“Well, the Bible says God keeps a record of every word that’s spoken and will judge us by what we’ve said.”
Mrs. Fairmont nodded in satisfaction toward her daughter. “See, Christine, it’s the same thing, only I didn’t know God agreed with me.”
“Let’s not get into anything controversial,” Mrs. Bartlett said. “I’d like to know more about Miss Taylor’s background.”
Controversial could be a synonym for my background, but I knew how to exercise discretion. As I talked, I emphasized my commitment to God and family without going into detail about the rules that guided my conduct. Mama said a question was an open doorway to proclamation of the truth, but I didn’t want to come on too strong. Mrs. Fairmont seemed especially interested in our life in the country and asked questions about the garden and the chickens. Mrs. Bartlett interrupted when I described my homeschool experience.
“Your mother taught you Shakespeare?”
“Yes ma’am. I memorized long passages from several plays and quite a few sonnets.”
Mrs. Bartlett shook her head. “Of course, I’ve heard about the homeschool movement, but I thought it an inferior model. Mother and I both attended private schools.”
“It can be the best and the worst,” I said. “The fact that I did well in high school, college, and now law school is proof it can provide the foundation for a successful academic career.”
“Do you embroider?” Mrs. Fairmont asked, her eyes getting brighter.
“Please, Mother, Miss Taylor is obviously a traditional girl, but it’s not fair to expect her to embroider.”
“No ma’am. I can cross-stitch with a pattern, but I’ve never tried to create my own designs. I’d love to see some of your embroidery.”
“It’s in the bedrooms and upstairs along the hall,” Mrs. Bartlett replied. “Mother doesn’t allow anything in these rooms that isn’t museum quality.”
Mama proudly displayed my crude cross-stitch in the front room.
“I can’t embroider anymore,” Mrs. Fairmont sighed.
I saw a tear run down the older woman’s cheek. I glanced at Mrs. Bartlett, who had picked up a ceramic figurine.
“Are you all right?” I asked the older woman.
Mrs. Fairmont wiped away the tear with a lace handkerchief she pulled from the side pocket of her dress.
“Please excuse me. It’s not about the needlepoint. I’ve been crying for no apparent reason recently. It’s one of the symptoms of a condition I have called multi-infarct dementia.”
I couldn’t hide my surprise.
“You’re still smarter than I am,” Mrs. Bartlett added with a nervous laugh. “And I’m not sure it’s a good idea to study too much about medical things. That’s why we have doctors. Talking about health problems can make anyone depressed. Did you tell me where Gracie bought the flowers?”
Mrs. Fairmont looked directly at me and spoke. “What do you think? Should I educate myself during lucid moments or try to ignore the fact that the blood vessels in my brain are slowing dying?”
“Please, Mother,” Mrs. Bartlett spoke with agitation. “That’s not a fair question to ask Miss Taylor. Do you have the coffee brewing?”
Mrs. Fairmont stared at me for a few seconds. Her face softened.
“Yes, of course,” she said. “Let me serve you. I have decaf for me and regular for you and Miss Jackson.”
Mrs. Fairmont used her arms to push herself from the chair. Mrs.
Bartlett waited a few seconds then also rose from her seat.
“I’ll help. Miss Taylor can relax here.”
Standing very erect, Mrs. Fairmont slowly walked from the room. Mrs. Bartlett held back. When her mother was out of sight, she leaned over and whispered to me.
“I’m sorry she brought up her condition so abruptly. She’s always been quick to offer her opinion about anything from politics to religion, but recently it’s gotten worse. Did you see how quickly she forgot your name? A year ago she would never have made a social blunder like that. Most of the time, she can take care of herself. Still, I’d feel better if there was a watchful eye in the house every now and then. Any loving child would want the same thing. How do you want your coffee?”
“Uh, I’m not a coffee drinker. Does she have any tea?”
“Yes, but it might upset her if you don’t drink coffee. I’ll fix you a cup with cream and sugar, and you can pretend to sip it.”
Mrs. Bartlett left, and I gave the parlor a closer inspection. Unlike my grandmother’s home, the house didn’t smell musty. The plantation shutters on the tall front windows were open and let in plenty of light. A compact but ornate glass chandelier hung overhead. The fresh flowers in a glass vase on a small round side table were an explosion of color. There was a fireplace in the parlor, and I peeked into the other room to see if it also contained one. Neither grate had been used in a long time. A well-preserved rug with ornate flower designs covered the floor.
My inspection was interrupted by the quick patter of tiny feet on the wooden floor and a sharp bark. Around the corner came a light brown Chihuahua. The dog stopped when it saw me and blinked its oversize eyes. I lowered the back of my hand to the floor as a sniff offering. The dog moved forward cautiously, stopped, and looked over its shoulder.
“Hello, little boy or girl,” I said. “I bet you’ve never met anyone who worked in a chicken plant. I’ve washed my hands since then so you probably can’t smell the chickens.”
The dog inched forward and stretched out its head toward the back of my hand. I could hear a low growl in its throat. I kept still, aware that smaller breeds can be quicker to bite than larger ones. The Chihuahua took another step forward and sniffed my hand and fingers. The growl receded. I reached around and scratched the back of the dog’s neck. The dog’s eyes closed in satisfaction. I could see it was a male.
“What’s your name, boy? I bet it’s fancy. Sir Galahad would be nice. We have chickens at my house with unusual names.”
The dog was wearing a narrow red collar decorated with rhinestones. Still scratching his neck, I repositioned the collar so I could see the dog’s name tag. When I saw the engraving, I smiled.
“Flip. I have a dog named Flip, but he lives outside and sleeps in the dirt under the front porch in the summer. Have you ever slept in the dirt? Do you know what dirt looks like?”
I picked up Flip and held him in my lap as I continued to stroke him. I was careful not to let his tiny feet touch the sofa. Mrs. Bartlett and Mrs. Fairmont returned to the parlor. Mrs. Bartlett was carrying a silver coffee service. Her mother followed with a plate of miniature pastries.
“Careful!” Mrs. Bartlett cried out.
The dog launched himself from my lap. Barking ferociously, he skidded across the floor toward Mrs. Bartlett, who stuck out her left foot to keep him away. The tray tipped to the side. I jumped up and rushed toward her as the tray moved the other way and the coffeepot slid to the edge. Flip, his teeth bared, continued to bark and dance around her feet. Mrs. Fairmont stood motionless with her mouth slightly open.
“Stop it!” Mrs. Bartlett said. “Get away!”
Like a basketball player scrambling for a loose ball, I lunged to the floor and grabbed the wiggling animal with my right hand. But it was too late. Mrs. Bartlett lost control of the tray. The pot flew off, followed by three cups, saucers, the sugar container, and a cream pitcher. The sound of clattering metal and breaking china in the quiet house was deafening.
Mrs. Bartlett swore. The black coffee was pooling across the wooden floor toward the rug. Instinct took over. I grabbed the coffeepot, knelt on the floor, and positioned my dress between the coffee and the rug. I pressed down with my hands in an effort to block the progress of the coffee. The long length of my dress came in handy.
“Someone get a washrag or paper towels,” I said.
Mrs. Bartlett hurried out of the room. Mrs. Fairmont stared at me and seemed stuck in the moment. I could feel the coffee against my free hand. In spite of my efforts,
it was continuing to creep toward the rug. There was nothing else to do. I sat down on the floor between the coffee and the rug. I could feel the hot coffee on my thigh, but it wasn’t warm enough to burn me. I looked up at Mrs. Fairmont. Flip calmed down, and I held him in my lap. The old woman put the pastry tray on a chair.
“Get up, child. It’s not worth ruining your dress to clean up a spill.”
“I couldn’t let it ruin the rug. I can wash the dress, but I don’t know how you would clean a rug like that.”
Mrs. Bartlett returned from the kitchen with washcloths. Flip started barking again. Mrs. Bartlett handed the washcloths to me and quickly backed away. I slipped to my knees and tossed the cloths on the rest of the coffee. The rug was saved.
“I thought you were going to keep that dog in his room,” Mrs. Bartlett said, turning toward her mother. “I called and reminded you this morning.”
“He must have been in my bedroom,” Mrs. Fairmont said apologetically. She looked down at me. “I’m so sorry about your dress.”
Mrs. Bartlett turned to me as if just realizing what I’d done. “How courageous of you,” she said. “To sacrifice your outfit.”
“I’m not sure how courageous it was, Mrs. Bartlett. It was coffee, not a hand grenade.”
I stood and moved one of the washcloths across the floor with my foot.
“It’s that dog’s fault,” Mrs. Bartlett said, refocusing on Flip. “This isn’t a house for a dog, no matter what you think. Especially a vicious one!”
Mrs. Fairmont, a dazed look in her eyes, stared at Mrs. Bartlett without saying a word. I picked up Flip and could feel a growl in his throat. I rubbed his back.
“Take him away!” Mrs. Bartlett said. “And lock him up in that dog palace you created for him.”
Mrs. Fairmont seemed to reconnect with her surroundings.
“If Miss Taylor will carry him, we’ll put him in his room.”
“Yes ma’am.”
I followed Mrs. Fairmont through the foyer.
“I’ll call Gracie and have her come right over and clean up this mess,” Mrs. Bartlett called after us. “She doesn’t have a regular house to clean on Saturday, does she?”
“I can take care of it,” I said over my shoulder. “Find the broom and a dustpan.”
I patted Flip on the head and whispered in his ear. “I understand. You’re just protecting your territory like your wolf ancestors.”
8
“I HAVE A PLACE FOR FLIP IN THE BASEMENT,”MRS. FAIRMONT SAID.
We walked down a short hallway past a paneled room that looked like a den or study. Bookshelves lined the walls on either side of a large television. Mrs. Fairmont turned and faced me.
“I keep Flip with me all the time,” she said in a soft voice. “He even sleeps on my bed, although Christine doesn’t know it. We’ll take him downstairs, but it would be cruel to leave him there all the time. Does your family have a dog? Living on a farm like that, I’d expect you to have a dog.”
“Yes ma’am. We have two dogs; one is named Flip.”
“Really! What breed?”
“Mixed. Our Flip probably weighs about fifty pounds.”
“My baby weighs six pounds, four ounces.”
We went down to the basement. Light streamed in from the windows I’d seen from the front of the house. Mrs. Fairmont’s home was three stories in the rear and opened onto a courtyard/garden. Windows lined the wall and let in light and the view. A wall ran down the center of the room. To the left was an open space used for storage. Mrs. Fairmont opened a door to the right, and we entered a suite with a kitchenette. A dog bed surrounded by chew toys lay in the middle of the floor. There wasn’t any other furniture.
“Was this was one of the rooms for rent?”
“Yes. It’s really a little apartment. No one has lived here since I bought the house. It’s what they call a garden apartment.”
“May I take a look?”
“Sure.”
Still carrying Flip, I stepped across the living area into a bedroom with French double doors that opened onto a brick patio with a wrought-iron table. There was an old brass bed that looked like it hadn’t been used in years.
“It has a nice view of the garden, but it sure doesn’t look like a palace,” I said without thinking.
“Christine is prone to exaggeration, as I’m sure you’ve noticed if you’ve been around her more than five minutes.” Mrs. Fairmont sniffed. “She claims this house is worth three times what I paid for it.”
I recalled Mrs. Bartlett’s statement as “four times” but kept my mouth shut.
Mrs. Fairmont took Flip from my arms. The little dog licked her chin.
“Nice kisses,” she said. “Now show us how you got your name.”
She put the dog on the floor and made a circle with her right index finger. The Chihuahua stepped forward and did a backward somersault. It happened so fast that I didn’t get a good look.
“Will he do it again?” I asked.
Mrs. Fairmont swirled her finger and Flip obliged. She leaned over and patted him on the head.
“I’ve never seen a dog do that,” I said.
“He’s a smart boy.”
“What else can he do?”
“Love me,” Mrs. Fairmont said, looking at me with her blue eyes. “When no one else does.”
She gave Flip a treat and closed the door to the room. I listened for a moment but didn’t hear any scratching or whining. We returned upstairs. The coffee on my dress now felt clammy against my legs. Mrs. Bartlett was in the hallway near the kitchen. She had a cordless phone in her hand.
“I can’t get Gracie,” she said, clicking off the phone.
“I said that I’d be glad to finish cleaning up,” I said, trying not to sound disrespectful. “All I’ll need are paper towels, a broom, and a dustpan.”
“Gracie moved all the cleaning supplies to the closet near the porch,” Mrs. Fairmont said.
I followed Mrs. Bartlett through a small formal dining room. Before reaching the porch, we came to a space designed as a coat closet. I grabbed what I needed, returned to the parlor, and began cleaning up the mess. Mrs. Fairmont sat down and rested her head against the back of the chair.
“All this commotion has taken away all my energy,” she said. “I need to lie down for a few minutes.”
“Not yet. We’re not finished with our visit,” Mrs. Bartlett replied. She pointed across the room. “Tami, I see a splatter of coffee all the way over there.”
I went to the kitchen, moistened some of the paper towels, and while the two women watched, cleaned the floor, pushing the bits of glass into a single pile.
“You missed some glass beneath Mother’s chair,” Mrs. Bartlett said.
I turned on my knees so that my rear end was facing Mrs. Bartlett to hide the laughter threatening to explode. I didn’t mind cleaning up the mess, but Mrs. Bartlett’s bossiness was a comedy of the absurd.
“I need to moisten some more towels,” I said as I stood and left the room.
I reached the kitchen, a compact room at the rear of the house, and let myself giggle for a few seconds.
From the kitchen sink I could see more of the small formal gar- den with its carefully manicured shrubbery and an array of spring flowers. A brick walkway wound through the garden that featured a fountain in the middle—a great place to read the Bible and pray. I turned off the water along with my daydream. I had no idea whether I should live in the house or not.
At the entrance to the parlor, I heard Mrs. Fairmont say, “What on earth gave her that idea? To presume after one visit that I would want her to live—”
“Oh, Tami,” Mrs. Bartlett interrupted. “Thanks so much for helping us clean up this mess. You’re a dear to do it and come to the aid of two helpless old women.”
“You’re welcome.”
I resumed my work without any desire to laugh. I didn’t mind being a servant, but Mrs. Bartlett’s deception and supercilious statements about helplessne
ss after she’d bragged about her golf game and long walks on the beach made me mad. I used the broom and dustpan to scoop up the broken pieces. Mrs. Fairmont didn’t speak a word. A few more wipes of wet paper towel across the floor, and no sign of the morning’s disaster remained. I looked up and saw Mrs. Bartlett mouthing words to her mother. I wanted to stuff a washcloth into Mrs. Bartlett’s mouth.
“What should I do with the dirty cloths?” I asked icily.
“There’s a clothes drop at the end of the hall,” Mrs. Bartlett said. “Follow me.”
As soon as we left the room, Mrs. Bartlett turned to me. “Give me a few minutes alone with Mother. She’s ecstatic about the idea of you staying with her, but we need to work out the details in private.”
“That’s not what . . . ,” I began, but Mrs. Bartlett was gone.
I found the dirty-clothes drop. Mrs. Bartlett’s subterfuge was an out-and-out lie, and I had to set the record straight. If honesty destroyed the chance to stay rent-free in a beautiful house, then there had to be a low-rent apartment on a bus line somewhere in Savannah. I returned to the parlor. The two women were sitting in silence. I could feel the tension. I moved to the edge of a cream sofa and started to sit down.
“Stop it!” Mrs. Bartlett cried out. “Don’t sit down.”
I jumped to my feet and looked around.
“Your dress is drenched in coffee,” Mrs. Bartlett said. “It might bleed onto the sofa.”
“Get a towel for her to sit on,” Mrs. Fairmont said.
Mrs. Bartlett looked at her mother. “But I thought—”
“Get a towel from the upstairs linen closet,” her mother insisted.
Mrs. Bartlett turned to me. “We won’t be staying long. I’m sure you’d like to change out of that dress and into something clean.”
Mrs. Bartlett left the room. As soon as her footsteps could be heard going up the stairs, I spoke rapidly.
“Mrs. Fairmont, I didn’t come here to invite myself to live in your house. That’s not the way I was raised. The office manager at the law firm gave my name to your daughter because I’ve helped take care of people with health problems in the past. I talked on the phone with Mrs. Bartlett, and she was kind enough to arrange my trip to Savannah. She even rented a car and put me up at the bed-and-breakfast on Abercorn Street last night. I completely understand if you don’t want a houseguest for the—”
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