by Joyce Magnin
Stella looked a bit pensive.
"Thinking about your brother?" I asked.
She nodded. "Yeah, I am. What if he dies, Griselda? What if he dies before he ever sees me again?"
I held her close. "That won't happen. He'll wake up. I just know it."
"But what about that woman, Gilda? Do you think I should talk to her? Let her know who I am?"
"I do, Stella. I think you need to talk to Gilda. Meet me at the café in the morning. We'll start there."
6
The next morning I woke with a renewed vigor to get to the bottom of what was going on with Walter and Gilda Saucer—if that was her name. The more I thought about it, the more things didn't stack up.
Gilda sat at the counter, on the first stool as usual, working on a cup of coffee. She wore a tight blue skirt and white sweater and pretty much looked like she had once again just rolled in from a hard night of dancing and cavorting. It still didn't make much sense to me that if she was at the nursing home all night holding Walter's hand why she dressed so sexy. Unless, of course, she wanted him to have something nice to see when he opened his eyes.
I didn't see Stella and worried that maybe she had gotten cold feet. Most likely Nate had put her to work. She was right, that man needed another man on the farm.
"Good morning, Gilda," I said on my way past her. I took a seat at the counter leaving two spaces between us. Zeb was in the kitchen frying eggs and scrapple. It smelled good, warm and inviting. He looked at me through the pick-up window.
"Morning, Griselda, I had a nice time the other night."
I could feel Gilda look my way. "That a girl," she said. She outlined the rim of her coffee cup with her index finger. "Glad to see someone in this town is getting some action."
I prayed I wouldn't blush. "Morning, Zeb. Yeah, the movie was good. Thank you."
Babette wiped the spot in front of me "Coffee?"
"Sure, Babs. And maybe some eggs and scrapple. It smells good this morning."
"Okie dokie, Griselda. Coming right up."
I watched her write my order on a small slip of paper, then she drew a tiny heart in the corner. That had become Zeb's way of knowing it was my order. He stopped charging me for meals.
"So what did you see?" Gilda asked.
"Excuse me?" I said.
"Movie. What did you see?"
"Oh. The Poseidon Adventure."
"The shipwreck movie?"
I nodded.
"I prefer something more romantic," she said. "You know Doris Day, Cary Grant."
"Uhm, yeah, I know what you mean." Babette pushed a cup of coffee toward me and then the cream pitcher. "Thanks. But this movie was romantic in its own way. Disaster can bring people closer sometimes."
Gilda put her empty coffee cup on her saucer and watched Babette fill it. "Thanks, honey. "
The café was quiet, almost too quiet. After Babette set my breakfast in front of me, Zeb made his way out of the kitchen. "What you got planned for today, Grizzy?"
"I don't know." I dipped the corner of a triangle of toast into a yolk. "I have some shopping to do, the library, and then I'll probably head on over to the nursing home, you know, check on Agnes."
"Want some company?"
"Nah, that's OK. I think I want to go alone this time. Have some stuff to discuss with her."
"I understand," Zeb said. "You want to talk about me." He winked.
That was when Studebaker and Boris came in. "Morning, all," called Stu. "Coffee, Babette, soon as you can get it."
"OK, Mr. Kowalski, I just put on a fresh pot."
I watched them take a booth. "Morning, Stu," I said. "Morning, Boris."
"Morning, Griselda," they said together.
I turned back to my meal, thinking that I did not want to get into an unscheduled Harvest Dance discussion.
"Did I hear you say nursing home?" Gilda asked, practically in a whisper. "You mean Greenbrier?"
"Yes. My sister lives there."
"Oh, that's funny," Gilda said. "I got a . . . a friend, guess you can call him that over there. In a coma."
Now, of course, I knew all of this, but she didn't know I knew. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"Ah, nothing." She waved her hand. "It's his own stupid fault. The moron got himself hurt looking for a buried treasure. Can you believe it?"
I shook my head. "Buried treasure? Around here?" It sounded ridiculous.
"I know, I know. But apparently there's some money locked in a safe buried around these parts and Walter, that's his name, Walter went exploring."
Walter. Yep. It was the same guy. "Treasure? Really?"
"Yeah." Gilda stood up and then moved closer to me. She sat down right next to me with a thud. "He said it was the loot from a robbery a few years ago. Loot from one of the coal companies up here and a bank robbery."
With that Studebaker spoke up. "Coal company?"
Gilda spun around. "This is private conversation, I beg your pardon."
"I'm sorry," Stu said. "But I used to be a miner. Worked for the Lehigh Coal Company."
"That's the one. But you didn't rob them now, didja?"
"No, but—"
"But nothin'. Now I gotta go, sister. Go visit Walter and see if he's waking up. Don't think he's ever gonna wake up, and we have to get married and all."
I shook my head. "I'm sorry, Gilda. Maybe I'll see you over there."
I watched through the window as she climbed into a yellow Pontiac convertible.
"Well, ain't she something," Studebaker said. "Ain't she all up on a high horse."
"Ah, she's upset about her fiancé," Boris said. "Poor man is in a coma. You can only hope a pretty young thing like that would care that much if it happened to you."
"Care?" Babette said. She refilled my cup. "There's something suspicious about that woman. Mom says she's a tramp. I just think she's got something up her sleeve. Maybe she just wants the treasure for herself."
"She's a good customer," Zeb said. "That's all I care about."
"But didn't you hear what she said?" It was Hazel Flatbush speaking. I didn't even know Hazel was there, but apparently she had been sitting in a back booth taking in the whole discussion. "She said they had to get married. Only one reason folks have to get married."
"Pregnant?" I said. "She doesn't look pregnant, Hazel."
"Still early," Hazel said, "and she's such a skinny-minny."
Well, if this didn't put another fly in the already too sticky ointment.
"I'm more interested in that treasure myself," Stu said. "It could be true. There were lots of robberies a while back. Coal mines and quarries used to lose their entire payroll to bandits in these parts."
"But how would a guy like Walter learn about it?" I said.
"Oh, it's easy enough," Studebaker said. "Newspaper accounts and such. Treasure hunting is kind of a sport to some people. Finders keepers and all that."
"Huh," I said, just mildly fascinated. After what Stella told me about Walter being such a greedy Gus, it made sense that a man like him would go treasure hunting.
I finished my scrapple. Zeb knew how to make it crispy enough on the outside with exactly the right amount of mushiness on the inside. Then I made my way to the nursing home. Weatherwise, it had turned out to be a postcard-perfect day. I smelled oak and maple wood smoke as I made the short trip to Greenbrier—folks were already out burning leaves. The sun glinted through the many trees on the Greenbrier property, and I stood a moment and watched as a breeze stirred up fallen leaves on the parking lot like a big spoon in a pot of soup.
I found Agnes in her room sitting in her specially made wheelchair. It was good to see her out of bed. Her back was to me as she seemed to be lost, peering out the window—or so I thought.
"Griselda," she said, without turning around. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming."
"I'm here, Agnes. It's still kind of early."
"It is?" I watched her turn toward me.
"Sure. It's not even
ten o'clock."
"Easy to lose track of time in here, Griselda. My routine is all different and the nurses and aides keep coming in and out giving me this pill and that pill."
I sat on the visitor chair. "How are you doing, Agnes?"
"I'm fine, just fine. Hungry though. They stopped feeding me, you know. Starving me to death."
"They didn't stop feeding you. You get what you need, according to the doctor, which is still quite a lot. It seems to be working. I think you look a little thinner."
"I am. I am. Leastways that's what my nurse said. They think I might have lost about thirty pounds already."
"Must feel good."
"I suppose. But I do miss my lemon squares."
"Well, maybe I can talk to the doctor and get him to let you have just one."
Agnes managed to wheel closer to me but with great effort. "Griselda," she said, "hand me that notebook over there and get me a pen, a blue one, and then pour my water. At least they let me have all the water I want. And then go get me a fresh straw. For heaven's sake, they expect me to use the same straw for days and days, and that one has a split going right down it and—"
"Agnes," I said. My heart pounded like a trip hammer. "Slow down. My goodness, you'd think you been sitting here all morning just waiting for me to get here so you could start ordering me around, get this, get that. It's like you aren't happy to see me, just my two hands and two feet, so I can be at your beck and call."
Oh, my goodness gracious, I couldn't believe I said all that. It came out like sewer water from a cracked pipe, spewing all over the place and smelling so bad.
"Beck and call," Agnes said. I watched her face turn red, like a large beefeater tomato. "Beck and call? Is that what you said?"
"That's right." My heart still pounded. "Beck and call. Just like at home."
"Well, I am so sorry, Griselda, so sorry that I am such a problem for you. It's hard for me to do things, you know. Hard for me to move around." She labored a couple of breaths. "Why . . . why you never complained before. I thought you understood. And now, now all of sudden, you're all high and mighty and too good to help your sister, your only sister." Her breathing became ragged as she needed to gasp for air.
"Agnes! Stop this. You can ring the buzzer for the nurse and ask for a new straw. You can pour your own water. What if I wasn't here for you?"
Tears ran down her cheeks.
"Ah, Agnes. Don't cry. I'm . . . I'm sorry. Maybe I'm just in a bad mood."
"Bad mood nothing, Griselda. You meant everything you said. I am just a big, fat, really fat, bother for you."
I needed to find a way to slow my heart. I thought it might just beat right out of my chest. "It's not that. I . . . I want you to do things for yourself. Maybe if I hadn't been so easy, so darn easy all these years you'd . . . you wouldn't be here."
"Never said it was your fault."
"But I let it be. I always felt so sorry for you, so I just did what you said all the time without question."
Agnes turned away from me, which I have to say was a little anticlimactic given the fact that it took her a good couple of minutes to do what it would have taken another person a second or two. But it was Agnes's version of turning her back on me and so I let her do it.
"I never told you, Agnes, but—" I went to the window so I could see her face. "I think I might resent you. I gave up a lot to take care of you when all along you knew, you knew why you got this way and did nothing about it."
"Oh, so that's it. Go ahead, rub it in. What I did was terrible and all, but—but—"
A nurse poked her head in the door. "Everything all right? Why, Agnes, you're just as red as a candy apple."
"It's my fault," I said. "I'm sorry."
"Maybe you should go," Agnes said. "My blood pressure is probably through the roof. And besides I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do—not anymore, not for me."
I sighed. This was not what I wanted. But I will confess that a part of me felt relieved that I had finally spoken up. Now if I could only do the same thing with Zeb and make him listen to reason and try to understand that I was enjoying my freedom just now, and it had nothing to do with him—at least I didn't think it did.
With a new courage burbling inside, I decided to speak with Zeb. I had a thing or two to tell him. For one thing, he needed to agree not to leave the movie theater unless it was a real emergency. For another thing, he needed to be willing to kiss me in front of people, well, at least hold my hand—otherwise a woman had to wonder if she was an embarrassment.
I pulled into the café lot and stepped out of the truck. But I never made it inside. Ivy Slocum caught up with me first.
"Griselda," she called from half a block away. "I've been looking all over town for you." She picked up her pace.
"I made up my mind," she said. She wore a Penn State sweatshirt, blue jeans, and a pair of taupe Hush Puppies on her feet, I supposed in honor of Al Capone.
"About what?" I said. "Want to get a slice of pie?"
"No, no. I am just too excited."
"So spill it. You look like a kid in candy store."
"I feel like one. I want to go into Shoops, to the SPCA, and pick me out a new pooch."
"Right now? Today?"
"Yep. I'm ready."
"Why not?" I said. "Let's go." My talk with Zeb would have to wait. Except as I got back into the truck, I saw him in the café window. He shot me a look that spoke disappointment in volumes.
"Should we go by and get Ruth?" Ivy asked once she settled down in the truck cab.
"Probably. Ruth enjoys visiting the SPCA."
I pulled away from The Full Moon. "Sooooo, where's Al Capone, now? Did he ever stay buried?"
"Nope." Ivy shook her head. "He resurrected himself three times. Twice last night and once this morning in that big downpour. Floated halfway down Filbert Street. I snagged him just before he went into the sewer drain."
I started to laugh but pushed it back inside.
"Go on, laugh," Ivy said. "It's funny. God never intended us not to laugh at the funny stuff. If you coulda seen me running down Hector Street in my robe and galoshes. These ample breasts of mine flopping up and down like ducks in water. Nearly knocked myself out rounding Filbert."
"So what did you do? You couldn't have carried him back."
"No, that nice Bill Tompkins came out and carried him home. He's on the porch—Al Capone, not Bill. I made up my mind to bring him to the vet and let her—you know—do what they do."
"So we need to pick up Al Capone first?"
"Yep. If you don't mind. But I think we should get Ruth before Al Capone. It's gonna take all three of us to lift that water-logged dog into the truck."
Ivy went to Ruth's door. "I won't be a minute."
"I am just so tickled to be going along," Ruth said as she squeezed in next to Ivy. "I can't remember the last time I went to the SPCA. It's a weird sort of place, don't you think? All them puppies and dogs and kitties that ordinarily make a person happy to see but at the same time you know they're all about to meet their maker. Now ain't that a crying shame? Just a crying shame. I want to bring them all home."
"It is a crying shame," Ivy said, "but we can't bring all the waifs home, Ruth."
Ruth pulled the door shut. "I know that, Ivy, I'm just saying I would like to bring them all home. I know I can't really do such a thing."
"Come on, you two," I said with a bit of a chuckle. "Let's get going before all the good dogs are taken."
"Let's not forget about Al Capone," Ivy said.
Ruth patted Ivy's knee. "Oh, don't you worry. Al Capone might be gone, but he'll never be forgotten."
"No, no," Ivy said. "I mean we have to go get him."
"What?" Ruth said. "But we buried him in your backyard yesterday."
"He didn't stay buried," I said. "We need to get him and take him to the vet in Shoops."
"What's she gonna do?" Ruth said. "Bring him back to life?"
"No. She's going
to cremate him," Ivy said.
Al Capone's body lay on the porch. Ivy had wrapped him as best she could in her yellow rain slicker and rain bonnet, which she had pulled down over his eyes. His tongue lolled out to one side. My heart ached when I saw him. Al Capone had been my friend also.
"You two get on his back end," Ivy said. "I'll be up front."
Ruth and I looked at each other, but we were not about to say anything to Ivy. We leaned down together to lift. A smell wafted from Al Capone's body that rivaled any of the basements in Bright's Pond. As a matter of fact, it rivaled any smell at Greenbrier.
"On my count," Ivy said. "One—two—three."
We lifted the pooch about nine inches off the ground and proceeded to carry him to the truck. I had let the tailgate down. "Now, lift," I said. And we did with a collective grunt that is probably still echoing over the mountains.
Ivy straightened the bonnet on Al Capone's head and off we rode to Shoops.
As we pulled onto the main street, I heard that same airplane from before overhead. Leastways I thought it was the same. The pilot flew low, as if he was going to land, even though the nearest airport was in Wilkes-Barre.
"Ever been in a plane?" I asked.
"Only once," Ivy said. "Didn't care for it."
Ruth shook her head. "Too scary."
"Not to me. I think I'd really like to fly some day, you know. Go somewhere far away."
Dr. Fish greeted us and instructed a couple of her helpers to get Al Capone.
"Can I have his ashes?" Ivy asked.
"Sure," Dr. Fish said. "You come back later or tomorrow or whenever you can and we'll have them here." Dr. Fish smiled. "And again, Ivy, I am so sorry."
The SPCA was located on Sandy Hill Road, even though there was neither sand nor a hill anywhere in sight. The building sat at the end of a short driveway. We could hear the dogs barking and howling the instant we turned onto the cement drive.
"Just listen to them poor pooches," Ivy said. "I just want to take them all home."
"Do they keep birds here?" Ruth asked. "I always thought that maybe one day I'd get me one of the talking birds, you know."