The trailer door is standing wide open. The children run joyfully in and I am appalled at their audacity before I realize that it is their home and of course they don’t need to knock. They are so filthy and matted that I can’t imagine them having a home that they love the way we do ours. And maybe they don’t love home. Maybe they just love peanut butter.
They are all over the trailer and Ginny makes them sandwiches while I pour Kool-Aid. There is peanut butter smeared and dried on a lot of the furniture and my guess is they eat a lot of it. We cannot find the jelly but they don’t seem to notice. I hear a sound and it makes me jump and I realize that Mr. Gourd is sleeping in the next room. He is snoring loudly and thrashing around. Why couldn’t he watch them if he is here all day?
Just then Mrs. Gourd comes in. She looks at their sandwiches. “I thought I told you to make them peanut butter and jelly,” she says to Ginny, who is putting the bread away.
“I couldn’t find any,” says Ginny calmly, but there is an edge to her voice. I imagine her duking it out mano a mano with Mrs. Gourd. Ginny is young and muscular but Mrs. Gourd is mean. It would be an interesting match.
“Well, that’s just fine. I suppose you mean for them children to develop vitamin deficiencies. That there jelly is their fruit,” Mrs. Gourd says, pointing to the recommended fruit and vegetable portion of the government food pyramid stuck to the fridge.
“Jelly is not a fruit,” says Ginny. I’d better get her home. She has clearly had it.
Mrs. Gourd reaches up on the top shelf of one of the grimy cupboards and pulls down a sticky old jar. She shoves it right in Ginny’s face, pointing to the word APPLE. “You look right here, APPLES. Are you telling me that apples aren’t fruit?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” says Ginny, starting for the door. I follow her.
“I expect to see you girls bright and early tomorrow morning. Yep. Bright and early, because I got the job and I’ll be working nine till three,” says Mrs. Gourd. She smirks but she looks proud.
As we leave we hear Mr. Gourd’s voice. He has woken up. He yells at Mrs. Gourd. The children start wailing.
“Well, there’s no question who fathered those children,” says Ginny as Mr. Gourd and his children harmonize their loud noises. I pretend not to know what she means and then we see a peanut butter jar come flying out the window and we spontaneously break into a run and keep running until we get close to town.
“That was awful,” says Ginny, panting, as we slow down on the corner where she’ll split off for her street. “That sound he made. I’ve never heard anyone yell at someone like that.”
“Ginny…,” I say.
“This is a horrible predicament,” she says grimly, “but it’s not your fault,” and turns toward her street without a backward glance.
When I get to the parking lot there is the man with the cigarettes, sitting on a cement divider, smoking and staring down the beach. He pretends not to look at me but I can see he is sneaking glances in my direction. In fact, I can feel his eyes bore their way into the back of my neck as I walk across the parking lot. I pass his car. It has an Ontario license plate. I look at him again. I have never seen a Canadian, at least as far as I know. What is he doing here? Maybe his life is so empty all he has to do is slowly migrate south, smoke and study people. He has seen me three times now so I guess he thinks of me as a regular. He has a nice face, in sort of a distracted way, and I begin to study it but just then I see H.K. heading toward me. Don’t tell me he has been at our house the whole day! What could he and my mother possibly have to say to each other for so long? H.K’s face is in contemplation too but it is not nice, it is closed up tight and he is somewhere so deep inside you will never be invited in.
At home, my mother is humming and setting the table. She has summer tomatoes on the stove cooking down for spaghetti sauce, which she says she is putting on rice because we are out of spaghetti. We have a huge fifty-pound bag of rice that she bought ages ago. It is only half empty so we will have many more rice dinners, I suppose.
“I saw Mr. Thomson,” I say. “Was he here all day?”
“Yes. Troubled man. He is trying to work something out where there is nothing to be worked out,” she says. “Can you set the table, Jane?”
I take down the mismatched plates and start to put them on the picnic table, but a terrible sound comes from down the beach and we all race there to find Mrs. Spinnaker standing, staring at the horizon and screaming. Horace has been swept out to sea by a wave too big for him. Mrs. Spinnaker, who doesn’t swim, is hopping up and down on the beach yelling, “Save him! Oh, save him!” There is no one else here and she does not see us approaching. She is calling to the universe.
My mother calmly takes off her long skirt and runs into the surf in her underpants and T-shirt and starts to swim. The tide is going out and there must be a current; it keeps pulling my mother sideways. Horace is bobbing. Sometimes we don’t see him as he disappears, and then Mrs. Spinnaker screams. My mother is not swimming hard and then I see why not. She is trying to let the current take her toward Horace and I know she is saving her strength for the swim back. They are a long way out. Finally we see her grab him but now I am worried about her. She is going to have to swim against the current to get back to shore and she is just a dot.
“Whales!” says Max, who has come out of the house with Hershel and Maya.
“That is Mama,” I say, and then we are all quiet. Everyone is clasping their hands and no one is saying a word.
It takes my mother a very long time to make it back against the current and the tide and when at long last she comes upright, she is unsmiling. Horace is shaking and miserable-looking but alive. She hands him to Mrs. Spinnaker, who has a towel ready and wraps Horace quickly in it and runs back to her cottage with him. My mother sits down right there in the sand, with her wet hair plastered to her face.
I remember the spaghetti sauce and run back inside. The bottom of it is burnt. I turn the burner off and put some rice on to cook. I have never made rice before but I have seen my mother do it a million times.
My mother comes in finally and takes a shower to clean off the salt and sand and warm herself up and by the time she is done I have dinner on the table. She looks at me and touches my shoulder as she takes her place. “I am so lucky,” she says.
The Seer
My Sixth Adventure
It is Sunday again. Just as we have finished cleaning up and getting the boys into their better shirts, there is a knock on the door. It is H. K. Thomson and my mother does not seem surprised to see him. He is wearing a bow tie and has a carnation in the buttonhole of his seersucker jacket. My mother greets him calmly and continues gathering the boys’ shoes and then we are out the door. He is going to church with us. I have seen him at church often with his sister, Caroline, but she is not with him now.
It is a morning of sea breezes and mists on the beach and we run down it, leaving my mother to walk with H. K. Thomson. It is good to run in my dress. I like the feel of my bare legs moving freely in a way they can’t in pants. I think it is sad that men never get to feel this. Except Scottish men with their kilts. The boys don’t seem to care about being so imprisoned, perhaps because they have never known the freedom of legs in a skirt. Their cuffs are full of sand when they get to the parking lot and we have to dump them as well as their shoes. H.K. doesn’t take his shoes off to dump the sand and looks vaguely irritated at the delay while we all desand ourselves meticulously.
Once we are free of sand we run down Main Street to our little white-steepled church. It is packed. A lot has happened this week and everyone wants to get a load of Nellie Phipps, preacher and jailbird. But she acts as if nothing unusual has happened until she gets to her sermon and then she makes references to jail and being threatened with dinner from the Bluebird Café and Jesus and his crown of thorns, none of which makes sense thrown together like that unless you happen to know about the incident with the balloons. She mixes the two up so that it sounds as if Jesu
s had supper at the Bluebird Café. I imagine him signing a picture for their wall like the other local celebrities. H. K. Thomson’s picture hangs in there. My mother’s picture does not.
People are beginning to purse their lips and look uncomfortable. You can tell that the ones who don’t know about Nellie’s brief jail time think she is rambling in a disturbing way. There is a sense of relief when it is time to pray for the sick.
We pray for Mrs. Nasters and Mrs. Parks again. Mrs. Nasters is getting worse but Mrs. Parks is getting better. I have the terrible thought that maybe my prayer tipped the balance, the extra prayer for Mrs. Parks, that is, the omission of the prayer for Mrs. Nasters. My mind wanders along worrying about this. And I realize that we have been so busy that none of us has checked up again on Mrs. Parks since our adventure with her. This seems a little mean. You don’t want to be the type of person who only shows up during a crisis. As if you are just hunting for excitement. I decide I will go visit her today. And also Mrs. Nasters because I owe her that much. Even though she may think it peculiar since I don’t know her very well.
I am passing behind H. K. Thomson and my mother as we exit the church, hoping to slide out under cover of their bulk, but Nellie Phipps grabs my hand purportedly to shake it and draws me near and whispers in my ear. “Not so fast. We got Bibles to give away, don’t forget.”
“Oh, Nellie, not after last week,” I say. She doesn’t know what terrible thing has happened and I cannot tell her in front of all these people.
“Child, especially after last week. I’ve got your spiritual health to tend to. Now, don’t fret about sending me to jail. That was just a blip. Go tell your mother you’ll be gone all day. I got a route all picked out.”
I do not know what to do. I can’t say no to a grown-up, especially a preacher. I am counting on my mother to save me. I snag her as she is inviting Caroline to Sunday dinner. I can’t tell if Caroline has understood my mother. Her hair is all wild and her eyes are looking crazy and angry. My mother appears distracted as I tell her that I am going to deliver Bibles while my eyes plead with her to say that I can’t. But before she can say anything, H. K. Thomson says, “Come along, Felicity. It looks as if Jane is going to be busy and Caroline has other plans for supper,” and shepherds her away.
I stand openmouthed with Nellie’s hand still gripping mine. She holds it with her right, which forces her to shake hands with her left. It puts her so out of balance she cannot kiss any babies. I think the mothers look glad.
Caroline is the last person to depart. She has been sitting in the corner of a pew staring at nothing. Nellie putters around the church putting things away but she is keeping a sharp eye on me at all times as if I am an untethered horse. Finally, she signals that she is ready to go and we march to the parking lot. The Bibles are already in the back of the station wagon. I am hungry for lunch and wonder if we will stop for ice cream again and if we will be back in time for me to visit Mrs. Parks and Mrs. Nasters, because I can’t see them during the week. I will be babysitting.
“Stealing a balloon to deliver Bibles is not the same as regular stealing,” says Nellie as we drive down the road.
I don’t say anything. I don’t want to talk any more about positive and negative energies and how I am making mistakes.
Then Nellie’s face clears as if she has thought of something new. “Your mother had better watch her step. Yep. I’d say your mother’d better watch her step, all right.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you don’t mean to tell me you’ve never heard that Caroline took an axe to H.K.’s last girlfriend.”
“She hit her with an AXE?”
“Well, of course, to hear Caroline tell it, that leg was ready to come off by itself.”
“What happened?”
“Sixteen stitches and Caroline went back into the loony bin, where everyone thinks she always belonged anyway. That rich old family and all they produce are a poet and a loony toon woman who can get a PhD but not a job and so H.K. has to take care of her. I’d say Caroline’s energies are definitely blocked.”
“I thought she was keeping house for H.K.,” I say.
“That’s what they’d have you believe,” says Nellie. “But anyway, he’s not what I’d consider an eligible bachelor. Not unless you’re very swift-moving.”
I don’t say anything.
“Anyhow, I hope you don’t think I’m criticizing your mother. There aren’t a lot of men her age available, I would guess.”
“My mother is not H.K.’s girlfriend. She’s just helping him through some troubles,” I say.
“If that’s what she told you, then I’m sure it’s true,” says Nellie.
“She told me she’s just helping him during a hard time.”
Nellie doesn’t say anything or move her eyes from the road but her lips start working in a worried, irritated way as if this is something she hadn’t counted on and now she is going to have to rethink things and she doesn’t like not knowing everything but she can’t disagree with me without contradicting my mother. So to change the subject I tell her about the Gourd baby even though I had planned to tell no one but Ginny. I don’t even like thinking about it and when I say that I may have maimed him for life I begin shaking slightly.
Nellie stops the car right there and turns and looks at me. A long look as if she has to size me up all over again. Then she says, “We must not judge.” She drives on and then she says, “Of course, you’re in the soup energy-wise. But there are no accidents. Maybe that baby was meant to be maimed or maybe you were meant to have this horrific occurrence that changes your future.”
We drive quietly for a long time and then a ways out of town we skid suddenly to a gravelly stop. There is a garish trailer parked by the side of the road and a sign on it saying MADAME CRENSHAW. YOUR FUTURE’S IN YOUR HANDS. “This must be it. We’re making a little stop here,” Nellie says briefly. She doesn’t get a Bible out of the back.
“Why?” I ask as we walk to the door of the trailer.
“I heard some things about this woman. From Mabel next door. She had her fortune told. She says this fortune-teller is gifted. She has the sight. We’ll check it out and see if it’s true. I want to ask her about what you need for absolution.”
“I’m already babysitting,” I say.
“Well, maybe she can see down the years. How it all pans out. If that baby recovers.”
I am game to do this even though I don’t want to start relying on fortune-tellers in garish trailers. But I want to keep an open mind after seeing Nellie with Mrs. McCarthy. The universe is full of wonders and I hope for more mystic experiences like the purple circle against the sky. More signs. And Nellie seems to believe in these things too and be plugged into them.
Nellie stomps up the three steps to the trailer door and bangs loudly on it.
A woman trailing scarves and gypsy-type clothes answers. “Madame Crenshaw, your future’s in your hands.”
“My future is in Jesus’s hands,” says Nellie.
“You’re entitled to your opinion,” says Madame Crenshaw.
We go inside. Madame Crenshaw has to make way for Nellie’s bulk.
“My next-door neighbor, Mabel, tells me you can see the future. If you can prove you can do this, we’d like to hear about this girl’s future.”
“Happy to. That will be twenty bucks,” says Madame Crenshaw.
“I’d like to do an exchange. I do some energy work myself and I could give you a treatment and you could demonstrate your remarkable gift,” says Nellie.
“Well, that would be a demonstration of your remarkable gift if you could make me give you a demonstration for free,” says Madame Crenshaw, and laughs. “I don’t do exchanges. Cash in advance.”
“Cash stops the flow of energy,” says Nellie.
“But it increases the flow of gin,” says Madame Crenshaw, sighing and getting a bottle out of the cupboard over the sink. “You want a drop?” she asks Nellie.
Nellie
looks uncertain.
Madame Crenshaw turns to me. “You?”
I shake my head.
“Well, Christ, I do,” she says, and pours herself half a tumbler, then drinks about half of that all at once. She sits down and crosses her arms over her chest and says, “Well?”
Nellie goes to her purse and opens it reluctantly. She gets out her wallet. It is stuffed with bills and heavy with coins. I gape. “It’s not all mine, some of it is from the collection plate, but, of course, I’m not using that. I have to make the deposit tomorrow. This twenty is mine,” she says, peeling it off and handing it to Madame Crenshaw.
Immediately, as if the twenty has flicked the On switch of her telepathic mind, Madame Crenshaw stands up in a swirl of purple India cotton and begins incanting things we don’t understand.
“In English, please,” says Nellie.
“I was getting to that,” says Madame Crenshaw irritably. She grabs one of Nellie’s hands, sits down, and holds it over her heart, staring into space, her pupils dilating.
I can see that Nellie is about to snatch her hand back when Madame Crenshaw says, “I can feel in your hand you’ve got great preaching powers.” Then Madame Crenshaw takes Nellie’s hand off her heart and looks at the palm. Nellie relaxes her hand in Madame Crenshaw’s and stares at it as if trying to see what Madame Crenshaw does. “What you don’t realize is you’ve got great healing powers. You ever done any faith healing?”
“You mean like energy work? That’s another name for energy work! Isn’t it, Jane?” she asks me.
I nod but I’m no expert.
“You are right to do it. You must do it. You’re intended to do it,” says Madame Crenshaw, dropping her hand and looking far far away. “You’ve got the gift.”
The cadence of this reminds me of Millions of Cats. Hundreds of cats, thousands of cats, millions and billions and trillions of cats. This runs over and over in my mind and I try to remember the last time I read this story. Why can’t I stay focused? I don’t want to be skeptical but some tiny part of me is thinking that she isn’t telling Nellie anything Nellie hasn’t already told her. But I am afraid that if I am skeptical, the universe won’t reveal things to me. Nellie talks about being open to it all. If you aren’t open, maybe these mystical things don’t happen to you.
My One Hundred Adventures Page 6