“I often think of refugees and people in prison camps, no hot water or soap, no chance to change their clothing. These luxuries we scarcely ever notice, much less appreciate,” Miss Tinkham said.
Old-Timer came in, washed and combed, wearing a clean red bandanna. He went over to the pump and took a cup of water to prime it with. The handle came off in his hand as it had Mrs. Rasmussen’s. He left the room and came back with a monkey wrench and pliers. After a few squeaky tries water began to come out of the pump.
“It’s brownish,” Mrs. Rasmussen said, going over with one of the candles in her hand, “but it don’t smell bad and it’s plenty good for washin’, after it’s boiled. That’s a real help.”
“Let’s…” Miss Tinkham had scarcely opened her mouth when Mrs. Rasmussen and Mrs. Feeley began to laugh.
“Them five won’t do no good nohow,” she said.
“Tell me Limeys likes hot beer,” Mrs. Feeley said as she reached down into the cooler for the five brown bottles. “It’s come to a pretty pass,” she said.
“Well, we’re lower’n a snake’s belly anyway, an’ maybe it won’t taste so bad as it would if we was feelin’ chipper,” the chef said.
Mrs. Feeley opened the beer and they tried it, making assorted faces of disgust:
“It was definitely a mistake,” Miss Tinkham sighed. “I can’t decide whether it feels like warm soapsuds or clam chowder. Maybe a combination of the two.”
“We have to drink it,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “We can’t waste it an’ we ain’t got nothin’ to cook in it, like shrimps or sauerkraut.”
“I’m gonna give mine back to the horse,” Mrs. Feeley said disgustedly and stopped suddenly. “What was that?”
Everyone kept still.
“Them rats, most likely,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
A faint tapping noise was heard.
“Cat gnawin’ a bone, knockin’ it on the porch,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“What bone?” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
This time the noise came clearer, more like a kicking sound.
Miss Tinkham got up and opened the kitchen door.
N. Carnation stood in front of the sill with a large bundle balanced on top of her head. In one hand she carried a sizable cardboard carton by a string around it, and the flashlight. In the other hand she held a large paper bag tightly by the neck. She looked smaller than her four and a half feet, and the little bones in her neck showed like the ribs of a scrawny broiler. Her eyes looked unnaturally large in her tired face.
“Buenas noches,” she said.
“Come on in, for gossakes,” Mrs. Feeley cried lifting the bundle off her head. Miss Tinkham took the sack and Mrs. Rasmussen took the carton and the flashlight. They gazed at N. Carnation, too stunned to speak or even to look at each other. They just stood holding the various bundles and packages. N. Carnation made no move either. Finally, Miss Tinkham set her bundle down and embraced the little woman. Mrs. Rasmussen took her turn and then Mrs. Feeley.
“We hadn’t orta lost faith,” Mrs. Rasmussen whispered to Miss Tinkham as she set another place at the table.
“My faith in the whole human condition is restored,” Miss Tinkham beamed.
N. Carnation undid the bundle she had carried on her head. The curtains, bedding, bathrobe, nightgown and towels, all the things she had taken with her, were washed and ironed. The brown paper bag contained about five pounds of turkey backs, with plenty of meat still on them, a small stack of tortillas, still hot, and a couple of ripe tomatoes only slightly worse for wear. Mrs. Rasmussen looked at the donation with respect.
“Fi’ cent one pound,” N. Carnation said proudly. “Boss givvy to me cheap.”
“I wonder where?” Miss Tinkham said.
“Londres. Work all day in londres. Six o’clock go to packin’ shed…pick turkeys very fast.” She went through the pantomime of washing and ironing, then plucking turkeys. Mrs. Rasmussen had heard of the poultry-processing plant and had planned to go there to buy inexpensive turkey necks and backs for soup. She’d brown these right now and set them to cooking while they had supper. She had to work all the time when there was no ice: “I was just thinkin’ what it was like when nobody had no ice…everything had to be used up, or at least cooked, right away.”
“Thomas Jefferson and George Washington hardly ever saw ice,” Miss Tinkham said. “They were like the old-timers who used to say: ‘Who ever heard of ice in the summer?’ But they lived rich, useful lives. We’ll be in practice if the bomb hits and all the power goes off. The only people who will survive are those who know how to live the way their ancestors did!”
“You musta went early!” Mrs. Feeley shouted at N. Carnation because she couldn’t say it in Spanish.
“Temprano? Manaña?” Miss Tinkham tried.
N. Carnation took the flashlight and held it down by her side, swinging it forward and back like a trainman with a lantern. She pantomimed a person walking along the highway in the dark, looking to all sides carefully. “Watchout,” she said, “truck she no hit to me. Very fast. Six o’clock workin’ de londres.”
“Hate to give her that ol’ hot beer,” Mrs. Feeley said, “but it’s all there is. She walked damn near six miles carryin’ that stuff.” She opened the fifth bottle and handed it to N. Carnation. For the second time since they had known her, the little woman smiled and picked up the big carton. Inside of it she had two six-packs of cold beer, carefully wedged in with many old newspapers to keep it cold.
“She ain’t nobody’s fool,” Mrs. Rasmussen said, “but she hadn’t orta spent two dollars eighteen cents for brew for us.”
“You’d a done it for her,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Say, in all the ruckus o’ her disappearin’, I forgot them eight packages o’ flower seeds from the other night! You got a ol’ sieve or strainer you don’t need? I gotta sift the dirt real fine to make ’em sprout quick.”
Miss Tinkham laughed and helped N. Carnation hand round the beer: “What this beer stands for is going to make it the most delicious we’ve ever had. Salud, N. Carnation!”
“Wash the hands, please,” N. Carnation said. Miss Tinkham fixed up a basin for her and she trotted down the hall with it.
“I wish we could communicate with her more easily,” Miss Tinkham said. “I’d like to know her story. She is not so frightened now and I think she accepts us.”
“She’d a never brought them eats in here if she didn’t feel at home,” Mrs. Feeley agreed.
N. Carnation came back in and began to unwrap the tortillas. Mrs. Rasmussen started to get a skillet to heat them up in, but the tiny woman shook her head and heated them directly on the top of the cookstove, turning them carefully and lightly.
Mrs. Rasmussen brought the saucer with the red and green chiles in it over to the stove.
N. Carnation took one of the tomatoes, looked around for a knife and started chopping the tomato into fine pieces. Then she mashed the peppers with the handle of the knife and mixed it up.
“Vinegar?” Mrs. Rasmussen said and handed her the bottle. “Real hot Mexican sauce. That’ll sure be fine with the rabbit.”
She served the plates and the friends settled down to enjoy the first decent meal they had had in their new home. For some reason nobody seemed to want to begin.
“Thank God for N. Carnation,” Miss Tinkham said at last.
“One more good friend,” Mrs. Feeley lifted her beer can.
“I couldn’t a stood it if she’d run off, stead o’ goin’ to work to help us,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. The rabbit was coming off the bones, juicy and tender. N. Carnation cut the meat with her knife, but ate the rest of her food with daintily folded bits of tortilla.
“The circle widens,” Miss Tinkham mused, “when you drop that pebble in the lake the ripples spread out and out, one friend brings another and the chain of love lengthens and strengthens. The stars tell me that tomorrow will be a productive day. The psychic blocks that kept inspiration away have been removed by the return of our friend.”
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“We’re about outa candles,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“Everything will be different tomorrow,” Miss Tinkham said.
“How’re yer bones?” Mrs. Feeley asked.
“Humming!” Miss Tinkham beamed.
N. Carnation started clearing the table and Mrs. Rasmussen pumped up some cistern water for the dishes. It would do fine once it was heated. N. Carnation picked up a very small glass jar that once held mustard.
Mrs. Rasmussen nodded: “Take it. Guess she wants to wash her teeth.”
The Mexican woman poured water in the glass and fished around in her skirt pocket until she finally found a dime. She put it in the glass of water and started to her bedroom. Miss Tinkham followed, entranced. So did the other two ladies. N. Carnation fished her picture of Saint Martin out from under the bed, put it on the orange crate and leaned it against the wall.
“What’s she doin’?” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“It’s a votive offering of some kind, I think,” Miss Tinkham said.
“Saint Martin’s good to help poor people, sittin’ up there on his horse,” Mrs. Feeley said. “He’s good for beggars, drunks, and crazy people…” She started to laugh.
“I’m sure you meant nothing personal.” Miss Tinkham smiled. “Your Saint Anthony is going to have to help us find some money to put in his frame for all the payments coming due.”
“San Martín bringy mawney,” N. Carnation said.
“She’ll say him a lotta prayers tonight, I betcha,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“We could all do worse,” Miss Tinkham said.
“An’ you’re not just whuffin’,” Mrs. Feeley said. N. Carnation had left the room so silently that they didn’t miss her until she was back with several blades of grass in her hand. She put them in the glass along with the dime: “Para el caballo.”
“She says the grass is for the horse,” Miss Tinkham said. “We all make our pagan libations one way or another. Pour a little under the mats for the gods!”
“Them dishes is callin’,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
N. Carnation went with her into the kitchen and looked around until she found a Halloween broom and began to sweep the floor. Then she took a dishcloth and dried the dishes. Mrs. Rasmussen tried to make her sit down. “You tired,” she said gently.
“No gotty worky tomorrow,” N. Carnation said sadly. “Boss say no come back tomorrow.”
“You could stand the rest,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. She was almost asleep on her feet herself. Miss Tinkham and Mrs. Feeley came in.
“We put the curtain back up and spread up her bed,” Mrs. Feeley said. “We’ll sleep tonight without rockin’.”
Chapter 8
NEXT MORNING, Mrs. Rasmussen picked over the raspberries as she waited for the coffee to run through. They were juicy and fresh.
“Could you spare enough of the staples to make pies?” Miss Tinkham asked. “Something came to me in the night that might help bring customers. Not hoi polloi, you understand, but high-class clientele, people of some education. And your melting fruit pies, dear lady, are truly things apart.”
“Might stretch to make half a dozen, one crust only,” the chef said.
Mrs. Feeley was sniffing at the pancakes and N. Carnation set the table. Old-Timer came from the direction of the barns and set down a large bucket full of wriggling red earthworms. Miss Tinkham handed him two cardboard cartons and had him cut them into squares with his pocketknife.
The atmosphere of the kitchen was one of energetic happiness.
“Right after breakfast, we’ll get ready for the attack! This is the countdown!” Miss Tinkham said. “The zero hour is four in the afternoon, in time to catch the homebound traffic and sell our wares.”
“Still don’t see how we’ll get the stuff up there, lessen we take the truck, that is, did we have much to sell,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“We have a few things,” Miss Tinkham said, “and if we play our cards right, we will attract attention and get customers coming here to us. First of all, the two huge Chinese vases. People like them for patios and foyers. They are big enough to be noticed. The six gorgeous raspberry pies. Old-Timer’s lovely bucket of fishing worms.”
“Don’t forget the cats.” Mrs. Feeley grinned. “Reckon we could sell them?”
Mrs. Rasmussen grabbed the broom and jumped towards the iron-barred window above the stove. A large tom was nonchalantly spraying the grating. “Git!” Mrs. Rasmussen slammed the broom at him, “It’s POTATO soup I’m makin’!”
Miss Tinkham snapped her fingers: “Squabs! Many people consider them delicacies. Old-Timer, will you rob the nests?” She wrung her hands in pity at the fate of the fat, bumbling birds. “I must print the signs.” She pushed back her chair from the breakfast table, produced a long eyebrow pencil from the pocket of her gaudy Hawaiian beach shirt and started blocking out letters on the squares of cardboard.”We’ll fasten them to tall sticks and walk up and down with them in front of our exhibit,” she said. “Win, lose, or draw,” Mrs. Feeley said, “we may not always know what you’re up to, but bless God, we’re with you, teeth an’ toenails!”
“With a vote of confidence like that, who can lose?” Miss Tinkham cried.
Mrs. Rasmussen built up the fire in the stove for her piecrust. She mashed two or three cups of berries and strained them. Then she added all of the precious sugar she could spare and cooked it down to a thick syrupy glaze. When her piecrusts were baked she would fill them with raw berries and cover them with the glaze. Then she would heat the filled pie shells only a few minutes.
“People cooks the life outa fruit pies,” she said.
“I’m dyin’ o’ curiosity,” Mrs. Feeley giggled, “but I better plant them seeds. Sure you don’t need me?”
Mrs. Rasmussen shook her head and Miss Tinkham went to the antique shop in the living room and took N. Carnation with her. The little Mexican woman began to wipe the Chinese vases carefully. They were almost as tall as she was. Miss Tinkham signaled to the objects of art lined up around the room.
“Complete! Complete!” she said as she went through the dusting motions and then left the room. She understood how happy anyone felt when a task was assigned to make the person feel needed.
“Rest,” she spoke to herself, “rest is what we all need before the labors of the afternoon. Right after lunch, we’ll load the merchandise and rest for the long haul.”
“Should we load the truck an’ then take a nap?” Mrs. Feeley asked after the lunch of savory sweet-potato soup and hush puppies had been eaten.
“We’ll load,” Miss Tinkham, “but not the truck. We’re taking the hearse. If that doesn’t stop traffic, the only other thing I can think of is a triple Lady Godiva parade, and we’re not luscious enough to attract anything but the police.”
After almost a minute of stunned silence Mrs. Feeley jumped up: “Let’s go see if it’ll roll!”
Gently Old-Timer and Mrs. Feeley took hold of the shafts and the hearse creaked forward on the wooden floor.
“Spose a wheel comes off?” Mrs. Rasmussen whispered.
“Old-Timer can fix it, if it does,” Miss Tinkham said. “What a dreadful squeaking!”
“Ain’t been greased in sixty years,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Them spokes is dry, too.”
“They drive wagons into the river in Westerns to swell the wood,” Miss Tinkham said, “but we’ll have to make do the best we can.”
Mrs. Rasmussen got behind and pushed the hearse, while Miss Tinkham and N. Carnation each took a side. Outside the carriage house they were faced with a real problem.
“Nothin’ for it,” Mrs. Feeley said, “but to clear a path up to the house. This underbrush has growed so thick you couldn’t get a wheelbarrow through.”
The brambles fell quickly under the axe and machete. As the hearse emerged in its glory at the east porte-cochere of the mansion, Miss Tinkham longed for a sixty-nine cent jar of gold paint. It would bring out the carving and baroque ornamentation of: the vehicle.
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“But we can polish up the glass sides,” she said. Mrs. Rasmussen brought a bucket of warm water and a pile of old newspapers.
In the “consignment” from Ben Hur Grossman, Miss Tinkham admired a gaudy velvet wall hanging. It would make a fine covering for the floor of the hearse. She spread it out and planned to put empty boxes on the floor before covering them with the hanging. “The pies have to show and they won’t if they are on the floor.”
“An’ them squabs,” Mrs. Rasmussen reminded her, bringing out five fat white birds neatly dressed and trussed. “Funny funeral.” She grinned.
“No more barbaric than the human ones.” Miss Tinkham smiled. “Maybe some fancy cemetery will buy the urns for their crematorium. They could advertise ‘Large Economy Size! Ideal for TOGETHERNESS! All your family’s ashes in one heap!’”
“One thing for sure,” Mrs. Feeley laughed, “they may o’ seen better an’ they may o’ seen worse, but they sure as hell ain’t never seen nothin’ just ezzackly LIKE it!”
“Those wriggling worms add a touch of something or other,” Miss Tinkham said. “The return of the macabre! They remind me of a college song we used to sing:
The worms crawl in and the worms crawl out,
They crawl all over your chin and mouth.
They invite their friends and their friends’ friends, too,
And you look like hell when they’re through with you!
“This is college?” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“I’m afraid so,” Miss Tinkham sighed. “Who is the lightest weight, to crawl in and place the vases?” Everybody looked at N. Carnation who got the idea and crossed herself swiftly, and shook her head.
“Ni arrastrada!” She smiled.
“Not even if you drag her,” Miss Tinkham laughed. “I’ll do it myself.”
She spread the drapery hanging on the floor and placed the vases carefully, one in the middle of each glass side panel. “We are in luck,” she said. “They just clear the roof by four inches.” She got out to look through the glass sides to study the effect she had created. Certainly the blue and white curved urns were eye-filling. With the pies and squabs disposed carefully around the base of the vases, the picture would at least make passers-by take a second look.
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