff all over her lawn. Flamingoes? Ooh. She just loves flamingoes. You could put one for every year, for her birthday.”
“That would be forty-seven flamingoes, then?”
“Fifty.”
“No, I’m sure that’s not right. We graduated from high school the same year.”
“She was left back a few times in elementary school.”
“She was?”
“Ah hah.”
Mr. Butler looked doubtful.
“I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t do flamingoes. Maybe I should send flowers.”
“Oh!” said Queen, inspired. “Now, that is an even better idea. And I know what her favorite flower is!”
Mr. Butler leaned forward, excited. He looked so foolish, he didn’t even know.
“What’s her favorite flower?”
“Daisies! Ooh, she’d be so happy if you sent her a huge whole bunch of daisies.”
“Shh. Here she comes,” said Mr. Butler. “Don’t let on we’ve been talking about her.”
Hope returned to the table.
“Now, what’s going on here? You both look like the cat that swallowed the canary.”
For the first time, Queen smiled at Mr. Butler.
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Carlotta’s pen hovered above her blue paper. It did not want to write. All new inspiration had to be written longhand, her thoughts following the line from her fertile mind to her nimble fingers, and flowing out onto the page in her own graceful handwriting. But Carlotta’s zeal for her book had taken its leave. The inspiration that had gripped her mind only a few months before, now withdrew. She remained disciplined, reporting to her desk each morning at six o’clock; however, her thoughts stalled, her pen balked, and her paper remained as blue as her mood.