I decided to walk over and pick up my mail from the post office while waiting for the vet to return.
I explained our problem with the furry interlopers to Mrs. Barber, the woman who ran Southlea Bay Post Office. She was a beloved, soccer-ball-shaped woman with wild, bird’s nest hair that always hid more than one pair of sparkly reading glasses. She loved to dish out her daily wisdom as she hung her enormous bosoms, disjointedly, over the post office counter.
She contemplated my plight as she nibbled on a plate of snickerdoodles she’d received from a group of first graders. Next to the plate was a tremendous crayon portrait of her waving, a roll of stamps in one hand and a letter in the other. A speech bubble in green crayon above her head read, “Welcum to the post ofice.” It was, in fact, a perfect resemblance of her, complete with “Mount Bosoms.”
She stopped chewing, and her eyes grew wide. “What you need to catch those critters is a trail of breadcrumbs.”
“Breadcrumbs? Well, I’m no expert on a raccoon’s dietary habits, but they seemed to be more interested in my Swedish meatballs than my moldy rye!”
“No, not real breadcrumbs. I was speaking figuratively. You need to create a food trail that leads right out to the Spinney Woods, and hopefully they’ll follow it.”
“But the Spinney Woods is five miles away. I would need to hold up the food bank to create a trail out to there.”
“See what you mean,” muttered Mrs. Barber, spraying a shower of cookie crumbs all over the countertop. “I’ll think of something else.” She stared, zombielike, out over the counter as she chewed on her snickerdoodle, not unlike a cow working on its cud.
I went to check my mailbox. Inside there was a large envelope reminding me that interest rates could go up at any minute, with bold black letters indicating the contents were “TIME SENSITIVE.” What exactly does that mean? Is it like being skin sensitive? Or light sensitive? Quick, take this envelope away from “time.” It might break out in a rash.
I threw it in the trash. As I did, I noticed a card that had become affixed to the envelope by a gold “Act Now” sticker gone awry. Unpeeling the card, I recognized the writing straightaway. It was from my best friend in California, and I felt a pang, missing her. We had met when we had lived in California. We were both middle school teacher assistants, my job for many years.
I loved Southlea Bay and would never want to move back to California, but I hadn’t really found a friend or a group of friends I truly felt a part of. A “tribe,” my husband called them.
I opened the card and found a picture of two old ladies doing splits and the words, “There’s life in the old birds yet.” She’d scribbled a short note about her family and that the card had reminded her of us. She also updated me on all the members of our little Classical Books and Walking Club we had formed when our children had been young. All harassed moms at the time, we had welcomed the company and a weekly walking break to Long Beach. We would walk the shores, looking out over the water, discussing with vigor our latest Jane Austen or Emily Brontë classic, after which we would settle to share a picnic together while rosy-faced children slept soundly in their strollers. I smiled as I looked at a recent snapshot of our little group that she’d slipped into the envelope. Older, happy, squinting faces smiled back at me from the picture with their own rosy-faced grandchildren now in tow. It made we wonder if Stacy and I would get to a place where I could trundle off with her children for the day.
I placed it in my bag.
Just as I was about to leave, Mrs. Barber came to life again.
“What you need is a big net. Dennis has one he uses for his trout fishing. I could get him to catch ’em for you. He could do with the exercise.”
The Dennis she was referring to happened to be her sweet, barely-able-to-stand, seventy-year-old husband, a long string of bones and sinew. He looked like he weighed about fifty pounds dripping wet. In fact, against our black-eyed bandits, I would have given the odds about 70/30 in the raccoons’ favor.
“Let me think about it,” I said, secretly knowing there was no way I would be responsible for poor, sweet Dennis riding rogue around my property as he played animal bounty hunter.
Leaving to head back toward the vet’s, I was just rounding the far corner of the post office building when suddenly one of the post office windows flew open, and Mrs. Barber called after me. Her mangled bird’s nest popped out, followed by her swaddle of bosoms. They plopped right down on the windowsill, like two tightly gift-wrapped melons.
“You know,” she said excitedly, “I just remembered. You should ask Doris Newberry. She got rid of a whole family of them from her barn last year.”
I grinned and waved; Doris Newberry was stalking me, even through other people.
At the vet’s, a rather odd-looking woman wearing a green tweed suit and a buttoned-up white starched blouse was unlocking the door. Her hair was coiffed into a big swoop, and she appeared to be wearing enough hair spray to keep her hair frozen in time from a sixties Aqua Net commercial.
She fixed me with an admonishing glare over the rim of her cat-eye glasses as I told her about my raccoons. She cut me off midsentence with a sniff and informed me in no uncertain terms that the vet “didn’t do vermin.”
Defeated, I walked on to work. No sooner had I arrived than Ruby rushed past me, all flaying arms and jumbled jangles. She looked angry and determined. Shaking her head, she grabbed and squeezed my arm as she passed, saying forcefully, “It’s so awful, Janet. About the club, just so awful, isn’t it? We are going to have to do something about it.”
But before I could ask her what it was, she was gone, a sweeping blur of bright-colored fabric and jingling jewelry, gliding and clanking down the library steps.
As I drove back toward Doris’s house that afternoon, I was grateful that at least I wasn’t heading into another rejects meeting. But my mood changed to bewilderment as I turned into her driveway, noting the same haphazard gathering of cars that had greeted me there yesterday. I felt like I was stuck in the movie Groundhog Day. Surely this couldn’t be the same group of women two days in a row. My fears were realized when a disgruntled Ethel opened the front door. She clicked her tongue against her teeth in obvious disgust it was me. “That homeless woman’s here again,” she shouted up the hallway, without even trying to mask her unhappiness. “I told you not to feed her!”
What was I, a stray cat?
Doris arrived at the door, and in comparison to her demeanor the day before, she was positively depressed. The atmosphere didn’t get any warmer as I followed her into her living room. There was the same circle of chairs, the same group of people with their tea and cake, except this time it was as if I’d entered a wake. The entire group sat in silence, and the sadness was palpable. Leaning forward, I whispered into Doris’s ear as she absently sliced cake and slapped it onto plates, “Is this a bad time?”
She seemed distant. “We’ve had some bad news. I’ll go and get your purse. Here, you may as well have a cup of tea and a piece of cake while you’re waiting.”
She handed me a teacup and cake wedge, pushed me down into the same flowery chair, and went to retrieve my bag. It was so quiet in that room I could practically hear the plants growing. Leaning forward, I whispered to Lottie, “I thought your group met just once a month?”
“We normally do, but this is an emergency meeting.”
Lottie sighed and so did Lavinia, who finished her sentence. “I just can’t believe it, can you? It’s all so sad.”
Before I could ask what was sad, Doris came back and practically thrust my bag into my lap. I got up and was about to excuse myself when she grabbed me by the arm. “Have you got a minute? So we could get an objective opinion?”
Caught in her desperate, clawlike grip, I felt like the blood was draining from my arm by the second. Hoping she would let go, I squeaked out, “Of course. Anything I can do to help.”
Doris let go and cleared her throat. “Do you remember when you were here yesterday?”<
br />
I nearly quipped, “How could I forget?” Instead, I nodded with mock enthusiasm and nervously stuffed a large bite of cake into my mouth.
Doris became misty-eyed. “That was a good day. That was one of our rejection letter days. Special and meaningful!” She paused to let her words take full effect. From the corner of the room, the woman with the tight poodle perm—Annie, I thought her name was—blew her nose quietly. Then Doris sneered with obvious disgust. “Then, today I got this.”
She picked up a letter as if it contained something poisonous and flung it down on the coffee table in front of me, like a gauntlet.
It looked harmless enough.
“As you can imagine,” she said with a hard sniff, “there was nothing else to be done but to call an emergency meeting of our club.”
A quick glance around the room confirmed that every eye was lowered, staring at the despicable thing on the table.
I swallowed another rather large lump of cake. “Who’s it from?” I asked meekly, not taking my eyes from it. I was too frightened to pick it up in case it self-destructed.
Doris was lost for a minute, and then she grunted, “Well, why don’t you read it?”
Carefully, I picked up the envelope, took out one sheet of crisp white paper, and read:
“Dear Mrs. Newberry,
Thank you for sending us your manuscript, Love in the Forest. We enjoyed reading it very much and would like to talk to you about representation for your book. We feel it has a large audience and hope you will be willing to discuss further development of your manuscript. Congratulations, and we look forward to hearing from you soon.
Yours sincerely,
Mark Gilbert
Gaverston and Shrewsbury Books
MG/Andrea Stockbridge”
When I finished the letter, every eye had moved from staring at it to staring at me, apparently waiting in anticipation for some sort of inspired words of wisdom. But frankly, I was confused.
“I don’t understand. What’s wrong with this?”
“Well,” said Doris, as if she were explaining it to a small child, “it’s an acceptance letter. This publisher, Shewsbunny and someone I have never even heard of, wants to publish my book. I can’t believe it.”
“And isn’t that a good thing? It means they like it.” I wound my way down the rabbit hole. “Doesn’t it mean they liked the book you wrote?” I added, trying to make myself clear.
Doris looked at me as if I’d gone mad. Then she said in a monotone, “What it means is there will be No. More. Rejection. Letters. I’m being published, and I will have to step down from the club. What it means is there will be no more rejection parties here at my house.” She was working herself up into a lather. “What it means is the end of our group as we know it! It is a very sad day indeed. We’re all devastated.”
I looked around the room. Every solemn face echoed her sentiment. I was still confused.
“But don’t you want to be successful? Aren’t you interested in getting your book published?” I asked. Because I didn’t know what else to say, I added, delicately, “They will pay you.”
Doris looked directly at me. “But it means no more rejection letters!”
“You don’t have to accept them. Then you could keep collecting your letters.”
“That is not the point,” scoffed Doris. “Everyone will know. I can’t just go on being a rejected writer if I’ve been accepted. It’s the rules. Once you’re accepted, you’re out. It’s not fair for everyone else. Now I have to go and buy myself a hat!”
A hat! Where did that come from?
“A hat?” I asked, genuinely thrown off balance.
It was then that I realized Doris was close to tears.
“Yes. A hat, and a funky scarf and snazzy glasses. All good authors wear snazzy glasses. Well, I won’t do it. I look ridiculous in a hat!”
And with those words, she picked up a couple of empty teacups and hightailed it to the kitchen, Ethel at her heels like an obedient whippet.
Knocking back the last dregs of my tea, I decided this was a good time to make my excuses to leave.
Walking past the kitchen on my way to the front door, I caught a glimpse of Doris’s hefty bulk hanging over the kitchen sink, washing up a cup. That’s when I remembered the raccoons.
“Hey, I have raccoons,” I blurted out before my brain had actually engaged.
Wow! That was a doozy. You could have cut the frost with an icepick. She stopped washing her cup and looked for a long hard moment out through her kitchen window as she digested my words. Words that now hung in midair like iced marbles, then fell crashing to the floor. I regretted saying them the minute they’d rolled under the kitchen table. She took a deep breath and turned to look at me, her hands still dripping with dish soap.
“Raccoons!” she spat out with all the distaste she could muster.
“Uh-huh,” I said, not wanting to kick any more ice rocks around the kitchen floor.
She stared at me, and her chin started to wobble. I wasn’t sure if she was going to hit me or cry.
And that was that. She turned back to the sink, and nothing more was said. As I turned to leave the kitchen, Lottie came running in.
“Doris, stop worrying. It has to be a huge mistake. We’ve all been talking. These things happen all the time at those big companies. Things get all mixed up. And I bet you a pretty penny that’s what’s happened here.”
Creeping back into the hallway, I intended to try to leave during this new turn of events.
But on reaching the front door, I realized that my bag was still on my chair and that I would have to go back in to retrieve it. As I stepped gingerly into the living room, it was a completely different scene. It was Narnia after the snow had melted, Dorothy as she arrived in Oz. It was as if someone had used a Happy-Vac to suck all the happiness back into the room. It reminded me of an ad for plug-in air fresheners that started out all black-and-white with sullen people sitting around. Then some genius had the bright idea to plug in just the right scent, and suddenly, the room erupted into vibrant colors, with everyone dancing the cha-cha around the room, wearing fiesta clothes and flowers in their hair. I must admit there had never been much dancing in my house when I plugged in one of those. Normally we were just glad it had covered up the stink. But back here at Planet Craziness, all that was missing was a sombrero-wearing mariachi band to provide the accompaniment. Everyone was talking at once about how this was all a mistake, and Lottie ran about, topping off teacups and adding cake slabs to plates.
“It’s the only thing that makes sense!” added Lavinia over the clatter. “Everyone knows your stories stink, Doris!”
With those words, everyone clapped and cheered. It was during their second whirlwind of tea and cake wedges that I managed to make my exit. Nobody cared or even saw me go.
Chapter Four
PORK RIBS & GREEN ALIENS
The days of fall were always pleasant in Southlea Bay, and this year was no exception. Boasting one of the warmest Octobers on record, the long, sun-filled days of October had allowed us to really appreciate the changing colors of the season. Now in their final flourish, the trees outside the library windows were a spectacular sight of gold and burnished red as they stood proud in their autumnal finery.
Halloween was a big deal in Southlea Bay. You couldn’t even buy a stick of gum for miles around the day before. We stayed open late at the library, served hot cocoa or cider, and placed bowls of candy at our checkout desk. Then, in the evening, we dimmed the lights and illuminated the building with dozens of tea lights in mason jars. It was always a welcome stop for parents on their trick-or-treat routes, a place to get a much-needed warm drink and to catch up with friends and neighbors.
That morning I was on my knees, shelving in the fiction section and wearing my “Witch Book” costume. A perfect Halloween ensemble, I felt, with its stringy black wig, warty nose, tall crooked hat, and flowing black cloak. The words “Witch Book” were painted in fluor
escent-green lettering on my front, and on my back was “What can I help you find today?”
But what was hanging from my costume caused the children to squeal with delight whenever they entered the library. Dangling from thirty spidery strings were miniature handmade books, all with silly names painted on them, titles such as Falling off a Cliff by Ilene Dover and Very Long Author Names by Bob. During this time of the year, the children made a beeline for me to giggle at all the tiny books as the books swung back and forth from my cloak.
When two large shoes appeared in front of me, with Doris squished into them, I was pretty nonchalant about it. I hadn’t seen her since I had made the mistake of stumbling into the rejected ladies meeting two weeks before. I scrambled to my feet.
“Hey there, Doris. Happy Halloweeeeeen.”
I addressed her with my perfected Halloween greeting, the one that made the kids shriek with glee. No such luck with Doris. Looking at me like I had suddenly sprouted horns, it became quickly obvious she wasn’t here to celebrate the season.
Removing my warty nose, I started again. “Can I help you with something, Doris? Are you looking for a book?”
Doris appeared confused, as if that were the last thing she would be doing in a library. “No,” she said curtly. “I was looking for you. Can you stop by the house sometime today? There’s something urgent I need to discuss with you.”
My inner chambers started to shudder. I wasn’t really in the mood for another Twilight Zone episode.
“Is it something we can talk about here?” I asked hopefully.
Doris paused, seemingly mesmerized by a tiny copy of A Fascinating Read by Paige Turner as it swung back and forth precariously from my cape.
“No,” she said after careful consideration, and then, grabbing hold of the swinging book, she pulled me closer to emphasize her point. “This is something that has to be handled . . . delicately.”
The Rejected Writers' Book Club (Southlea Bay) Page 4