by Cathy Lamb
Kenna suggested that we call it the Celebration and Fund-Raiser for Bridget’s Park.
That sums it right up.
Olive
PS I will kill the following chickens as my donation: Portsmouth, Monty Jr., Salamander, Mint Ice Cream, and Tornado. I had Tornado on my lap the other day, the dear bird, and he is going to be scrumptious, now, you mark my words.
Garden gals,
If we do need to do anything cannibalistic, I will kill The Arse and we can eat him. He’ll need to be boiled first, and plucked. Don’t expect any meat off his penis. It was small.
Rowena
Gabbling Gals,
I’ll help cook. Guess what? I have a date!
Malvina
Friends,
Thank you. It sounds delicious. We will bring dessert for everyone.
Love you all.
Bridget and Charlotte
Bridget, Pherson, Toran, and I talked. We had the money, between us, for the park. The fund-raiser initially had us stymied. We didn’t want to take money we didn’t need, and yet it excluded people if it wasn’t taken.
“If people want to donate, we should let them,” Pherson said. “If we say no, that would be hurtful to them. It’s like we’re saying they’re not needed, their money, their efforts and time, aren’t needed, that they need to step aside and let us take over.”
“And some people are trying to help because they feel bad about the way they treated Bridget,” I said. Toran and I had heard that several times, and every time the person talking to us was emotional, shamed, and apologetic. There were those who still glared and avoided us, too. We didn’t expect them to donate. They would use the park, though. As Bridget said, maybe they would rethink what they’d said and done when they were there among the rose bushes. “We need to let them make amends for it.”
“I agree,” Toran said.
“Everyone needs to feel included,” Bridget said.
“Excellent, then,” I said. I bit my tongue so I didn’t laugh. “Who feels like eating an Indian?”
“Tornado is going to be delicious,” Bridget drawled. “I can hardly wait.”
“I want to make the sign that says ‘Eat Me,’” Toran said.
“I thought we should sell the marijuana,” Pherson said.
“We could have smoked it while we were wearing gardening panties that don’t creep,” I said.
“Or we could have decorated baby cherubs in red paint and added googly eyes,” Bridget added, widening her eyes with her fingers. “While stoned and wearing the gardening panties at the same time.”
“I am not going to eat Rowena’s husband, no matter how she plucks and cooks him,” Pherson said.
“I will not eat a penis at the Indian Feed,” Bridget said. “No matter how small.”
“I could have made a clay mask of my face and hung it on the fence,” Toran drawled. “Maybe a hundred masks. It would be Toran everywhere.”
We think we’re funny.
I had an idea for the dessert. I talked to Sandra Bao at her bakery. She loved the idea. I wrote a check, and we were set. It was a flamingly fantastic idea, forgive me for my lack of modesty.
Maybelle called and left a message.
“Charlotte, it’s Maybelle. I’m sure you know, no, I’m sure you don’t know, because you don’t look at these things, but your latest book, you do remember that it’s titled Danger, Doughnuts, and a Latin Lover, don’t you? You left the reader with a cliff-hanger about McKenzie Rae wanting to get back to her soul mate. Anyhow, still on the New York Times bestseller list. Still. We’re on, what, week a zillion? And you are . . . where in your next book?
“Gee whiz. That’s right. You have writer’s block. Gag me. You are going to give me a heart attack. You’re going to make my stomach tie itself in a slip knot, my colon in a braid. I lied to your publishing house—once again—yes, I’m a liar, and I told your editor that everything is going well, that you’re working hard. Almost done!
“You’ve turned me into a liar. Hello, hello? I need to talk to you, you stubborn author.
“Hang on, Charlotte . . . Eric! Why did your principal call me today? You did what? Okay, Charlotte, talk to you later. Eric exploded half of his science lab today . . . the little shit. You are grounded, Eric! Forever! No, I am not impressed with your explosive abilities. Don’t try that on me, young man. . . . Randy, I looked in your backpack and found a beer. You are grounded, too. Don’t talk to me about your privacy. See this? That’s your beer, down the toilet. How do you like toilet privacy? Please call me back, Charlotte. Please.”
I kept balancing the books and working for Toran’s farm.
He kept trying to help me break the insidious block in my head so I could write my next book. We tried looking at a map to locate my next setting. We tried reading different books on history to see if that would spark an idea. We tried reading books in different genres, hoping that opposites, literarily speaking, would attract.
No go.
“We’ll keep trying, Charlotte,” he told me.
“I might be out of steam.”
“I don’t think so. You tell the best stories, right like your father. It’ll come to you again.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“How would you feel if the stories didn’t come back?”
I thought about that for a long time. “I don’t know. What I do know is that having you to talk to makes this whole writer’s block disaster easier to take.”
“We’ll get that block out of your head.”
“Thanks. I don’t want to be a blockhead anymore.”
We laughed because we are so geeky, then we played chess naked. I moved the chess pieces with my boobs. The game did not last long.
I saw Bridget, in the distance, the next afternoon, standing near one of the tractors, staring up at the cliffs again. I wished that she hadn’t gone—she had so little energy left—but I understood why she was there.
She was trying to comprehend, to work it through, to plow a line through a tangle of conflicting emotions that threatened to strangle her. Silver Cat stood right beside her.
I saw her bend her blond head.
It had not been her fault. It was solely theirs.
She would never believe that it wasn’t.
18
Before we left for the Celebration and Fund-Raiser for Bridget’s Park, the Garden Gobbling Ladies came over. Bridget could not attend; she was having a poor day, plus she didn’t want to make anyone nervous and ruin the night. We didn’t try to encourage her. She looked hollow eyed, weak, and limp. Pherson would stay with her.
They each had a gift for Bridget. Rowena brought her rock earrings, a bracelet, and necklace, all with purple beading. Gitanjali brought her a basket of soaps and oils, “for the healing.” Olive had knitted her a scarf with a pink bird on it. The bird had a huge smile, with teeth. That was intentional. Kenna brought her a stack of new romance novels. “I read them all the time.” I briefly wondered if she’d read mine. Malvina brought her pink slippers and a robe.
“Thank you,” Bridget said. “Now get on out of here. Don’t burn the food. Don’t pluck and boil Rowena’s ex. No marijuana. Don’t eat Indians.”
We laughed, we left.
The Celebration and Fund-Raiser for Bridget’s Park, with mouthwatering Indian dinners from Gitanjali, an armful of chickens provided by Olive, no Indians themselves eaten, was a success.
Gitanjali and Olive had a crew of women, including me and the rest of the Gobbling and Gabbling Garden ladies, and men, including Toran, Ben Harris, the Stanleys, and the mayor, prepare tandoori chicken and chicken tikka masala. We added Indian rice, naan, and sliced pineapple.
We decorated the cafeteria of the school as “Indianish” as we could. We put down purple, orange, yellow, and green tablecloths and hung colorful paper star lanterns over each table. In the center of the gym we hung pink, purple, green, and yellow fabric out from the center of the ceiling to the corners. Gitanjali let us hang all
of her saris around the room.
The schoolchildren, taught by Gitanjali, made white doves, and we hung those from the ceiling, too, in flocks. In the middle of each table we made a diorama-type box about a foot wide and tall, and on each side we glued photos of India, the Taj Mahal, decorated elephants, women in saris, and Indian marketplaces filled with spices. From gold, shiny paper, Kenna and Rowena cut out elephants holding each other’s trunks and attached them to two walls.
We turned the lights down, lit candles, and strung white lights.
Gitanjali said, palms together, “It perfect is. Oh, yes, India, here in Scotland, for the Indian Feed.”
It was a Scottish fund-raiser with East Indian flavors. People loved it and the turnout was high. After the tandoori and chicken and tikka masala was served, the evening began with Indian music and Gitanjali herself, resplendent in a sparkling orange sari. She mesmerized all of us with a traditional Indian dance. She received a standing ovation, loudest from Chief Constable Ben Harris.
Toran, Ben Harris, the mayor, and other men played their bagpipes, which brought the tears to the fore for me. It reminded me of my father. Toran stood in his clan’s red and black kilt, fur sporran, Prince Charlie jacket and plaid, his blue eyes full of concentration, brown curls ready for my fingers to run through them. People stood and clapped when they were done, too.
Several groups of girls, in traditional Highland dress—tartan kilts, matching hose, and red velvet waistcoats with gold braid—performed Scottish dances.
Toran and I thanked everyone together in front of a microphone. We individually thanked the Garden Gobbling Ladies for all their work, in particular Gitanjali, who received another standing ovation. I could tell she was pleased, palms together, slight bow.
We also thanked the mayor, the Stanleys, Pherson, and Chief Constable Ben Harris. We explained Bridget’s vision. We had made numerous copies of her design and passed them out. People loved it. Using an overhead projector, we put that colorful work of garden art on a screen and talked about each part of the garden.
When we were done, Mrs. Jamilyn Hoover stood up, leaned heavily on her cane, pointed at us and said, “You tell your Bridget that we’re proud of her. We love her, and we thank her for the park.”
“It’s a delight,” Mr. Galing announced, also standing. “Forever, St. Ambrose will have this park because of Bridget. Bridget, one of our own.”
They clapped, they cheered. Toran and I tried not to embarrass ourselves by blubbering about. It took all our control. We again thanked everyone for coming, said we appreciated their donations.
Olive stood then, as planned, and showed them where they could donate more money. She had made an elephant out of cardboard, Rowena had painted it, and money and checks could be placed into the elephant’s mouth.
“You’ve named the park, right, Toran?” Ben Harris stood and asked.
“No, we haven’t named it yet.”
“Well, then, it’s easy. How about this? Bridget’s Park. A Place for Everyone.”
It was perfect.
Toran nodded. “It’s perfect, my friend.”
So we had it. Bridget’s Park. A Place for Everyone.
“And now, for dessert.” I was nervous about this part. I trusted Sandra at the bakery, but it was still a fiery undertaking.
I nodded at Mayor MacBay. The lights went off. Gitanjali, Rowena, Kenna, Olive, Malvina, Chief Constable Ben Harris, Stanley I, and Stanley II each came out with a Baked Alaska, made of ice cream, sponge cake, and whipped meringue. They set them on the tables in front, still in the dark. As one, they each struck a match and set the brandy on each cake on fire.
Everyone went crazy. They loved it. Burning cakes, flames leaping!
Baked Alaska is not Indian. It’s not a Scottish dessert. But I knew it would be a huge hit, and it was.
In the dark, and quiet, people relaxing into the mood of cake burning, the camaraderie and friendship of the night, I said to Toran, “I’m going to set you on fire tonight, Toran.”
He said, “Ah, luv, there’s going to be a bonfire in our bedroom, then?”
“Yes, there is. I’ll be wearing the black negligee with the garters.”
“It won’t stay on you very long.”
“It’s not supposed to.”
We did not know the microphone was still on.
We couldn’t figure out why everyone started laughing.
Stanley I shouted, “Think you can properly keep up with your woman, lad?”
Stanley II shouted, “We’ll understand if you’re limpin’ tomorrow.”
Together they said, “Good luck, Toran.”
We ended the evening with a popular rock band banging the tunes out. The leader of the rock band was Ben’s nephew. His rocker name was Pulsing Brother. His real name was Tye Harris.
When the Pulsing Brother and the Scissor Gang band walked in, the young people went absolutely crazy, screaming, yelling, waving their hands. Pulsing Brother and the Scissor Gang played for an hour and a half, and I must admit, they were awesome. We pushed the tables back after the Indian Feed, no Indians eaten, and danced. Toran and I swung each other around, dipped, wriggled, shimmied, hands swaying above our heads, my short red skirt flying, my hair swinging.
The Indian Feed evening, as Gitanjali called it, was a massive success. People donated extra money into the mouth of an elephant.
The best thing? The donations told Bridget that the people of St. Ambrose were behind her and Bridget’s Park, A Place for Everyone.
Dear St. Ambrose Ladies’ Gab, Garden, and Gobble Group,
Thank you, one and all. Last night was better than we could ever have dreamed, was it not?
And we didn’t have to sell one marijuana joint, either. Gitanjali, the food was scrumptious. Was I not right about Portsmouth, Monty Jr., Salamander, Mint Ice Cream, and Tornado? So flavorful and plump.
(Sign this note and give it to the next lady.)
Olive
Ladys,
Thank you for helping me cooking with my spices. I think everyone have pleasing night eating Indians and their food on Bridget.
Serenity to you.
Gitanjali
Gabbing ladies,
I couldn’t believe The Arse brought The Slut. She seemed sad. She was sitting alone. I almost, not quite, felt sorry for her, the fake-boobed pariah. Wasn’t my fault that The Arse ended up wearing his wine on his head.
Rowena
Everyone,
What did you think of my date?
I like him. I have lost ten pounds. Louisa is cutting my hair on Tuesday.
Malvina
Gardening Gang,
What a night! Malvina, I liked your date. I pulled my back doing the twist on stage with Pulsing Brother and the Scissor Gang. I’m glad we didn’t sell marijuana. I wouldn’t do well in jail. I’m positive they wouldn’t let me cut people up in there. The flaming cakes were a hit. Loved them, Charlotte!
Kenna
Friends,
Thank you. More than we can say, thank you.
Love,
Charlotte and Bridget
I could not believe how many people turned out to help us clear the lot where Zimmerman’s Factory used to be. The rubble and trash, including two dead cars and a sink, were hauled away by volunteers, including Toran, Pherson, me, the Garden Ladies, and everyone else we knew. As the fall leaves floated by, Bridget’s Park, A Place for Everyone, began.
Bridget declined further. She got a red rash. Her cough was hard to control, no matter what medicine we gave her. Her fever was up and down, spiking. Silver Cat never left her side.
The land was flattened straight across, ready for planting, ready for Bridget’s garden design.
Bridget had trouble eating, her throat hurt, her glands swelled, her neck stiffened.
The grass sod was laid, the cement paths were poured, the rose garden planted.
Bridget had problems with coordination, with walking and balance.
The white
, oversized gazebo was halfway built, the play structure was being installed, the bark dust was laid and waiting for the swings, the fountain construction began.
Bridget was nauseated. She kept vomiting. Toran or I held her hair back when she was bent over the toilet.
Maple and oak trees were planted down the middle of the park and along the pathways. Pink cherry trees lined the edges to offer shade and blooms of color in coming years.
Bridget’s headaches and fevers increased in intensity and duration. She had trouble breathing.
Steel arcs were constructed at both entrances to welcome people to the park. The flower beds were filled with chrysanthemums and pansies.
Bridget had a seizure. When she stopped convulsing, when she could breathe again, she said, “I think I’m almost ready to go.” Her vision started to blur.
A wind swept through, bringing the last of the fall leaves to the ground. The trees were bare. The volunteers and the professionals, tons of them, kept working on Bridget’s Park, A Place for Everyone.
“I want to see it,” Bridget whispered, petting Silver Cat, asleep on her lap.
“You do know it’s ten o’clock at night,” I said.
“Yes, silly lady, but I took a six-hour nap. Let’s give it a go. Help me up, my friend, and let’s sneak out of this house like cat burglars.”
“Okay, cat burglar, here we go.” I wrapped an arm around her. She didn’t bother to get out of her robe and nightgown. She slipped her feet into rain boots. I grabbed a jacket and stuck her arms through. I was in sweats, my hair on top of my head, in a ponytail. My contacts were out, and my new glasses, without tape on the frames, were on.
She leaned heavily on me as I slid her into the truck. She was on a painkiller, but she still hurt, her bones brittle.