“What gift?” asks Nellie, although it seems obvious to me. I think she just wants to hear it again. Everyone wants to think they’re extra-talented.
“The gift,” says Madame Crenshaw, looking sideways.
“The gift?”
“That’s the one,” says Madame Crenshaw, starting to stand up.
“The healing gift,” breathes Nellie in hushed, awed tones.
“Yeah, it’s the holy grail of gifts, all right. Anyone mind if I smoke?”
“My mother always did say I was good with my hands,” whispers Nellie. She is turning her hands palm up to stare at them as if their power might be visible. “And I can move energy. But is that different from healing?”
“Oh, it’s different,” says Madame Crenshaw.
“How different?”
“Different.”
Hundreds of cats, thousands of cats, millions and billions and trillions of cats.
“Praise Jesus.”
“Praise Jesus, praise Allah, praise the whole lot of ‘em,” says Madame Crenshaw, who is beginning to slur her words. She goes back to the cabinet where she got the gin and takes out a pack of cigarettes. She lights one and draws in a lungful of smoke. Then she exhales and at the same time she says, “You ever seen a transparent poodle?”
We shake our heads again.
“You’re on this earth for a great purpose but to divine it, you must go to Lake Mattawan, where I found a large, [inhale] transparent poodle.”
“Like a…a standard poodle?” asks Nellie.
“Is it someone’s pet?” I ask.
“What are you talking about?” Madame Crenshaw snaps at us, exhaling. “This poodle is a poodle into the future.”
“A transparent portal?” I say. It makes more sense but it is vaguely disappointing.
“I hate dogs,” says Nellie.
Madame Crenshaw pours herself another glass of gin and downs it as if thinking about matters. We don’t say a thing. We don’t want to interrupt her while she’s on a roll. “There are time and space poodles in a few places on earth. Transporting poodles. This is one. The energy here runs through a sacred meridian. You must realize this is why you have been drawn to this place. Can you feel its sacred energy?”
“I wasn’t drawn here so much as I was born here,” says Nellie.
“Me too,” I say.
“You weren’t paid for,” Madame Crenshaw says, and turns her back on me. “But YOU!” She says this so loudly that Nellie and I both leap to our feet. We are afraid she is about to spontaneously combust or do one of those other things the National Enquirer is always warning you about. “You have a great and sacred purpose.”
“You’ve already said that,” I point out, hoping to provide a valuable service and thus get back into the inner circle, but they both give me such a look I shut up immediately.
“Well, how do I find this poodle?” asks Nellie.
“It’s easy. Find the reeds. It’s by the seventh reed as you wade out from shore.”
“The seventh reed!” says Nellie.
“That would make a good book title,” I say.
They both look at me again.
“Well, heck, come with us, then,” says Nellie. “We’ll find out my sacred purpose together. It’ll be a great moment. The combination of my gifts and yours.”
“Yeah, that’d be nifty but I got this wonky ankle,” says Madame Crenshaw, suddenly limping around the trailer. “Injuries at our age take forever to heal. You find that? Man, I hate getting old.”
Nellie starts to advance on her, hands stretched out toward her ankle, looking a lot like Frankenstein’s monster, and I think Madame Crenshaw and I are equally startled until it occurs to us that Nellie is just planning on trying out those healing hands. Madame Crenshaw falls backward over a chair trying to get away from her.
“You’d better hurry. You must find this poodle and divine your purpose. All will be shown to you. But the poodle is closing soon. It’s a limited-time-only-offer poodle. You know, they don’t stick around in one place. I mean, after today it could be off to anywhere, Yellowstone, the Grand Tetons, the Smoky Mountains, Lansing,” says Madame Crenshaw. “Grand Rapids.”
“In Michigan?” says Nellie. I guess it surprises her. Michigan doesn’t seem like a portal place.
“Some people say poodles followed Gerald Ford around,” says Madame Crenshaw.
“Gerald Ford was a great president,” says Nellie, barely breathing now.
“He was swell,” says Madame Crenshaw.
“Hurry, have to hurry,” Nellie is muttering to herself, her eyes all glazed. She grabs me by the skirt and yanks me toward the door. “We gotta get to Lake Mattawan before it disappears.”
“Lake Mattawan? That’s way back toward town,” I say.
“That’s right, Lake Mattawong…,” says Madame Crenshaw, hurrying us along.
“Mattawan,” I correct.
“Whatever,” says Madame Crenshaw. “Leave your purse and shoes with me. I’ll lend you some old tennis shoes so you don’t get your high heels mucky, and you don’t want to leave the purse in the car. Even if you lock it, they’re always breaking into cars there.”
Madame Crenshaw looks down at Nellie’s shoes, which are the same black high heels I have seen her wear to church for years. Her feet flow over the edges like molten lava. Many Sundays I have sat in boredom staring at her legs driven into those shoes wondering if this week it will be Krakatoa. Nellie looks at her shoes and there is a funny expression on her face as if she should have known that this great portal moment was imminent. As if here it is, the moment she knew all her life was coming, the time when someone finally recognizes her greatness and is willing to show her her destiny—and wouldn’t you know it, she’s wearing the wrong shoes.
Madame Crenshaw goes to a closet and throws Nellie a pair of old tennis shoes. They’re a little big but no one is wasting time worrying about that. We have to get to the portal.
“We’re imposing on you. Taking your shoes,” says Nellie awkwardly, slowing down at the doorway.
“Are you kidding? It’s a PORTAL! A PORTAL!” says Madame Crenshaw, only it comes out “A POODLE! A POODLE!” with some smoke in a fit of coughing. She is lighting one cigarette off the next. You’d think the portal would have shown her emphysema or lung cancer and scared a little sense into her.
“Oh, but wait,” I say. “What about me and the absolution? The, you know, the future?” I say as obliquely as I can to Nellie. “If you can lend me twenty dollars, I promise to pay you back.”
“Gotta go, kids,” says Madame Crenshaw, trying to shove me out the door. She is in as great a hurry as Nellie.
Nellie says, “Well, maybe just a quick reading, can you hand me my purse?”
“Never mind the purse; it’ll be a freebie, okay?” says Madame Crenshaw, kicking Nellie’s purse into the closet and snatching up my hand and rattling this off: “You and your best friend are going to be parted soon.”
“Because I am going to jail?” I squawk.
“NO.”
“Because I’m going to hell?” I squawk even louder.
“Quit interrupting. No, it’s someplace empty with nothing much to see. That’s where you’re going and now you have to LEAVE or your friend here is going to miss the poodle, move it, move it, move it!” She slams the door behind us.
“Okay. We’ll be back soon,” calls Nellie, and we scurry off to the car. Nellie has to shuffle to keep the shoes on.
We drive like the dickens back to the lake, park in the lot and lock the doors. We don’t have to worry about Nellie’s purse but there are all those Bibles inside. I say we were going to give the Bibles away anyhow, why can’t people just take them, and Nellie says there’s a big difference between giving Bibles away and people stealing them, but I swear she just hasn’t thought this through.
“Now where are them weeds?” asks Nellie as we walk along the side of the lake.
“I think she said reeds,” I say mildly. I am
getting my good shoes dirty but no one seems to care about this. I realize the best thing to do is to take them off and wade barefoot through the lake rather than try to walk along the bushy shore.
“This had better be some poodle,” says Nellie as the hem of her dress gets caught on a bush. There is a ripping sound and I think I hear her say a bad word but of course I must be wrong. Nellie thinks what we say affects our energies and she is very careful.
The lake is big and we can’t see around the next bend. Nellie is wading through the water now too, still wearing Madame Crenshaw’s old tennis shoes. It is taking me longer than her because I am picking my way over rocks and looking for crayfish.
“I hope you don’t think I always have truck with stuff like this,” Nellie says, her voice drifting back over her shoulder. “Predictions and psychic poodles and such.”
“She said portal, Nellie,” I say.
“Portal, poodle, it’s probably all the same. Anyhow, I’ve got no truck with the occult but there are some Christian goodly sorts, well, the prophets in the Bible, for instance…” She says this last so defensively I keep quiet and don’t even tell her that the whole thing is a fine adventure as far as I’m concerned. I want to see the psychic poodle too.
We stump along silently for a while.
My dress is wet up to my waist and we still haven’t found any reeds. This is a pretty reedless lake, it seems to me.
“You know what I think? I think what she was trying to tell us is that the portal is a poodle,” says Nellie as we find no reeds or portals.
“WHAT?” I say.
“The portal has to have a shape, don’t it? The portal is a poodle. That’s why she kept saying ‘portal’ and we kept hearing ‘poodle.’ Because it was both, right?”
“Well, then someone has to own it,” I say. “And I don’t see anyone owning a transporting portal.”
“Not if it’s wild. Lives in a cave, no doubt.”
“A feral poodle?” I ask.
“A poodle portal,” corrects Nellie. “Didn’t you hear her say how it was traveling on? Can’t do that if you’re owned by someone. You gotta think about things more, child.”
What I’m thinking is that the sun is getting to her. Either that or she is thinking too hard about this whole thing and her brains are over-heating.
We keep walking in silence except for birdsong. I see the dock where my mother fishes but there is no one there today. In fact, for such a fine summer day there doesn’t seem to be anyone at the lake. Then we go around the bend and immediately there’s nothing but—canoeists and swimmers and rowboats and people floating in inner tubes. There’s a lakeside lodge here, that’s why. I’ve never been to this part of the lake before because it’s so far from the public parking lot. Everyone looks rich and kind of snooty and when they see Nellie and me picking our way over rocks and logs through the water they become still. I can feel their rich eyes boring into us. I see what they see suddenly and realize we are like an apparition to them—two people in Sunday dresses, one in nylons and old, slightly too large tennis shoes, stumping along the shallow edge of the lake as fast as they can as if on a mission.
One of the attendants onshore, wearing a white jacket and carrying a drink tray, comes running down and says, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but this part of the lake is for guests only.”
“What?” asks Nellie, paying no attention and stumping right past him. I think for a second she is just going to swipe at him waist level with that massive arm of hers and knock him into the water and keep going.
He runs like a little dog at her heels, saying, “You can’t go here. You must turn back.”
“We’re looking for a poodle portal,” says Nellie. I can’t help feeling this isn’t helping our case.
“Well, no dogs are allowed here either,” says the waiter as if this settles it.
“We’re running out of time,” says Nellie. “This portal poodle is going to up and close in on itself any second. We need to count the reeds but we haven’t seen any reeds.” I am wondering if she has heatstroke or something. She’s all sweaty and talking to herself.
“You have to go! NOW!” says the waiter so rudely that I stop being embarrassed. He is not at all concerned for her health even though it is clear Nellie is under some great physical strain. She is not built for this kind of hike. Also, we’re in the lake. They can’t own the lake or even this part of it. Even I know that.
“You know how far it is to the reeds?” asks Nellie, swinging around to look at him as she realizes he could be useful.
“Madame, I can assure you we are a reed-free facility,” says the uppity young man, and now I think I may knock him into the water if Nellie doesn’t. But fortunately we have been moving at a good pace during this whole confrontation while the waiter mincingly runs at our heels and in another minute we are around the next bend and into a wild part of the lake again and the waiter, as if there is an invisible fence keeping him back, stays rooted to his side of the bend, calling triumphantly after us, “And don’t come back.”
I would like to go back and get a little mud on his jacket but if there is a portal, it probably isn’t open to people who behave in this way. I’m not sure it’s open to people who even think in this way.
Nellie mumbles something but I can’t tell what. We stump along again in silence around bend after bend, Nellie muttering periodically to herself, and I think I hear snatches of hymns and prayers and wonder if she is exhorting the universe to show itself or just trying to keep her spirits up. Anyhow we have been going a good hour and a half when we find ourselves suddenly looking at an old blue car and we’re so tired it takes us a second to realize we’re right back in front of the parking lot where we began.
“We missed it,” says Nellie, so disheartened that she plops right down where she is, which unfortunately is in six inches of water. “The portal poodle must have closed.”
“It might have closed because I had bad thoughts about the waiter,” I say. I want Nellie to tell me my energies are really just fine but “I’m afraid you could be right,” she says musingly.
We get wetly back into her front seat and she’s so bedraggled and confused she doesn’t even bother to spread newspapers on the seats to keep them clean. We get lake muck all over them. Her nylons are ripped. Her dress is ripped. There’s a twig in her hair. I am soaked up to my armpits and my feet are a mess of tiny bleeding cuts.
“But we didn’t even find the reeds. Where were the reeds?” I ask.
“Probably disappeared with the portal poodle when you had those bad thoughts,” says Nellie.
We drive silently back to the trailer to tell our sad tale to Madame Crenshaw. I am so tired I am not paying much attention to the road when suddenly Nellie stops the car. She says nothing and at first I don’t see why she has halted and then I do. Ahead of us are the tracks where Madame Crenshaw’s trailer once stood.
We sit and stare at them for a while. Then we drive back to town. Nellie says nothing. Her mouth never stops working.
Finally she says, “Do you suppose the portal came and got her?”
“No,” I say after a long pause.
“You suppose the cops came along and made her move?”
“Maybe,” I say, but our sheriff is a pretty sensible sort and I can’t really see it if she wasn’t hurting anyone. “Anyhow, it doesn’t much matter.” Then I remember. “She had your purse.”
Nellie’s mouth keeps working.
“And your shoes.”
We both think about this.
“She said I was destined for a great purpose. You heard her, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I say slowly. Then for the first time I realize Madame Crenshaw never told me anything about the Gourd baby. And she said I was moving someplace empty with nothing much to see when we have no plans to move at all.
“Maybe she’s back in town or coming back tomorrow,” says Nellie after a bit.
I think Nellie is a better person than me because she wants to
give Madame Crenshaw the benefit of the doubt and I do not. I want to say, She took your purse and your shoes! But I know that Nellie will just see this as more evidence that I have a closed, unforgiving heart, and maybe she is right.
There is a long silence in the car. In fact, it lasts until we get back to the parking lot by my beach and Nellie stops. She does not say anything and she doesn’t look left or right while she parks so it’s a good thing there don’t happen to be any small children or animals in the way. As I get out I notice that the cigarette man is there again and I start to mention it to Nellie, leaning in the window of the door I have just closed. But she takes off so fast I have to leap back and I watch her car zooming down Main Street until it disappears altogether in a cloud of dust.
When I get halfway down the beach I feel someone’s eyes on my back and turn, wondering if Nellie has returned, but there is no one there except the cigarette man and he is not staring at me. He is staring out to sea.
Mr. Fordyce
My Seventh Adventure
Mrs. Gourd explained to Ginny and me that once she starts work we have to be at her trailer at eight a.m. so she can start her first day on the job at the Bluebird Café at nine. It doesn’t take an hour for her to walk over there, but she wants some of that time for readying herself in front of the mirror without little D children scurrying around her clean white uniform. She is touchingly proud of that waitress uniform and the little half hat she wears on her head with its print of bluebirds on top. When we arrive, before we can head for the beach, she wants to model it for us. I think maybe she has never belonged to anything before. Once she puts it on, you can see her lifting her head a little higher. She isn’t a nobody anymore, she is a waitress.
She keeps us in the trailer for a while, asking our opinion about the angle of her hat and whether to leave her top button open or close it. Ginny and I admit to each other that as we watch her, purse slung over her shoulder, jaunty lift to her usually plodding stride, making her way to town to her respectable job, we feel a measure of pride. Her excitement is contagious. It is because of us she can do this thing.
My One Hundred Adventures Page 7