Vilonia Beebe Takes Charge

by Kristin L. Gray

  The only problem was Because of Winn-Dixie’s hardcover, featuring India Opal and her smiling mutt, now looked warped beyond repair. Its pages showed that trademark wave of having been dropped in a puddle of water, the bathtub (don’t ask), or in this case, left out in the rain. I knew because I’d last seen it the day of the rainout. The day I took my first obit. The day Scooter Malone of Howard County, beloved father, grandfather, and friend, died of congestive heart failure while playing a game of checkers. He was seventy-nine.

  Dad handed over the book and sighed. “You’ll need to pay Mr. Reyes for it, using your allowance.”

  I picked at the ruined corner. “You mean my pet fund.” Maybe Mr. Reyes, my school librarian, wouldn’t drain my whole twenty-eight dollars and three cents.

  “Vilonia, we’ve discussed this before. We absolutely cannot get a dog—or any pet for that matter. Your mama can’t handle anything else right now . . . You’ve got to start taking care of your things and showing your mama and me more—”

  “I know, responsibility.” I shot Leon a dirty look. He’d been mouthing along with Daddy’s speech. Yeah, we were all tired of hearing it, but no one more than me. Doggone it, I was responsible. I brushed my teeth with minty fluoride cavity-fighting toothpaste every stinking night, thank you very much. And I hadn’t lost my new rain jacket yet. I’d had it three whole weeks. That had to be a world record. It was navy with green frogs and perfect for fishing in the rain. Did I mention I hadn’t even lost it?

  This week alone, I’d taken out the trash, cleared the table without being asked, and ta-da! accepted a new role at school as the Friday Library Helper.

  But this wasn’t the time to mention that. So instead, I trudged upstairs to HQ, where my “You can always trust a dog that likes peanut butter” Winn-Dixie poster clung to the door.

  More dog posters covered the walls inside. And sticky notes. A sticky note for every reason I should have a dog. I had over thirty squares on the wall at the moment. Dogs make good friends. Dogs keep you active. Dogs can sense danger. I whipped out a fat orange marker and jotted down one more: Dogs soothe aching hearts.

  Sitting on my bed, I sifted through notes from family members regarding the week’s deceased. The really weird part was when they sent in photos of left-behind pets. They were almost always cats.

  Twirling the marker in one hand, I got to work highlighting important information. One woman had visited a hundred national parks before her ninety-ninth birthday. Another had played the organ at her church for over thirty years and occasionally enjoyed skydiving. Neither of those are what killed her. Pneumonia did.

  I got the obits written and e-mailed them, from Mama’s account, to the editor of the Howard County Press. Once printed, I’d paste them inside my obituary scrapbook, the two-inch binder I sneakily labeled ANTHROPOLOGY.

  When I couldn’t think anymore, I shut the book in favor of skimming India Opal’s story, even though I knew it by heart. I mean she (spoiler alert!) did convince the preacher to let her keep Winn-Dixie. I just needed to find the right dog to convince my dad.

  But getting Daddy to agree to a dog would take a miracle similar to the birth of sweet baby Jesus. A sick feeling swam in my gut. I’d have to try flattery, then possibly hypnosis. At the very least, I needed some heavy-duty research. More than I did with the skunks.

  “Hey, Vi! We’ve got a bit of a situation!” Ugh, Leon.

  “Good grief.” I capped the orange marker ever so responsibly so it wouldn’t ruin my comforter and zipped downstairs with my book. “I told you I was busy. This had better be—yum.”

  The smell of cookies fresh from the oven stopped me in my tracks. Mama’s big red mixing bowl was drying upside down on the counter. The pile of dishes had disappeared from the sink. My heart skipped a beat.

  “Mama?”

  “Wrong.” Leon brushed by me with a metal box, filled to the brim with mouth-watering, delicious oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies as big as my face. I knew right off Daddy had baked them using Mama’s recipe. Daddy added chocolate chips to every recipe whether it called for them or not.

  Plus it’d been weeks since Mama had used an oven. Weeks since we’d sampled her legendary cookies and cakes. Sure, Mama’s love for baking had spoiled us, but store-bought cookies didn’t taste as good as her homemade ones. And have mercy if Leon ever tried to make them, the Fire Department would arrive in full force.

  “Not so fast. Where’s mine?” I asked.

  Leon hooked his thumb toward the kitchen counter.

  Three cookies cooled on the wire rack. “Oh, you shouldn’t have.”

  “What?” Leon balked. “Dad took a few, and I’m keeping the rest safe by taking them to the track meeting. You should thank me.” Safe? Really?

  “Ha. Everyone knows you just want to impress your new coach.”

  “He’s not my coach!” Leon held the tin of cookies out of my reach. “Yet.” It was true. After last year’s blow of not making the team, Leon resolved to wake up at six a.m. three times a week to run. And I don’t mean to the donut shop.

  I sprung for the cookies again. “Well, I am this close to telling Ransom Willoughby and the rest of the track team that you’re a ginormous cookie thief who still sleeps with a stuffed frog.” I put my hands on my hips and stuck out my chin. “Going to a track meeting is hardly ‘a situation,’ anyway. Besides, you don’t even like oatmeal.”

  “I don’t.” My brother smirked. “But she does.” Leon motioned to the kitchen window. A burgundy sedan with a busted-out headlight cut its engine in our drive. “The situation is she’s been sitting out front for ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes. Are you sure?”

  Leon tapped his stopwatch. My palms began to sweat.

  “What could she want?” She was Miss Bettina, newspaper editor and Mama’s boss. I disliked her more than cauliflower.

  Leon shrugged and lowered the tin for me to make my choice. “What she always wants. A story.”

  Or an obit.

  I snatched the cookie with the most chocolate chips. It was still fall-apart hot. “You can’t leave me here with her! She’s nuts.”

  Leon checked his stopwatch. “Oh, yes I can.” He snapped the lid on the cookies, pocketed an apple for himself, and jogged to the back door. “Watch me.”

  “Wait!” I stuck my head outside. “Where’s Mama?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “And Daddy?”

  “In his shop.”

  “Poodles.” I licked gooey chocolate from my fingertips and secured the back door. The last bite of cookie dissolved in my mouth as the all-too familiar voice drifted inside.

  “Vilonia, honey, I know you’re in there.”

  Chapter Three

  I peeked through the side curtains framing our front door and snapped them shut. Yep. Only one person in all of Howard County wore floral prints the size of dinner plates.

  “Vilonia?” Miss Bettina said again.

  Maybe she’d put two and two together, see Daddy’s boat was gone, and make like a tree and leave.

  Knock. Knock.

  Nope.

  “Vilonia, this is important business. Right up there with the sheriff’s wedding. Is your mama home?”

  I groaned. Everything was important to Miss Bettina, especially when it was none of her business. I don’t know why I opened that door. She buzzed in faster than a fly to jellied toast.

  “Where’s that mama of yours? Mrs. Tooley’s kicked the can.” Miss Bettina clapped her fingers together with glee. Only she would be thrilled when a member of our town passed on. That meant news to spew. She bowled by me in screaming hibiscus print, and honest to goodness, I tried to protest.

  “Mama’s resting,” I said, following her into the kitchen. “She doesn’t need to be bothered.”

  “Nonsense, Vilonia. This is Mrs. Tooley we’re talking about. It’ll be the biggest obit of the year!” She leaned close (a pet peeve of mine) and cackled. Her breath smelled of onions, garlic, and hush puppies.
“Mmm.” Miss Bettina closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. “I smell . . .”

  I stole that second to position myself strategically between Mama’s boss and the cooling rack.

  “Cinnamon!” Her eyes flew open. She reached her arm around me and helped herself to a cookie. My cookie.

  Now, Mama pretty much liked everyone in Howard County, Mississippi, and even though her job was to consult next of kin when writing our dearly departed’s obituaries, I knew for a fact she already had a draft put back for her boss Bettina B. Wiggins. It wasn’t scathing. But it wasn’t overly kind.

  Just like Miss Bettina.

  “Do you think there’ll be one of those fancy estate sales?” Her cheeks wobbled with excitement. “I’d love to get my hands on her iron skillets. Why, they’re positively ancient.” Leave it to Hush Puppy Breath to think of estate sales and skillets at a time like this. She popped my cookie into her cavernous mouth. “And did you hear about her pregnant dog, Harper?” she asked, spraying cookie bits in my general direction.

  I shook my head, not sure I wanted to know.

  “So grieved by her owner’s death, the poor pup’s gone into preterm labor. Have you ever heard of such a thing? In dogs, I mean?” I opened my mouth to answer I had not heard of such, but Miss Bettina kept on and helped herself to a second cookie. Now, I’m not the best at math, but I knew how many cookies that left.

  “What about the puppies?” I asked, helping myself to the last cookie while the getting was good.

  “I’m glad you asked.” She tapped her fat finger against my chest, driving home each syllable. I stepped backward into my personal space. “Wilfred, her gardener, found the sweet thing whimpering under the front porch. Martha had the loveliest front porch, especially this time of year, when the lilacs bloom.” She paused a moment to wipe at an invisible tear or maybe a cookie crumb. “Anyhow, Wilfred—that sweet, gentle soul—drove her immediately to the veterinarian, Dr. Kieklack. Have you ever met Dr. Kieklack? He guessed she had six pups inside. Of course, we’re all just praying the young’uns survive. Have you any milk?” she asked, throwing open our refrigerator door like she lived here instead of us.

  “Oh! I don’t think we . . .”

  Miss Bettina stared in silence at the contents of our fridge. The top shelf held a half stick of butter and, thanks to Eleanor, six hard-boiled eggs. Two zucchini squash rattled in the vegetable crisper next to a wrinkled tomato, while a bag of golden delicious apples tried valiantly to fill the other drawer. An expired package of deli meat shared the middle shelf with last night’s pizza leftovers and Daddy’s catch of the day: catfish neatly filleted and marinating in a plastic bag. And in the door, a jar of Nana’s blackberry jam made its home next to pickles, spicy brown mustard, and packets of takeout soy sauce. The spot for milk contained a near-empty carton of juice.

  “We used up all of the milk this morning.” I crossed my fingers behind my back.

  Miss Bettina pinched her eyebrows together and frowned. “Something funny is going on, Vilonia.” She shut the door and glanced around the kitchen. “Lookie here, your calendar is still on March.”

  “Well,” I said, crossing the room to block the pantry—even though it was plenty stocked, because Mama bought baked goods in bulk. “Nana died, and we haven’t thought to update the calendar.”

  Miss B’s face softened like ice cream left in the sun. Pointing to my ruined library book, open on the table, she read its title. Of course she did. She read everything whether it belonged to her or not. “You know, Vilonia, if those puppies survive, they’ll need homes.”

  What? My heart flopped like a fish in the bottom of Daddy’s boat. “You mean adoptive homes? Like a pet, for keeps?”

  “Are you interested?”

  Does a bullfrog croak?

  “Miss Bettina. As founder and chief financial officer of the Great Pet Campaign, I can assure you that’s an affirmative. But as Terry and Janet Beebe’s daughter, it’s . . . complicated.” I let out a sad sigh. After Daddy’s lecture, I didn’t dare bring up adopting a real live puppy. But the possibility of finding a puppy that’s a preemie, like me? That made me giddy dizzy. “It’s just, Opal and I have this thing in common.” I nodded to the book’s cover. “We have to convince our dads first.” I swiped away stray cookie crumbs with the back side of my hand.

  “I respect that. Puppies aren’t for everyone.” Miss Bettina’s face turned serious as stone. “Especially preemies. They’re fragile. They demand the best care, the most attention, and you must steel yourself, Vilonia, for the harsh reality he or she may not survive. If they come out alive to start with.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I swallowed and rubbed my thumb across the line of silver dots and dashes traveling the inside of my wrist. My story wounds. Leftover IV scars from my own stay in the hospital’s special nursery for super-sick newborns. They called it the NICU, or Neonatal Intensive Care Unit.

  “Well. If your daddy changes his mind, swing by Dr. Kieklack’s and pick up an adoption sheet. No commitment, just a list of questions so they can get to know you. Now, if you could fetch your mama . . .” Miss Bettina wandered into the living room, plucked a stray sock off the back of the sofa, and inspected it. There was no doubt in my mind she would have sat right down had Laundry Mountain not occupied the space first. I steered the subject back to the puppies.

  “Why would Dr. Kieklack need to know more about me?”

  “To make sure the dog is going to a good home. Also, competition. It’s possible someone else may want the same dog as you.”

  “Oh.” Worry flapped like blackbirds inside my chest.

  “Never fear.” Miss Bettina smiled for a brief instant. “The dog chooses its owner, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know.”

  “All we can do is wait and wish Harper and her puppies the best. This part, it isn’t left to us.” That might be the wisest thing Miss Bettina’s ever said—even wiser than, “A nose for news just knows.”

  I sat silent (unheard of, I know) and turned all this news—Mrs. Tooley, Wilfred, and the puppies-yet-to-be-born—over in my head. Meanwhile, Miss Bettina glanced at our wrinkled laundry, our wilting plant, and our coffee table with “Leon was here” written in its dust. As good as Daddy’s homemade cookies were, her nose had to sense something was o-f-f.

  Miss Bettina cleared her throat.

  “Right!” I tiptoed down the hall to Mama’s room. The door was shut. My hand found the knob, and the door clicked open. I peered through the crack.

  “Mama?” I whispered. “You awake?” I crept across the hardwood into the dark. Mama kept her curtains pulled tight, and my eyes needed a moment to adjust to the lack of light.

  Mama, her back to me, was sound asleep. She wore her new uniform—the paisley pink pajamas we’d given her on Valentine’s Day. Her nightstand held crinkled tissues, a framed wedding photo of her and Daddy, a glass of water, some pills, empty Little Debbie wrappers (Mama’s favorite treat not baked from scratch), and one book, open and facedown. I squinted at the title. A Grief Observed. If anyone was observing Grief, it was me, now. Mama looked peaceful. Not sad. Not happy. But peaceful. I couldn’t wake her. I wouldn’t.

  I slipped out and shut the door.

  Miss Bettina bolted upright when I reappeared. She’d been crouched in front of our bookcase, reading all the spines. Snooping, was more like it.

  “Miss Bettina.” I smiled too big and waited for her to put the framed photograph she clutched back on the shelf. “Mama’s not feeling well, but she says to e-mail her Mrs. Tooley’s information, and she’ll have a draft for you ASAP.” I clasped my hands together and stuck my smile like Ava Claire sticks her dance routine.

  “So, I can’t see her?” Miss Bettina’s huge eyes narrowed.

  “Afraid not.” My palms grew sweaty. I had to get Hush Puppy Breath and her nose for news out of here. “I hate to be rude, but I’ve got math homework up to my earlobes. Mrs. Crewel loves fractions.” I yanked on my earlobes to drive the poi
nt home. “The paper’s probably missing you anyways.”

  “Oh my stars, yes. They can’t function without me.” Miss Bettina bustled to the front door, which I conveniently held open. “Next time, when your mama’s feeling better, let’s visit over a slice of her heavenly pound cake. Not that the cookies weren’t scrumptious; they’re just missing something.”

  Not something. Someone.

  I smiled, ignoring her use of “next time.”

  “And I’ll e-mail Mrs. Tooley’s particulars, God rest her soul.”

  “Amen,” I muttered as her burgundy sedan with the broken headlight screeched out of sight.

  I itched to run next door and blab to Ava Claire about Miss Bettina’s bizarre visit, but I couldn’t. Leon would be home soon and hungry as five-and-a-half men. Daddy, too, if he didn’t work until dark. . . . I dug through the freezer and found three mini chicken potpies, plus one turkey. It wasn’t catfish and hush puppies, but it’d do.

  Chapter Four

  Friday morning, I tossed my money, the ruined library book, and another book I’d borrowed but thankfully left indoors, all into my backpack and headed downstairs.

  Daddy met me at the bottom with my raincoat.

  “Better wear this, Tadpole.” He was weather obsessed. It came with being a fisherman.

  “Daddy.” I sighed and looked out the window to the bus stop. “No one else has one.”

  “Yet. Trust me.”

  I tugged the jacket on and gave him a quick kiss as I flew out the door. I made it to the end of the walk before the rain came. Pulling up the hood, I smirked. Daddy, one point. I snapped the buttons down the front and hoped the bus would still run on time. I loved Fridays, and Mr. Reyes expected me.