Vilonia Beebe Takes Charge

by Kristin L. Gray

  My stomach rumbled, fully awakened. “I feel like waffles every day.” And that was the honest truth. I scooted to the table, gloriously unaware of my horrendous display of bed-head.

  “Bacon?”

  “Please.”

  “One piece or two?”

  I gave him a look.

  He put three on my plate. “Where’s Toad?”

  “Sleeping.” I poured myself a glass of orange juice from the carton on the table. “Where’s Leon?”

  “Running.”

  I took a sip of juice.

  “And Mama?” I asked, already guessing the answer.

  “She’s having a bit of trouble getting going after all of the commotion late last night. And the headline this morning.” He slapped the Howard County Press down next to my plate.

  COOP CATCHES FIRE AFTER FIREWORK PRANK screamed the headline in big black letters. A giant photograph of the smoldering henhouse followed by a full-length article highlighting the damage covered most of the page. A quote from Mrs. Willoughby was enlarged and bolded, but I didn’t even read it. The tiny byline and profile picture of the journalist told me plenty. Bettina B. Wiggins. Poodles.

  “It wasn’t a true prank.” I turned the paper over. A picture of Dawson O’Dell cradling a terrified hen in his arms glared at me. Jackie. I groaned and put my head down, unable to look at the article any longer. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

  “Yeah. Me too.” Daddy plunked two plates sided with thick strips of bacon on the table, one across from the other. Warmth from the waffle radiated onto my face. Five minutes before, I’d have licked my lips in anticipation, but now I didn’t think I could eat five bites. “The whole world knows, but no one knows the truth.” I dredged a strip of bacon through my maple syrup. “We weren’t being malicious . . .”

  “The people that matter know. However, you three need to apologize to Mrs. Willoughby in person.” Daddy took a bite of waffle, then blotted his mouth with his napkin.

  I nodded and poked at my waffle.

  “And.” Daddy’s face brightened. “You’ll be able to tonight, as you are now working alongside me in the Tom Sawyer food truck.”

  My fork clattered to my plate. “WHAT?”

  “Simmer down.” Daddy held up his palms. “It’s only fair you guys work a few hours to pay for the damage.”

  “But, we’ll miss the festival!” I jumped up, knocking my chair backward.

  “No, you’ll technically still be there. And if AC agrees to work one hour, then you only have to work two.”

  “But this is all Leon’s fault! He’s the one who shot the fireworks, not me. Not her!” My voice squeaked with frustration.

  “And he’ll work longer than you, but you were all present. You know better than to sneak down to the creek at night without permission.”

  Speechless, I snatched a piece of bacon from my plate and bit off the syrupy end. My head spun. How could I win Mr. Reyes a new goldfish and introduce Mama and Daddy to Ray Charles if I was scooping up mounds of coleslaw? And what about AC? She was dancing a number in the pageant!

  “Vilonia?” Daddy asked as I carried my dishes to the sink. “Aren’t you going to finish your breakfast? We Beebes don’t pass up fresh-squeezed orange juice.”

  “Sorry, Daddy,” I said, scraping waffle bits into the trash. “Guess I’m not feeling very Beebe-ish today. Gotta run.”

  • • •

  So I ran. Ran right out the door. Because only one thing made me feel better when I was down in the dumps or beyond frustrated. Okay, two things. A Guy’s Cookie Dough Blast was most definitely up there, but I needed something physical. Ava Claire danced. Leon ran. Me?

  I pitched.

  And pitched. And pitched. I pitched so much I became a quick pick for games at recess. And on a good day, when I wore my lucky socks, I could throw a curve so fine it made boys weep. I didn’t have my lucky socks today, they were in the wash, but I did have my glove and my wire basket full to the brim with worn softballs. So I lugged them out to the best spot in the yard, by the tire swing.

  Dropping the basket and glove in the grass, I walked up to the old tire, grabbed it through its middle, and pulled it back a few steps. A fly buzzed my face. I blew my bangs out of my eyes with a puff and counted, “One, two, three!” Then I took off running and heaved that dusty tire with everything in me so it sailed up into the air and cleared its branch. When it came down on the other side, its rope had shortened, lifting the tire a couple of inches off the ground to create a strike zone. One more swing around the branch did the trick. I stopped the tire’s pendulum swing and stepped back to survey its height. Golden. Plucking the first ball from the basket, I warmed my arm. My foot dug its place in the earth. My fingers gripped the skin of the ball, while my glove and eye found my target. I stood like a deer in the woods, all senses alert. My heart thumped. My nostrils flared. This is for you, Ray Charles.

  In a flash, my left arm swung back and around. The ball flew from my grasp. It sliced through the air and straight through the tire’s middle.

  “Yes! Take that, world!” I danced a jig. Over and over, I threw one ball after another—for Max, for Mama, for Ray Charles, for me. All my anger and sadness and frustration soared through the air with each pitch. Soon, I’d finished the basket.

  When AC found me, I was picking up the last ball. It had sailed clear to the back fence.

  “Hey!” She tromped through the grass toward me, wearing my horse head T-shirt, the only shirt I owned with a speck of glitter. “Heard you skipped breakfast.”

  I waved my glove. “Yeah. Guess you heard we’re working the Willoughbys’ food truck.”

  “Yeah.” She wrinkled her nose. “Sorry. I don’t do fish.”

  “I know. Fish eyes. Fish scales. Fish tails. Fish smells . . .” I tossed the last ball into the air and caught it.

  Ava Claire shuddered. “Yeah. I meant, I don’t think I can work.”

  “Excuse me?” I tossed the ball into the basket. “We are working to pay for the chicken coop.”

  “I know, but Neely said maybe I could come up with something not fish related, like manis and pedis for a cause or something.”

  My jaw dropped. “Are you skipping out on me?”

  “What? No!” Her cheeks burned. “It’s just I can’t miss the pageant. My dance teacher’s competing, and remember, I’m dancing in the second number.”

  “But”—I threw my glove into the basket for good measure—“you can’t walk away and leave me!”

  “You can’t expect me to smell like fish. It’s my first solo!”

  Great. Just great. Ava Claire adored her dance teacher Miss Connelly, and if anyone could recite the past decade of Miss Catfish tiara wearers, it was my best friend. She dreamed of two, no three, things: 1) completing a quadruple pirouette 2) one day being crowned Miss Catfish, and 3) one day being crowned Miss Catfish without having to actually sample said catfish. This was a perfect stepping-stone, a big deal, and I was sunk.

  “Aren’t you happy for me?” she asked.

  “No! I mean, yes. Of course I am, but your timing is plain crummy. A real friend would help.”

  AC frowned. “A real friend would be more supportive of my first solo performance.”

  “You’re one to talk, Miss I Have Dance Every Day. You’ve hardly been around, and I’m trying to replace someone’s pet and adopt a dog while working a food truck.”

  “Maybe so, but you’re not the only one with stuff going on,” AC said, and crossed her arms. “And I have too been here. I helped with Max. I went to his memorial at the creek, and you know how I feel about snakes. I even hunted hens in the dark.”

  “Okay, fine. You’re right. Maybe I haven’t been the best friend. But things have been a bit nuts around here, in case you haven’t noticed!”

  “You don’t have to shout.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m sorry.” I sighed. “But I still need to win a goldfish to be responsible, and somehow, someway get my parents to meet Ray Charles at
the Animal Shelter booth. If he’s even there.” My voice became a whine. “If we both work, my time will be cut. You have to help me, AC. The Great Pet Campaign is on the line.”

  She looked skeptical. “You know fish makes me faint.”

  “Please. You’ll be done in plenty of time to get backstage, and I’ll have enough time to find a goldfish and watch you perform. It’s win-win.”

  AC tightened her braid and sighed.

  I practiced some deep breaths.

  “Fine,” she huffed. “I’ll work one hour, max. Only because it’s Ray Charles. He’d better be as cute as you say he is.”

  “Thank you!” I surprised her with a big hug. “I knew I could count on you.”

  “But if I miss my call time . . .”

  “Do you really think I’d do that to you?”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “Yeah, okay.” I crossed my arms. “Have a little faith.”

  AC looked at me. “I’m warning you, though, if the announcer takes the stage and I’m still working, I can’t promise a buttermilk biscuit or cup of sweet tea won’t go AWOL along with me.”

  “A-what?”

  “A-wall. A. W. O. L. Absent without official leave. It’s a military term.”

  “Oh.” I glanced at the silver locket the general had given her before he left, the locket full of memories and meaning and missing. “Sorry. I didn’t know. Have you heard anything?”

  AC shook her head. “But it’s okay. Neely thinks we’ll hear from him soon. Anyway, I need to get ready for dress rehearsal, so I’ll catch you later. You’re welcome to ride with us. Maybe we could squeeze in a few rides before the gate opens and we have to clock in?” She smiled.

  “Sure,” I said, picking up the basket of balls. “Maybe that’ll be just enough time to win myself a goldfish.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Now that Ava Claire had left, I had a chunk of time before the festival to work on any new obits from the day before. Luckily, the laptop was still in the dining room where Mama had left it. Even better, Mama was holed up in her bedroom devouring cooking shows. Thank you, Food Channel’s Cupcake Week. Still, Leon and Daddy could finish making lures in the shop at any moment. I had to act fast.

  Opening Mama’s e-mail, I saw straightaway one had come through in the middle of the night. It had a little red exclamation mark, marking it urgent. The sender was bettina@howardcountypress.com. I suppressed an eye roll. Miss Bettina probably called a supermarket ad for foot cream urgent. I clicked anyway.

  The subject line read Bob Lafferty, ASAP.

  Who on earth was Bob Lafferty? I read on:

  Dear Janet,

  I need the Lafferty obit by 2:00 p.m. today. I dropped it by your house in a manila envelope. Vilonia said she’d make sure you saw it. You have, haven’t you? I know he’s not from here, but his VIP family is, and they wanted his obit run yesterday. I need this today, or I’ll be forced to find someone else to write it, or heaven forbid, write the thing myself.

  Call me.

  —BW

  Good gravy on a biscuit! The time on Mama’s laptop read ten till noon. That gave me two hours to turn this obit around. I leaned back in my seat and thought hard. The envelope Miss Bettina gave me before we noticed Max was sick . . . where was it?

  I circled the living room for the manila envelope. I looked under the sofa, the tables. I even lifted the rug. It wasn’t behind the couch cushions. Nor was it left on top of the piano or placed inside the bench. Mama must have moved it. But where?

  If I remembered correctly, Janet was scrawled in red. So no one should have touched it but Mama. Or me, but I hadn’t. Obviously.

  I trudged back to the dining room, where the laptop sat on Nana’s old honey oak table. In the center sat a huge bowl full of dusty wooden Easter eggs. Mama was never any good at switching out the holiday stuff. I turned to the wicker basket on the buffet, jammed full with bills, catalogs, and miscellaneous mailers forwarded from Nana’s address. It was too painful for Mama look through them. Daddy and I should have a mail opening party one night. We’d watch the Weather Channel and sip frosty root beers.

  I thumbed through the envelopes on the top and tossed aside a flyer for lawn care because that was what Leon was for, thank you very much. And another for laundry service because, well, that was my job now. Forget it, Mama hadn’t touched this basket in weeks. The mailer wasn’t here, and I was wasting precious time.

  I spun around to check her bedroom, when something crinkled under my foot. I lifted my shoe. It was a Little Debbie wrapper. I ran to the wastebasket. Two more. My heart jumped. Someone had bought Little Debbies. And hadn’t Mama found her car keys in the pantry once, between the pasta and the potato chips? I zipped to the kitchen and swung the pantry door wide.

  The stepstool squeaked across the floor. I hopped up, skipping right over cans of beans and stewed tomatoes, even ignoring the jars of peanut butter and marshmallow crème, to shove aside Mama’s canisters of sugar, flour, nuts, baking chips, and Dutch cocoa powder. Then, voilà! Two boxes of snack cakes appeared in the way back—and resting on top of them was just the envelope I needed. An 8.5x11 manila one labeled Janet in red ink, last seen three days ago in the living room.

  Shoving the envelope under my arm, I marched back to the dining room with a jar of marshmallow crème, a spoon, and one looming deadline. While the first spoonful of fluff melted on my tongue, I tore open the envelope, revealing its contents. The first item, a sticky note, read:

  Dr. Robert Lafferty, age 70, of Springdale, AR, died Thursday, April 16.

  Something whirred in my brain. I knew that name. I turned it over in my mind, scrutinizing it from all sides. Robert Lafferty . . . Bob Lafferty? There was a Dr. Bob Lafferty mentioned in the baby book Mama had made to record all my important firsts—first slept through the night, first step, first tooth, first food, first word, first doctor visit. Whoa, did that mean . . . ?

  I scanned the pages of photographs and newspaper clippings.

  Yes.

  My heart whispered the obvious truth. Dr. Robert Lafferty was the one Nana had sung praises of every year since my birth. The emergency room doctor who’d massaged my chest with his flat thumbs, willing my feeble heart to kick-start. Lub-dub, lub-dub.

  The doctor for whom my grateful mama had baked a separate from-scratch cake celebrating my first birthday and every one after that, until he retired and moved away before I was four. Mama said you never could repay goodness like that.

  Before I came home, all she knew to do while days stretched into weeks, and weeks into months, was to tie an apron around her waist and bake. Lots of prayers are lifted while flour’s sifted, Nana would say with a wink.

  So here I was, snacking on marshmallow fluff, sitting crisscross applesauce in a dining room chair, and typing up my doctor’s obit:

  Dr. Robert “Bob” Lafferty, age 70, of Springdale, AR, slid into home on Thursday, April 16. Born October 22, 1944, to hardworking dairy farmers, Lafferty’s childhood revolved around two things: baseball and milking the family’s cows. A stickler for being on time, Lafferty was a teacher’s dream. He was tardy once—the day his cows, Pearl and Spalding, escaped the fence and created a grand slam of a traffic jam. Always keeping his eye on the ball, Lafferty shocked no one when he was accepted to medical school at the University of Mississippi (’70). He practiced family medicine at Mercy Hospital and had the honor of catching countless newborns—singles, doubles, even a couple of triples. Left to cherish Dr. Lafferty’s stats are his mother; his sister, Olivia (Brooks) of Power Alley, MS; his faithful dog and companion, Deuce; and a host of extended family, friends, and hospital staff. A celebration of Bob’s life will take place at 2:00 p.m., Friday, at Christ the King Cathedral, Springdale, AR. Don’t be late or you’re out! To make it a double-header, a smaller, separate memorial will follow in Howard County, MS, in Mercy Hospital’s Chapel. This date is to be determined. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to the Northwest Arkansas Animal Shelter or
Marchofdimes.org. Play ball!

  With the press of a button, I launched the obit through cyberspace to Miss Bettina’s computer, and the cycle of life smacked me square on the head. “Thank you, Dr. Lafferty,” I whispered to the air around me. “Thank you for not quitting on me.” My mind drifted to the pet store photograph of Izzy, aka Ray Charles, whose stare seemed to say, And thank you for not quitting on me.

  My heart fluttered lub-dub, lub-dub for maybe the gazillionth time in my life, and I thought of Daddy, and all the worrying he did then and now, and of Mama, and her Infinite Sadness hanging low like a cloud, and suddenly I knew there was no way, no how, I’d quit on Ray Charles. Not without a fight. Because that’s what I’d always been, a fighter. Nana said.

  I bowed my head right then and there, even though it wasn’t anywhere near mealtime. Nana said the good Lord wasn’t bound by time. He’d listen anytime, anywhere, if your heart needed to speak. I squeezed my eyes tight, folded my hands, and prayed.

  Dear Lord, it’s me, Vilonia Beebe. I live in the tire swing house on Walleye Street, but I guess you know that. I wanted to talk about, well, lots of things. For starters, I’d appreciate it if Ray Charles got matched to a good home, preferably ours. He can’t go somewhere where they’ll name him Izzy. You know better than anyone he’s not Izzy material. I just know he’d do Mama’s heart good, like a big dose of nasty-tasting cherry-flavored medicine that you want to spit out, but in the end, you force it down like a brave soldier. And hallelujah, it does make everything better, like it promises right there on the bottle. I guess what I mean is Ray Charles could bring back Mama’s laugh. Is that in the Holy Bible somewhere? About laughter working like cherry-flavored medicine? And what makes a person more happy than cuddling a puppy? . . . Okay, maybe cuddling a baby hedgehog. But it’s against state law to domesticate one—I know because Leon looked it up on the Internet once. And God, you know Leon’s trying out for track team. And I still need a goldfish. That’s a long story. . . . And I know you see Daddy working to keep our house one step under chaos (his words, not mine) and, well, sometimes he washes my clothes on the hot cycle, and they shrink up two sizes too small. That leaves me wearing Leon’s old baseball jersey that says ROACH CARPET & TYLE in ironed-on letters. Speaking of dads, AC’s dad is still deployed. So keep an eye on him, too, would you? And one more thing. Please tell Nana I’ve grown a quarter of an inch. Over and out.