by Joyce Magnin
"Pilot's license? Are you still going through with that dumb thing?"
I felt a bit insulted by her tone. She made it sound so silly. "Yes, Agnes, I am. And pretty soon I think."
She glared at me. "Well, maybe you just need to get all this airplane business out of your system before you can say 'I do.'"
I didn't know how to respond, except to say, "I guess it's really up to me and if getting my pilot's license is something I need to do before I settle down, as they say, then I guess I better get on it."
"Just don't go crashing into the mountains." Agnes smiled. The little knobs of her cheeks reddened like two cherries. "Seriously, Griselda."
"Nah." I patted her hand. "I just want to fly over them."
It was nearly nine o'clock when I got back to Bright's Pond. The town was still and quiet and illuminated mostly by porch lights and streetlights. Mine was the only vehicle on Filbert Street. Rain started to fall fast and hard the second I reached the café. The lights were on so I reckoned Zeb was inside cleaning up the grill, sweeping, and maybe even making pies. One thing I can say for sure about Zeb, besides the fact that he can be as jealous as all get out, he was faithful—to his business— and industrious. I think he actually loved cooking and baking and handling customers even when he complained. But sometimes I wasn't sure how he would squeeze a wife into his days and nights.
I thought about stopping but a yawn made me realize that it had been a long day. And another argument with Zeb was not what I needed just then.
Arthur was fit to be tied when I went inside the house. He sat in the kitchen near his empty food bowl like a mountain lion—or maybe I should say like Haddie Grace—ready to pounce.
"I'm sorry, Old Man," I said. "Busy day."
The rain fell harder. Large, heavy drops splattered against the kitchen window and blew the curtains. I left the window open only an inch but the rain still came in. I closed it with a bang and Arthur mewed.
"Sorry, Artie."
I dumped Purina Cat Chow into his yellow bowl. I rinsed his water dish and filled it. He was hungry and wasted no time chomping down the kibble. He took some in his mouth and then chewed, all the time keeping an eye on me. I couldn't tell if it was consternation or if he was making sure I wouldn't leave. So I sat down next to him on the floor.
"I hope that poor old woman doesn't have a brain tumor. She's so sweet ordinarily, and who cares if she's riding through the nursing home on a tricycle? And who cares if Clive Dickens and Faith Graves want to get married; they must be in their nineties. Imagine that: getting married at age ninety."
Arthur looked at me and winked with both eyes.
"Yeah, yeah." I rubbed my hand down his back. "I better hurry up and marry Zeb before I'm ninety, is that your opinion?"
Arthur mewed and then yawned.
I yawned. "I should go to bed. Lord knows what will happen this weekend."
Arthur finished his meal and followed me upstairs.
Ruth was banging on my front door the next morning. She woke me from a sound sleep at seven o'clock.
"Ruth," I said when I pulled open the door. "What in tarnation are you doing here?"
"I need you to taste this. I've been awake since four o'clock making it." She held a pot covered with a white dish towel.
"What is it?"
"My stuffing mix. Remember? The macadamia nut stuffing I was planning to make, well, I am just so worried about it. I need you to taste it." She almost pushed me aside and headed straight for the kitchen. A macadamia nut slipped out and landed on the floor.
"Ruth, you're losing your . . . marbles," I said and followed her into the kitchen. "But I didn't even have a cup of coffee yet. Not a single cup and—"
"Oh, you poor dear. I've had six—maybe seven."
Obviously.
"Tell you what. You go on and put some clothes on. I'll make a pot and then you can taste my stuffing. I am just so worried about it. But I wanted to try it. They say you should always try a new recipe before serving it to guests. And so that's what I did. I mixed up a small batch and now—"
I thought she might cry. "OK, OK. Let me put some clothes on. You make coffee and settle down a minute. It's just stuffing."
"No, it's more than that. It's Thanksgiving stuffing. It smelled so good early on with the onions and the butter and the celery sautéing, but something happened when I added the spices and the nuts."
Actually, Ruth's turkey stuffing woes were a welcome relief from the events of the day before. I dressed, brushed my teeth, and got back to the kitchen in time to see Ruth trying to persuade Arthur to eat a morsel of the stuffing.
"He won't eat that," I said. "Arthur is picky, and I suspect celery and macadamia nuts are not his choice at seven in the morning."
"Oh, well, you'd think an animal that would eat fish heads would appreciate something else." Ruth said. "But he's just so picky. Now you sit down. I'll pour your coffee."
Ruth set a mug of steaming coffee in front of me, made just the way I like it. Extra cream, no sugar.
I sipped. "Thanks. This is good." I stared at the pot on the table. The stuffing at least smelled good, even over the coffee smell. As a matter of fact, the two aromas kind of complemented each other. I thought that was a good sign.
"Did you hear about what's going on up at Greenbrier?" I asked.
"Greenbrier? Nothing with Agnes I hope."
"Well, not directly, except, of course, Haddie Grace tried to beat her up yesterday."
Ruth fell into a chair. "She what? Agnes? Haddie Grace? That little old woman—older than dirt, with the wrinkles and those little kneecaps that stick out like elbows? I swear that woman's got four elbows."
"She's the one. Only she's not so old anymore."
Ruth looked at me the way Mickey Mantle looks at Ivy when he's confused.
"You mean she died? Well, no one can be surprised I mean she did go to the prom with Moses."
"No, no, she's very much alive. Too much alive. Didn't you just hear me say she tried to beat the living daylights out of Agnes yesterday?"
"I heard that but she coulda expired afterward."
"OK, here's what happened." I sipped more coffee then I told the whole story. At least I told her everything I knew so far about the people, the way they're acting, the gazebo, and the tricycle.
"So I don't know," I said, "if Mildred has talked to this Leon fella yet. I imagine she did."
Ruth poured herself a cup of joe.
"Are you sure you want that?" I asked. "You seem a might . . . jumpy."
"Uh-huh, I get the feeling this holiday season is shaping up to be a doozy, and I'm gonna need to stay awake for it. Now try my stuffing before it coagulates into something unrecognizable."
I lifted the towel off the bowl and there it sat. A mess of cubed-up bread with celery and onions and macadamia and only God knew what else at that moment in time. I'm pretty sure I saw pineapple and maybe coconut. I never liked coconut. But I couldn't say that to Ruth. Not then. Ruth snagged a large tablespoon full of the brownish bread mixture.
"Go on, taste it."
I swallowed another swig of coffee hoping that maybe the coffee taste would linger on my palate and make the stuffing go down easier. I had severe concerns for Ruth's stuffing.
I tasted it. I chewed and chewed. My eyes watered, my nose tickled. I wanted to spit it across the floor, but I managed to swallow. Whatever spices and flavors she had in there were not mixing well. I could have just licked the bottom of a hamster cage and gotten the same effect. I sipped coffee to wash the taste away. "OK, Ruth, what is in that? It's pretty awful."
"I knew it was bad." She looked sad.
"What did you put in it? There's a taste or two that just doesn't make it. Now I did like the one macadamia I crunched into but—"
"Pineapple and passion fruit," Ruth said. "Too much pineapple, too much passion fruit, and then all that sage and thyme and . . . Oh, heavens to Betsy, Griselda, your face is red as a tomato. I hope you aren't allergic
."
My stomach rolled.
"Pineapple and passion fruit in turkey stuffing?"
"It didn't sound like a bad idea," Ruth said. "It's all tropical you know. My theme."
"Maybe it isn't the fruit. Maybe it's more about the proportions and the spices you chose and, of course, the coconut. Ruth, I hate coconut."
"How can you hate coconut? You mean you don't like Mounds Bars?"
I shook my head. "Nope."
I took another, small pinch of the stuff off the side of the bowl and closed my eyes praying that God would not let me die a turkey-stuffing death. "Mm, now see, I just a tasted a bit that was not bad, not bad at all."
Ruth tasted it. "I see what you mean. Maybe if I tone it down. Oh, dear, I have less than a week to get everything done. And I wanted the stuffing to be delicious."
"It will be."
"Maybe a shot of rum, you know, just for taste."
I shrugged and sipped my coffee.
"I'm not at all worried about the rest of the meal," Ruth said.
"I got everything else under control. Wait until you taste dessert. I'm not telling you what it is. It's going to be a big surprise. A big surprise." She held her hands about four feet apart.
"I can't wait. I know it's going to be great."
"Oh, that reminds me. Can you drive me down to Brisco's on Tuesday to pick up the bird. Mr. Brisco says he has a nice one for me."
"Sure. I said I would, remember? Let's go early though." Ruth had been getting more and more forgetful lately. Mostly little things. It concerned me, but I chalked it up to getting older and the stress of Thanksgiving. She stayed a few more minutes until I told her that I needed to get to the library. Fridays were not a busy day but I liked to open the doors anyway just in case a kid from the high school needed something.
"Oh, sure, sure. I'm feeling a bit better," Ruth said. "I'll go home and rework this stuffing."
"Good idea. I'll see you later."
"Can I bring another sample over if I need?" My heart wasn't in it but I said, "Sure. Of course."
"Now if Agnes was still living here," Ruth said on the porch.
"She'd know what was wrong with my stuffing right away."
"That's true. But sorry, you only have me. Maybe Ivy can help."
"Ivy," Ruth said looking down the road. "I'll try her."
I watched as Ruth walked down the tree-lined street, fallen autumn leaves crunching under her feet as she carried her illconceived recipe home—appropriately hidden under a white dish towel with a turkey appliqué.
The walk to the library was lovely. Crisp fall air with a hint of wood smoke tickled my nose. I passed piles of unburned leaves pushed to the curb and greeted neighbors already outside raking their lawns unveiling that autumn green of the grass just before the first real snowfall. The sun shone bright while wispy clouds like torn lace floated overhead.
"Morning, Griselda, nice day," said Bill Tompkins.
Babette Sturgis was running down the street carrying an armful of books. "Hey, Miss Griselda. I got to catch the bus."
I waved and thought how blessed I was to live in Bright's Pond even though I still nursed a place in my heart that longed for something more, something that I knew was just beyond my reach. Something that started to become attainable when Cliff Cardwell took me up in his plane that first time and I knew with every ounce of my being that I wanted to fly.
The library stood like a grand old lady on a hill just a little ways off the street. She was a fully dressed Queen Anne Victorian with rows of courses and miles of gingerbread, a wide wraparound porch perfect for sitting in the spring and summer and on warm fall days to read and chat. It made me a little sad that more people didn't come to the library to escape into a story now and again. Emily Dickinson said, "There is no frigate like a book, to take us lands away." She was so right.
I turned the key in the ancient lock and pushed open the library door. A breath of cool, bookish air blew out. As usual I set about turning on lights, straightening magazine and newspaper racks all the time wondering if I would see any faces that day. Every time I opened the library I felt the same way, like I was preparing a place of solitude where I felt more in touch with my soul than anywhere, even perhaps, than in Cliff's plane.
After the mail, I always returned books to the stacks with an eye out for misplaced volumes. The students were notorious for shoving books back wherever they wanted even though I told them a hundred times it would be better if they returned the books to the checkout counter. And I was right. I found a copy of How the West Was Won tucked on the end of the Microbiology section.
I heard the little bell over the door ring—the bell was new. I asked Studebaker to install it for me so I could hear folks come in no matter where I was in the building. Not that I didn't trust anyone, I was just often in the back rooms or lost among the stacks, and people had been thinking I wasn't there and turning and leaving.
It was Charlotte Figg from the trailer park. I liked the look of her. She wore a dress covered with purple flowers and she carried a small orange purse. Her hair was short, but not too short, manageable I suppose and mostly brown, the color of old oak with strands of gray here and there.
"Can I help you?" I called from the Science section.
She stood close to the door for second and then ventured farther inside.
"You're Charlotte Figg, right?" I asked. I offered my hand. "I'm Griselda Sparrow."
"Nice to meet you, Griselda." She shook my hand. "Ever play softball?"
"In high school, a little. I liked it."
"Well, the Paradise Angels are always looking for players if you want to come out next spring."
"Maybe," I said. "I heard about your team. I think it's pretty neat, you putting the team together and all."
"Ah, they really put themselves together, but thanks. Anyway, my friend Rose—"
"The woman with all the tattoos?"
She nodded and looked at me as if to say, "You don't get many visitors, do you?"
I thought I should back off and let her be. But she kept talking, "That's right, the woman with all the tattoos. Boy, word travels fast in this town. But that's not the issue. Rose said you might be able to help me find some information on . . . " she whispered, "the Fountain of Youth."
"Sure." It was a bit of an odd subject for someone in Bright's Pond.
"I think you can start with the Encyclopedia Britannica. It will give you some info. May I ask what exactly you're looking for?"
"Oh, I don't think I know for certain. It's just a hunch, really. Something sparked my imagination," Charlotte said. "I wanted some info on that explorer fellow they claim found it in Florida—Ponce de León."
"Oh, no problem. I'm sure you'll find out all about him in here." I grabbed the book from the shelf. "And if you need more information, there's a whole section on world history over there, lots of books about the explorers."
She took the thick volume and sat at one of the long tables.
"I just wanted to tell you," I said, "that I have heard so much about your pies. Folks are even saying you should open a shop in town."
Charlotte smiled and flipped to the page she needed. "I do like to make pies, and everyone keeps telling me to open a shop—even my mother."
"Maybe you should. There's that empty store down on Filbert Street—across from the town hall and The Full Moon Café."
"There is?"
"Sure. I think it will make the perfect spot."
"Maybe I'll take a look—someday. Maybe next year."
Charlotte looked at the book, and a few minutes later as I passed by again she said, "It says here that Ponce de León never found the fountain. But most people, historians even, claim it's in Florida. Do you think it's possible?"
I shook my head. "What? That the Fountain of Youth is more than a legend, a fairy tale? That water can make you younger?"
"Yes." She was dead serious.
At that moment I looked clear through Charlotte and saw Ha
ddie Grace whizzing down the hallways of Greenbrier and didn't know how to answer her. "How come you're so interested in this?"
"Oh, I'm just thinking, that's all. Folks up at Paradise have been talking about it ever since that Leon Fontaine moved in and started rebuilding the trailer park fountain. Have you seen it? It's pretty near finished and really quite beautiful—in a crooked kind of way."
I smiled. "Leon Fontaine? He's the man who built the gazebo over at the nursing home. It's a little on the crooked side also. But really nice."
"That's him. Weird little man, but I've come to accept weird as normal around here."
I laughed. "Charlotte, I think we're going to be good friends."
Then I remembered. "Say, Ruth told me you and Rose Tattoo are coming to Thanksgiving dinner. I hope you're bringing pie."
"Yes. I mean yes, we're invited and, yes, I am bringing pie."
"Hope it's pumpkin and cherry. Ruth is planning all kinds of tropical stuff."
Charlotte laughed. "I heard. She told me she has a big surprise for dessert."
"Me too, but please, pumpkin pie will be a most welcome sight, I'm sure."
Charlotte patted my hand. "Don't worry. I'm bringing pumpkin and apple and maybe a cherry, since you mentioned it."
That was when I heard the doorbell ring. Mercy Lincoln was standing there holding the copy of Heidi she had checked out just a few days previous.
"Mercy," I said. "Did school let out already?"
Mercy Lincoln was one of the backwoods children that came into town for school. She was poor as dirt, usually filthy but always managed to brighten my day. I loved her love for books and stories.
"No, not yet, I reckon. I didn't go to school today."
I ushered her farther into the library. "How come? Not like you to miss a day."
"It was Mama. She weren't feelin' real well this morning and asked me to stay with her."
"How is she now?" I took the book from her hands.