Griselda Takes Flight

by Joyce Magnin

  "Birds?" Ivy said. "Birds? This is the SPCA, Ruth, why would they have birds here? Ever see a BIRD catcher driving through town?"

  "I was just asking," Ruth said. "I mean folks turn in their unwanted pets now, don't they? And birds are pets just the same as dogs."

  "But you already have Russell," I said.

  "Ah, he's just a little silly parakeet that doesn't talk. I was thinking about one of those mynah birds that can say real words and—"

  "You can ask," I said.

  I pulled into a parking spot, and we piled out of my truck. The main building was small with a high cyclone fence to one side that looked like it might have gone the complete length of the long building.

  "That's the kennel," Ivy said. "All the dogs have their own cages with a door in the back so they can get let out to run and . . ."

  I pulled the door open, and the barking grew louder.

  "Oh, dear me," Ruth said, "they do sound so pitiful and sad."

  A skinny, stringy sort of woman sat on a stool behind a short counter. Her hair was mostly gray but looked as if it had been dyed red at one time. She wore pointy glasses and a gray work shirt with two pens and a pencil poking out of the breast pocket. Her face was pinched and reminded me of a Pekingese and rightly so.

  "Can I help you?' she asked, barely taking her eyes from a paper on a clipboard she was studying.

  "I came for a dog," Ivy said.

  "What kind of dog?" the woman asked.

  "Don't know."

  The woman hung the clipboard on a pegboard behind her. "Well, if you don't know what kind of dog you lost, then I can't rightly help you now, can I?"

  "No," Ivy said, "you don't understand. I didn't lose a dog . . . well, I did, I mean, I lost Al Capone but not in the way you mean. He's getting cremated today."

  Ruth started to chuckle. "That's right. We don't have to worry about Al Capone floating down the street anymore."

  The worker blinked her eyes a couple of times. "Al Capone? Al Capone is getting cremated?"

  "Not the Al Capone," Ivy said. "My former and now sadly deceased doggie, Al Capone. Peritonitis. Imagine that, dying from a chicken bone stuck in your works."

  I watched the woman shake her head as if she had just that instant awakened from a strange dream. "Okay, so you want a new dog."

  "That's right," Ivy said. "May we just take a look at them doggies in the back?"

  The worker nodded. "Just come and tell me if you see one you like."

  I pulled open a heavy door with a window in it, and the barking grew even louder and the smell even stronger. A row of cages went on for a very long time. The pooches barked and whimpered and whined.

  "It is kind of like walking down doggie death row," I said.

  "Heavens to Betsy," Ruth said. "I . . . I just can't stand the sound of all these poor animals. Do you think they know they're in line to be . . . to be . . . well, I just can't say the words."

  "Euthanized," came a voice behind us. A tall teenager wearing hip-high rubber boots and carrying a dripping hose squeezed past us. "Excuse me, but I got to spray down the cages."

  There were big dogs, little dogs, some in between. A few jumped and bounced as we passed by and others cowered as if they were afraid of us.

  "Poor thing," Ivy said, stopping in front of a cage with a medium-sized dog that looked to be part German shepherd and part something else. "Look at him. He looks so gall darn sad."

  It was true. He was the saddest dog I had ever seen. He sat hunched on his rump, looking up at us with wide, glazed-over eyes. He seemed to be imploring us to set him free.

  "He's the one," Ivy said. Then she got real silent, and I saw a tear drip from her eye.

  "What's wrong, Ivy?" I put my hand on her shoulder.

  "I was just this second imagining what could have been if that Mildred Blessing had ever arrested Al Capone. She woulda brought him here to be . . . to be."

  "Now, now, Ivy. We all know Mildred never really wanted to arrest Al Capone. She enjoyed the hunt too much."

  Ivy nodded her head. "I guess so, but first thing I'm doing is getting him some dog tags, you know?"

  "Good idea, Ivy. I'd do it today. And teach him to stay out of Eugene's rose garden," I said.

  Ruth had wandered off down the row and was talking to the boy with the hose. I couldn't hear what she was saying to him over the din of the dogs. But she all of a sudden came running back to us. "Did you hear that? Did you hear that? That young fella just told me they did get a bird in last week, but nobody claimed it and . . . and, well, they had to put it down." She sniffed. "When I think of someone putting down my dear sweet Russell, I . . . I . . ."

  Ivy tapped Ruth's shoulder. "Not now, Ruth. This ain't about you getting a bird. It's about this poor, sad animal that sits here before us begging for a home. Just look at him."

  Ruth crouched down and put her hand through the cage. The doggie licked her palm. "He is a sweet thing, Ivy. I think you should claim him."

  "He is a cutie," I said, "and seems to have a good disposition." The dog's eyes grew wider as though he understood what I said. His tongue lolled out to the left.

  "See them spots on his tongue?" Ivy said. "That's a sign of a good dog."

  "You sure?" Ruth said. "There was that dog down the street. He had spots and was the meanest beast alive."

  "That don't mean he was a bad dog. Just maybe his training was wrong."

  Ivy removed the pink index card from the cage. It was stuffed in a plastic sleeve hanging on a chain. "Says here he's nine months old, a male, part Shepherd with some coonhound in him. And according to this he was given to the SPCA on account of a child developed allergies. Oh, and his name is Mickey Mantle."

  The dog perked up the instant he heard his name.

  "He musta been named after the ball player," I said. "That's funny, Ivy. First you had Al Capone and now you have Mickey Mantle."

  Ivy patted the dog's head. "Mickey Mantle it is. Great name. Number Seven was the best baseball player ever."

  Ruth and I followed Ivy to the front desk where the worker sat munching on a doughnut. "Find one you like?" she asked as a drop of red jelly dripped onto the counter.

  "Yes, I did," Ivy said. "This here, Mickey Mantle."

  The woman took the card and after Ivy signed some papers saying she would take good care of him and have him neutered, we were on our way back to Bright's Pond. Ivy sat in the truck bed with Mickey Mantle.

  It gave Ruth and me a chance to talk, and we weren't so squeezed in the truck cab with Ivy in the back. Every so often I glanced in the rear view and saw Ivy sitting there with her arm draped around Mickey Mantle.

  "Anyway," Ruth said, "I am glad Ivy got herself a doggie and all. I knew she was lonesome."

  "I am, too, Ruth."

  We were silent a few blocks. Both of us kind of sizing the other up like we both wanted to say something but didn't know how to start. Finally, Ruth spoke. "Now, I know something is going on around here, Griselda," she said. "And not just with Ivy. Are you gonna tell me?"

  I rolled the window down a little. It was starting to get warm in the truck even though I didn't think the temperature had gotten above sixty yet. "Ruth, I know a little secret, but you got to promise me you won't tell another soul."

  "Oh, of course," Ruth said. "Cross my heart." And she did. Her eyes gleamed like a woman about to learn the secret recipe for Twinkies.

  "I promised Stella I wouldn't tell anyone until she was ready, but . . . well, that woman who rented Cora's house—"

  "The hussy everyone is talking about?"

  "She's not a hussy."

  Ruth straightened her back against the truck seat. "Really, Griselda? What do you know?"

  I told her all about Walter in Greenbrier and how Stella is all upset and not sure what to do.

  Ruth barely breathed through the whole story. It wasn't until we reached Ivy's street that she spoke. "I just knew it. I just knew something was up and to tell the truth, Griselda, I always thought
Stella was hiding things about where she came from and why she even moved to Bright's Pond. I think Mildred is right about her."

  I pulled up to Ivy's house. Ivy came around to the side of the truck. "Thank you, Griselda. I'm going to take Mickey Mantle inside now and show him around. Think I'll buy him a nice doggie bowl, maybe one of them cute ceramic ones with the word Dog on it, you know."

  "That's fine, Ivy. I'll talk to you later."

  Ruth said good-bye and we watched Ivy and Mickey Mantle saunter up to her porch. They both turned. Ivy waved and for a second I thought I saw a mighty mischievous glint in Mickey Mantle's eye.

  I heard Ruth's stomach growl, and it reminded me about that talk I wanted to have with Zeb. It was getting close to early supper hour.

  "You hungry, Ruth?"

  "I sure am."

  "Let's head to the café. I need a bite myself."

  She laughed. "That's funny, after just coming from the pound and all."

  The Full Moon was crowded as usual for supper. We took a booth toward the middle of the cafe.

  "This is nice," I said. "Been a while since you and I had dinner together without there being some reason for it."

  "Sure is," Ruth said. "First time I've been in here in a long time when I wasn't discussing the Harvest Dance or some other church business."

  I tried to spy Zeb and caught the top of his paper hat moving around behind the kitchen pick-up window. Dot Handy had just slapped two more orders on the turnstile and I heard her holler at him. "I got a couple of mighty hungry truckers out here, Zeb. Better put the throttle down."

  "Yeah, yeah, tell them to go honk their horns. I'm cooking as fast as I can."

  "Uh oh," I said. "Sounds like Zeb is off to a rough start this evening."

  Dot came over and filled our coffee cups. "How are you girls doing?"

  "Good," Ruth said. "We just got back from Shoops."

  "Uh-huh, that's nice. You girls catch a glimpse of that hussy over at the counter. She blew in about ten minutes ago. Funny how she came back after just being here for meatloaf."

  I looked around Dot's wide hips and saw Gilda at the counter. Bleached hair piled a mile on top of her head. She sat cross-legged at the counter, which hiked her tight skirt nearly to her waist. Her gold sweater made her breasts pop out like small torpedoes.

  "She's got on one of them pointy bras," Ruth said. "Now why would any woman want her breasts to look like they been ground to a point in a pencil sharpener?"

  I snorted coffee I laughed so hard. "Stop it, Ruth. We don't even know her."

  "She's that hussy," Dot said. "The one that—"

  "Dot, pickup," hollered Zeb.

  "Be right back."

  I watched Dot deal out three plates full of breakfast foods onto the truckers' table and pour coffee. She hurried back to us before I had time to explain anything to Ruth. "Anyway, she's the hussy that moved into Cora's house."

  "Oh, dear," Ruth said. "Poor dead Cora."

  I swallowed. It was all I could do to keep from spilling the beans about Stella to Dot.

  "Gilda?" Ruth said, looking at me.

  "Yep," Dot said. "She's a hussy. Hussies always got them kind of odd-ball names."

  I shook my head. "Maybe we should just order our supper and let the woman alone."

  "Good idea, Griselda," Dot said. "She looks like she frequents one of them . . . swanky bars down in Shoops though, don't she?"

  We ordered our meals, and Dot went behind the counter.

  "So that's her? The woman that's mixed up with Stella's long-lost brother who's in a coma. Sounds like a soap opera."

  The woman, Gilda, finished her coffee and got up to leave. She paid her bill to Dot and left without once looking our way or any way except where she was going. Of course, her breasts made it out the door two minutes before she did.

  I took a breath. I hoped she was in love with Walter and not what everyone else thought. "She could have been up all night with Walter," I said.

  "Dressed like that," Ruth said. "I doubt it, Griselda. I doubt that a lot."

  7

  Sundays in Bright's Pond pretty much revolved around church and dinner. Dinners that could somehow make the whole previous week worth the while. Of course, when Agnes was still at home, I needed to cook for her quite often, but there were many a Sabbath when Ruth and our friend Vidalia, God rest her soul, and even Ivy Slocum would happen by with beef roasts the size of Agnes's forearm. They would place yellow bowls of steamy mashed potatoes and vegetables on the table alongside hot biscuits yearning for butter and gravy.

  And there were the pies, fresh from Ruth's oven or Zeb's café. Blueberry in spring, apple in winter, pumpkin in the fall. Summer was the domain of Full Moon pie.

  That Sunday started out no differently, except for one big difference. Zeb met me at the church door. He wasn't what you would call a church-going kind of man, although it never occurred to me to question his faith.

  "Zeb." I smiled. "You coming to the service?"

  "Thought I'd give it a try."

  Ruth interrupted us. "Griselda. I've been looking for you. I need to get started on those bandanas we talked about for the dance—oh, excuse me, Zeb, fancy meeting you here."

  "Morning, Ruth," Zeb said.

  She turned her attention back to me. "I was wondering if you got any books up at the library that would give me a nice western scene to look at. I thought it would help set the mood and maybe give me some ideas about cowboy costumes—you know, vests and chaps and all. I thought I might whip together some western duds for folks. Maybe a few vests or bananas."

  "Ban-DAN-as, not bananas,"

  "I know that," Ruth said. "It just slipped off my tongue like that."

  Zeb laughed. "This is gonna be one swinging hoedown."

  "Yes, it should be fun," Ruth said. "Hope you can square dance."

  "Oh, don't you worry about me. I got some dosey in my dosey doe. What about you, Griselda?"

  "The thought of square dancing made me cringe, so I turned my attention back to Ruth. "Sure, Ruth, come up to the library later, and I'll see if I can find you some pictures."

  Her eyes darted between me and Zeb. "Two's company, three's a crowd. I'll let you two alone."

  Zeb and I greeted a few more people and made our way through the crowd into the sanctuary. I spotted Ruth sitting right smack dab in the middle of one of the back rows. Her little blue handbag rested on the place next to her like she was saving it for someone. "Let's sit with Ruth. I don't want her to think we don't want to be with her."

  "Sure," Zeb said.

  Studebaker and Boris made a point of saying hello, as did Hazel Flatbush and Dot Handy. Edie Tompkins came by. "Well, hello, Griselda. Why, Zeb Sewickey, fancy seeing you here. And, Griselda, so nice to see you out with . . . with a friend."

  "We're at church, Edie," I said. "We're not on a date or anything."

  She pursed her lips. "Uh-huh, it is nice to see you out, like I said. Not having Agnes to take care of all day must be quite . . . refreshing. Guess you feel like you lost a ton of weight." I watched her nostrils flare.

  That was when Sheila Spiney, who played the piano, began the Introit, and the music filled the small auditorium like smoke fills a pub. Folks gathered themselves together and took seats. I watched the people from the Paradise Trailer Park file in like inmates from the state hospital. The one woman who always wears that heavy brown sweater always did intrigue me.

  Edie and her husband, Bill, sat in front of me. As much as I hated to admit it, and would certainly never admit to Edie Tompkins, the biggest gossip in Bright's Pond, I was relieved not to have Agnes to take care of anymore. Yet that morning as the hymn music, sweet and subtle, swooned around the room, I felt a tug in my heart, a tug that made me regret I told Agnes I resented her. I wished I could have taken it all back. Agnes never set out to hurt me. Events of the past were exactly that—the past, and I needed to let it go.

  It was difficult to listen to Pastor Speedwell's sermon. I rec
koned I heard it all before anyway, but between my falling out with Agnes stuck in my head and Zeb's body so close to mine, I gave up on the preaching.

  "So Grizzy, how about if we head out for lunch?" Zeb asked about two seconds after Pastor Speedwell said the benediction. "We can head over to the café and—"

  "No, I . . . I need to go see Agnes."

  "Agnes? For heaven's sake, Griselda, you are still tied to that woman. It's like she never moved to Greenbrier."

  Fortunately, Ruth intervened. "Maybe you can help me find those western pictures, Griselda, when you get back from visiting Agnes. I think it's nice that you go on over there when you can. She needs you. And it's nice to be needed."

  Zeb took my hand and gave me a little pull. "Come on, let's go shake Speedwell's hand, and if you want I'll go to Greenbrier with you."

  "OK, I just want to stop at home and freshen up and maybe find a treat for Agnes."

  That was when Zeb stopped short in his tracks, forcing Hazel Flatbush to ram into me. She apologized and scooted around.

  "You don't mean food now, do you? Didn't Doc Flaherty say Agnes's diet was everyone's concern, that we needed to stop bringing her sweets and treats and pie?"

  I looked at my shoes. "I know. It . . . it's just that I had a few words with her so I wanted to make it up, I suppose."

  "Best thing you can do is let it go and not bring her any food."

  "OK, OK, I still need to stop home and visit the bathroom, maybe get a drink of something before we head over there."

  We never made it to Greenbrier that day. Stella was sitting on my porch steps waiting for me. I barely set a foot on the property when she started talking.

  "I did what you said, Griselda, I told Nate about Walter, and he went off the deep end. Said he didn't have time to take care of no brother-in-law he never met and one that cheated me out of my inheritance to boot."

  "Why did you tell him that, Stella?" I pushed open the front door.

  "It all just came out."

  "Come on inside."

  Zeb didn't follow us.

  "Are you coming in?" I asked.