Beholding Bee (13 page)

“I’m full,” says Mrs. Potter, pushing her plate away.

“Yes,” says Mrs. Swift, standing up. “We don’t eat much at our age, you know.”

I stare at them. They are not going to last long if they do not eat more. Already they look very thin to me.

I try harder the next night.

I light a candle and lay the white tablecloth on the table
and the napkins. Everything looks heavenly. I serve meat loaf and rice and green beans, and once again Peabody and I eat the whole thing ourselves.

“Very nice, dear,” says Mrs. Potter.

I take a very old cookbook to bed and read all about potted beef, codfish pie, creamed peas on toast, Welsh rabbit.

“What do you think?” I ask Peabody, who is snuggled against me. “Should I try codfish pie?” Peabody hides his nose under my arm.

“Me neither.”

I put the cookbook down. I lie back in bed. Peabody snuggles closer. I fall asleep listening to the peepers and thinking about how Pauline would love to sleep in a bed like this.

54

Cordelia is looking no better three days later.

I pour the potato peels and the leftover carrots that nobody ate and mostly all the onions into her feed bucket. She sniffs delicately like she is smelling a daisy, and then she looks back at me.

“What?” I whisper, climbing over the fence and kneeling beside her and rubbing my hands all over her back and down her sides and scratching behind her ears. A spot of manure is stuck to her leg and I wipe that off with a clump of straw. There is mud on her chest, and I wipe that off, too. It is not like Cordelia to get dirty.

Peabody barrels out of the house and jumps up at the fence, yipping that he wants to be let in. He gives me an idea.

I open the gate and tell Cordelia I think she needs a little exercise. “Bobby says it fixes everything.”

But Cordelia isn’t so sure. She looks back at her shed and the warm pile of straw inside. It takes quite a bit of coaxing before she is trotting down the road.

I let Peabody lead the way and soon we are on a road we have never been on before. Peabody bounces along, but Cordelia is very slow. I am very worried about her.

We run at a turtle pace while Peabody gets very far ahead.

“Brawk-ack,” I hear a chicken shrieking. “Brawk-ack.”

I race ahead and just as I come up on a farm, with a white house and a big red barn with a rooster weather vane on top, I see Peabody chasing a chicken around and around a clothesline with blankets hanging down.

Chickens don’t fly too well, but Peabody gets this one so bothered it
brawk-acks
and squawks and flaps its wings hard enough to raise itself to the barn roof. Before I can get Peabody picked up and in my arms and away from there, Cordelia is rooting around the barn, and soon a black-and-white hen that looks very familiar comes flapping out.

And then wouldn’t you know it, Mrs. Marsh is running into the yard and hooting and hollering and screaming about her Daphne and chasing us all around the chicken yard with a broom.

Peabody and Cordelia rush for the road and I am just about to follow them when Mrs. Marsh grabs the strap of my overalls.

I pull my hair over my cheek and look up at her, my chest heaving, all out of breath.

“What are you doing scaring my chickens like that?”

“We didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. I didn’t know this was your house. It’s just that Peabody is so interested in chickens.”

Mrs. Marsh looks out at the mess.

“You’ll have to pay for this. I’ll be needing a new blanket, and a new hen with all her feathers!”

Peabody and Cordelia wait for me on the road. Cordelia is more trusting than Peabody and she comes back to get me. But Mrs. Marsh is ready with her broom in the air. “An
ugly little smelly pig in my chicken yard? Absolutely not,” she shrieks. “Absolutely not.”

She whacks Cordelia on the backside. “Shoo. Shoo.”

I want to cover Cordelia’s ears from the terrible things Mrs. Marsh is saying. I can just tell it makes her feel awful bad.

55

The next morning I master the art of French toast.

Thanks to me we have all the ingredients at the same time: sturdy white bread (not puffy), eggs, milk, butter, cinnamon, honey, and frozen strawberries. I thawed the strawberries in a bowl overnight and they are glistening on the counter when I get up. Peabody is already on the chair watching me get everything ready.

I get out a pie plate and crack two eggs. I pour in milk and whip it all up with some cinnamon. I melt butter in the fry pan and as it sizzles I dip the bread in the egg mix and drop it into the pan.

Peabody is already raising his nose and wondering what that wonderful smell is. Then I flip the toast and when it is brown on both sides I take it out of the pan and put two slices on my plate and two on Peabody’s. Then I spoon strawberries on the top and drizzle honey over everything.

Mrs. Potter comes in the kitchen and takes one look at the stack of French toast and walks closer. I look at Peabody. I put the plate I made for me on the table, right in front of Mrs. Potter. I put the one I made for Peabody on the floor. I dip two more slices of bread and drop them in the fry pan.

“Hungry?” I ask.

Mrs. Potter looks up at me, then back down at the stack of French toast. She sits down and picks up her fork and
knife. Very carefully she cuts a bite, holds it up, and looks at it for a minute.

“It’s been sooooo long.” She glances at me, then takes a bite.

“Ohhhhhhhh.” She tilts her head back a little to savor the moment and chews slowly. “It is just wonderful.”

Mrs. Swift hurries into the room, wanting to know what that wonderful smell is.

“Elizabeth!” she says when she sees Mrs. Potter.

“Oh, have some,” says Mrs. Potter, taking Mrs. Swift by the arm and pulling her down into a chair.

I bring a stack over for Mrs. Swift. She looks at the French toast on her plate for several seconds and then very slowly cuts a piece and picks up a forkful and looks at the way it glistens from the strawberries. Then she plops it into her mouth and from the look in her eyes you can tell all the flavors are bursting together.

“Oh my stars, it
has
been a long, long time,” she says, cutting another piece and popping it into her mouth, and now there is a smile starting on her face.

French toast will do that to a person.

56

Before I can get all the dishes washed, someone knocks on the front door.

Mrs. Potter sips her tea, looking at the hole she banged in the wall. Mrs. Swift rushes in from the library, a book in her hand. “It’s that horrid Mrs. Marsh.”

I give Peabody a stern look. “That was a very bad thing to do,” I tell him, reminding him about the chickens. Peabody jumps up from his cozy spot at Mrs. Potter’s feet and races for the front door.

“We don’t need trouble like this.” Mrs. Swift drops into one of the chairs. “Bee, go open the door. Tell her we are not home. Find out what she wants. You must get her to go away. We can’t have our plans bothered like this.”

“I’m not opening the door,” I say, wiping my hands on a towel and peeking down the hall.

Mrs. Marsh is trying to look through one of the windows.

“Yoo-hoo,” she calls. “Yoo-hoo.”

“I said, I’m not doing it.” I look behind me to see why Mrs. Potter and Mrs. Swift are not answering me, but they have already left the room.

Peabody barks at the door.

“I know you’re in there,” Mrs. Marsh calls through the open window. “I have news. Now open the door.”

I look behind me one more time to see where Mrs. Swift
and Mrs. Potter have gone and I cover my face with my hair and walk down the hall. Peabody sits growling softly while I open the door.

“What on earth took you so long, child?” Mrs. Marsh is holding a letter in her hand.

Peabody barks as soon as he sees her. He raises up the fur on the back of his neck and howls.

Mrs. Marsh takes a step back. “Well, he’s no friendlier than the last time I saw him, is he?”

“Shush,” I tell Peabody, picking him up. But he slips out of my arms and jumps in front of me and barks furiously.

“Well, I have never met a more disagreeable dog.”

“Peabody, will you knock it off?” I scoop him up and I forget all about the diamond on my cheek and my hair falls away.

Mrs. Marsh is staring at my face. I stuff Peabody under my arm. I fling my hair across my face and hold it tight with one hand. I hold Peabody with the other.

“I need to speak with your aunts. Right this minute.”

“My aunts were just here,” I say slowly. “Mrs. Potter? Mrs. Swift?”

“You call your aunts by their formal names?”

Peabody wiggles himself out of my clutches, looks at Mrs. Marsh, and barks.

“Shut up, Peabody,” I say, trying to keep him and my hair under control.

“Well, I am an up-front kind of woman. I’ve come to talk with your aunts directly.” With that she steps inside the door.

This is more than Peabody can stand. He barks so
furiously he flips himself out of my grasp, jumps to the floor, slips, falls over, stands up, and barks louder.

Mrs. Marsh takes another step forward. Peabody barks louder. She takes another step and is looking into the parlor and at the little lace cloths on all the chairs and then into the library, where Mrs. Swift left her books on the desk. Peabody howls. I am no longer telling him to stop, because I do not want her in the house. But she takes another step and then another, and each time she does I back up, and she looks up the stairs. Peabody backs up and barks again and again and again.

“I will introduce myself to your aunts.”

She kicks at Peabody, but he scurries out of her way and narrows his eyes and howls. There is a bustling in the kitchen and a pot crashes to the floor.

Mrs. Marsh looks at me for a second, and then she straightens her back and marches down the hall.

“Yoo-hoo,” she calls. “Is anybody home?”

Peabody whines. I scoop him up and follow Mrs. Marsh.

The kitchen is empty. The back door is open. Mrs. Marsh turns, an eyebrow raised. She searches my face for lying. “I thought you said they were home.”

“They were,” I say miserably.

“Are you making a fool of me, child?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Very well,” says Mrs. Marsh, walking back to the parlor and dropping onto the plump sofa. “I’ll wait.”

57

I look at Peabody. Peabody looks at me.

“Come sit and wait with me, child.” Mrs. Marsh pats at the sofa. Her voice is strained.

I do not sit on the sofa with her. I sit across from her. Peabody jumps up on the chair with me and watches Mrs. Marsh. He growls. “Stop that,” I tell him.

Mrs. Marsh sits back on the sofa, looking down her long nose at Peabody and me.

Peabody barks.

“Shush,” I say again.

“Where is that pig?”

“Outside,” I whisper.

The early September sun is beating through the window and soon I am very hot. Little drops of sweat form along my hairline and down my back. Mrs. Marsh pulls a handkerchief from inside her dress and takes off her sun hat and pats the back of her neck.

I get up and open the windows as wide as they will go and I make quite a fuss over pretending I am looking up and down the street for Mrs. Swift and Mrs. Potter.

“Golly, I do not know where they are,” I tell her as I am rearranging a curtain so it does not wrinkle.

“Is that so?” Mrs. Marsh begins to tap her foot and I watch it rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall, as if she is
playing a trumpet and keeping time, but what she is really doing is waiting to prove I am a lying little fool.

Peabody watches Mrs. Marsh’s foot go up and down, up and down.

“I would like some tea. Would you kindly heat some water? And while you are fixing it, please tell your aunts that I would very much like a word with them. I have received an important letter from the lawyer who represents this house.”

A few minutes later I carry two cups of tea into the parlor. I set them down on the table beside the sofa, being careful to keep my cheek turned away from Mrs. Marsh. She picks up the cup without saying thank you and stirs the tea with the little spoon I put inside the cup.

“Is there any milk?”

“I’m sorry. We are out of milk.”

“At least some sugar?”

I shake my head. “It was hard as a rock. We gave it to Peabody.”

“You gave that dog your sugar? When it is rationed?” She looks at me as if I am a little touched in the head.

She takes a sip and puts her cup down. “I can’t drink tea without milk and sugar.”

I am careful not to smile. Maybe she’ll leave.

“Well, there doesn’t appear to be anybody here,” she says, standing up. “Are you living here by yourself, child?”

“No,” I say quickly. I lift Peabody into my arms. “They were here all morning. I don’t know where they are now. Mrs. Swift has been working on her autobiography.” I point at the library.

Mrs. Marsh looks in and her eyes pass over the desk and all the open books and the china inkwell and pen. “Well,
please tell your aunts that I would like to meet with them, go over things, that sort of thing. I’ll see my way out.”

She opens the door and before leaving turns back to me. “And the man who owns this house has just died. Rest his soul. I am sure if he could speak he would tell me he had no idea there was a girl and a dog
and a pig
living here all alone.” She takes another look at Peabody. “And kindly keep that dog away from my chickens.”

Then she walks out the door and I stumble into the library and fall onto the sofa. Peabody jumps onto my lap and circles until he finds just the right spot. My stomach growls.

“Phew,” says Mrs. Potter, walking into the room with a cup of tea in her hands.

“Where did you go?” I snap.

She ties her orange flappy hat. “Come on, Beatrice. Let’s go have a look at that pig.”

I know she is just trying to butter me up. But I follow her anyway.

58

“Do you mean to tell me any girl can go to school?” Mrs. Potter is sipping weak tea with milk the next morning. She likes three spoons of honey in each cup now.