Charlotte Figg Takes Over Paradise (34 page)

Greta, who had been complaining about her leaking breasts, solved her dilemma by wearing two Kotex napkins under her Angels' jersey. All in all the team had worked it out, as my former Canaries coach used to say.

"Play ball!" hollered the ump, and off we went.

Frankie had no problem striking out their side, except for one slow grounder to Ginger, who tossed it nicely to Gwendolyn for the third out.

"This is going to be a piece of cake," Clara said as they came off the field.

Asa hurried over to give some pointers. "Just make contact. Don't kill the ball." He spoke directly to Gwendolyn. But she didn't listen, and the next thing I knew the Hooligan's center fielder fell into the cornfield trying to chase down a fly ball that landed six rows back.

"Oh, yeah," called Mother. "We got this one. Go, Angels."

And we did. Seven innings later the score was Angels 19, Hooligans 6.

The team enjoyed a few minutes of celebration before shaking the Hooligans' hands. We watched them climb back into their cars and drive off.

Rose made a check mark in the air. "That's two for the Angels."

But the most exciting part of the evening was when Suzy talked to Asa. It was during the fifth inning. He was standing along the third base line, when I saw her sidle up next to him. Of course, I couldn't hear a darn thing, but I knew, I knew in my heart that she had made peace with what he did for her. I knew it for certain when I saw her reach up and kiss his cheek.

Asa and Studebaker gathered up the equipment as the fans made for home and the team joined their families. Mother, Hazel, and I had started back through the woods when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned with a start.

"Cash," I said. "You've got to stop startling me."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

"Cash Vangarten," said Hazel. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to watch the Angels play."

"You did?" I said. "You've been here the whole time?"

"From the first pitch. I was hoping you'd agree to that dinner now."

I took a few more steps. "Not now, Cash. Not yet."

"Then when?"

"Can't say."

"Mr. Vangarten," Mother said. "You seem like a nice man. But you can understand my daughter's situation. She just isn't ready to begin dating. Why, her husband, Herman—he was a salesman for the Fuller Brush Company—has only been dead for"—she counted on her fingers—"less than six months. You understand."

"I do," he said. "My wife has been gone three years now. Three years, seven months, and two days."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't know."

Hazel slapped her knee. "All this maudlin talk. Yeah, yeah, and my Birdy's been dead for twenty-five years."

Lillian sniffled. "And my Henry ten."

We all looked at each other and then suddenly burst into laughter.

Cash took my hand after a minute or so. "Okay, Charlotte. You let me know when you're ready."

"Might be a while."

"I can wait."

Then he looked at Hazel. "So, Mrs. Crenshaw, how much longer do I need to coach that team before you'll see I've repented? I've changed. I haven't touched a drop in three years."

Hazel twisted her mouth and considered his question."Okay. You're done. This can be your last year."

"Thank you," he said. And he took off back toward the field.

Later that night after Mother and I ate a celebratory fried zucchini omelet and she was settled in front of the TV with tea and Lorna Doone cookies, I decided to take a walk with Lucky.

"I'll be back, Mom. I might go visit Rose. We haven't talked much over the last couple of weeks."

"You go right ahead, dear. Enjoy yourself."

"I'll take Lucky."

"That's fine. I'm sure I'll turn in early, or I was thinking I might go over to Hazel's and swap stories about elastic underwear bands."

Sad to say though, Rose wasn't home. I said, "I bet she's at Ginger's." It was one of the only places she went. Lucky made himself comfortable under the hand near the petunias.

"Come on, Lucky, time to go home. Rose isn't here."

He wouldn't budge.

"Lucky, now. I said Rose isn't home."

He straggled to his feet and grabbed my pant leg and pulled me toward the hand.

"What are you doing? Home is that way."

He barked and circled himself into a comfortable spot.

"What, you want me to go up there?"

He blustered.

"Okay, okay."

I climbed the ladder and sat with my back against God's thumb, under the vastness and the miracle of a million stars. I thought God must have called the entire team onto the field because I never remembered seeing that many stars before.

"So, God," I said. "You know I've never really been comfortable up here. Always seemed just a teeny bit weird. You know, grownups sitting in a cement hand. But I just want you to know that I get it now. I also want you to know that I might not be very good when it comes to keeping secrets, but I am good at keeping my promises, and I promised Suzy and Asa I would never tell. And I won't."

The street light blinked a couple of times, and I thought maybe God was winking at me, but that's silly. "So I guess this makes me an accessory to the crime. Learned that on Perry Mason. So I'm guilty. I confess, Lord."

Labor Day arrived, and the Angels finished the season with four wins and six losses, so we didn't make it to the playoffs. We were all a little disappointed; Gwendolyn cried worse than baby Angel. But, to be honest, I was pretty tired by then and wasn't too keen on coaching anymore that season after so much had happened. And the women, the Angels? Well, they looked plum tuckered out also.

Asa said he and Studebaker needed to close up the field for the season. I wasn't sure exactly what that meant, so before he had time to do it I took one last walk over there with Lucky. I looked out at the pretty brown and green field. The air was still warm as I watched the sun set behind the trees. "You know, Lucky, I never told you this, but I'm glad you stole the mail that day." I kicked at the dirt, and a small wispy beige cloud blew up around our ankles. I patted Lucky's head. "I still need to give Mother our answer about moving to Florida, though."

Lucky blustered.

"Don't worry, we're not going anywhere. We're staying right here in Paradise." I looked down. The tips of my Keds touched home plate. "See that, Lucky? Now this is what I call coming home."

1. Early in the novel Charlotte says she was filled with a sudden burst of wanderlust. Has this ever happened to you? Did you ever want to make a huge change, maybe even run away and start over?

2. How would you describe Charlotte and Herman's marriage? Was she happy? If not, what kept her tied to him?

3. Several times Charlotte mentions phantom pain. An amputee will sometimes say she can still feel pain even though the injured limb is gone. Life is like that. From time to time past hurts and emotional injuries surface. Discuss this.

4. The theme of sacrifice is important in
Charlotte Figg Takes Over Paradise.
What does it mean to you to sacrifice for your family, friends, God?

5. Rose Tattoo worked hard to cover her scars, even going so far as to hide them under tattoos. What does this say to you? Do you walk around with hidden scars? Why?

6. Rose has a giant concrete hand in her yard. She likes to sit in it and pray. She painted the Paradise residents' names on it as a way of lifting them to God. What does it mean to you to know that your name is written on God's hand and nothing can erase it—ever?

7. At first glance Paradise seems to be populated by misfits and oddballs. Is it really? Or do the people of Paradise have something the rest of the world is missing?

8. Charlotte played softball in her youth, but the joy of it was taken away from her. When she moved to Paradise, she got softball back. What does this tell you about redemption, about how God delights in giving us the desires of our heart?

9. The Paradise Angels started out rough, but in the end they became a team. The concept of being a team player is bandied about a lot in the corporate world, even in our PTOs and churches. Are you a team player? Are you comfortable in your position? Or are you more of a loner, going your way? Is there room for both?

10. Pie is always available in Paradise. Why is pie important? What does it represent?

Another book in the Bright's Pond series.

"Time does have a way of making hurts smaller. It's

the distance. It's like being in the airplane and looking

down at Bright's Pond with all that space between me

and the town. Everything looked so small, even my

troubles. From up there I had a sense that any problem

could be solved. It's about perspective, I think."

—Griselda Sparrow

Grave digging should be left to the professionals. At least that was the conclusion my friend, Ivy Slocum, came to after she decided to bury Al Capone in her backyard. She planned the whole affair like she was planning a funeral fit for a state senator. The only thing she didn't account for was the gully washer of a rainstorm that kicked up not half an hour after the last shovel of dirt was dropped on Al Capone's grave. The dog, stuffed in a green Hefty bag, rose to the surface later that evening. She called to tell me about it.

"Griselda," she said. "You will never believe what just happened. I was standing at my kitchen window looking out over Al Capone's grave, tears streaming down my face as fast and hard as the rain was pouring, when all of a sudden I saw him rise up from the ground like he was resurrected. I took a quick look around and even called Ruth Knickerbocker on account of I thought the rapture had begun and I missed the trumpet in all my grief and despair."

The truth is that Ivy and nobody else in Bright's Pond missed the rapture. Jesus was still at his Father's side, as far as we could tell being so far in the mountains.

Poor dead Al Capone rose from the ground not just once but three times that week. He even floated away after one particularly heavy downpour two days later. Ivy had to chase him down the street wearing nothing more than her pink flowery housecoat and a pair of yellow galoshes. She managed to grab on to him just before he slipped into the sewer drain.

It took quite a time to get that image out of my mind. I can still see Ivy running down the street yanking on rain boots with her extra large breasts bobbing up and down like ducks in a pond. For days I couldn't look at her without laughing. Ruth said she had the same problem, and Ivy swore up and down she would never go braless again.

"I got to keep them harnessed," she said. "They're like weapons when they're unbridled. Nearly knocked myself out rounding Filbert Street."

Finally, once the weather calmed, Gretchen Sewickey sold Ivy her own personal plot in the Bright's Pond Church of Faith and Grace Cemetery for twenty-seven dollars and thirteen cents after Pastor Speedwell and the board of deacons relented and allowed Al Capone's burial.

"I'm glad to be rid of that plot," she said. "I wasn't exactly looking forward to spending all eternity lying next to that nocount, rat husband of mine. Couldn't stay in one bed while we was married and I doubt he can now—even in his present condition."

It was a sad day in Bright's Pond the day Al Capone died. He apparently had gotten a hold of some chicken bones and one of the smaller ones got stuck on its way out his other end. The bone perforated his bowel, and the dog died from peritonitis. Ivy found him curled up at her door with a grin on his face and a chicken wing stuck to his cheek.

Mildred Blessing, Bright's Pond Chief of Police, suffered Al Capone's death especially hard, seeing as how she had been after the miscreant mutt for months. She never could catch him, but most everyone knew she enjoyed the chasing more than the catching and might have even let him slip through her hands on more than a few occasions. Although, Mildred would never admit to such an egregious violation of her sworn duty.

But, the amazingly buoyant Al Capone was the least of the town's troubles that year of 1973. The nasty, rainy weather threatened the Kincaid's pumpkin patch with mildew, a feared and dreaded malady to gourd growers everywhere. Nate and Stella Kincaid had been growing prize-winning pumpkins for about ten years, ever since my sister, Agnes Sparrow, prayed and Nate's pumpkin took first place in the 1967 tri-county Pumpkin Festival with a whopper weighing an astounding one hundred and fifty-seven pounds.

You see, that was back in the days when Agnes, who weighed just over seven hundred pounds, settled her massive girth into our home and dedicated herself to a life of prayer. And I will confess that when Agnes prayed, things happened. Several healings that we know of, a few incidents of lost objects being located miles from where they were last seen, and several other more minor miracles like car engines starting when there was no earthly reason. Agnes lives over at the Greenbrier Nursing Home now where she continues to pray, but no one has reported an actual bonafide miracle in going on seven months now.

Some folks claim it was because the nursing home doctors put her on a strict diet and making her lose weight somehow weakened her powers. Agnes told me she's decided to welcome the diet and follow her doctor's orders, but I am still finding Baby Ruth wrappers and crusts from lemon squares in her trash can. Folks can't help but feed her. I'm keeping my eye out for ill-gotten food booty and confiscating what I can. But even I have let Agnes eat some sweets and brought her a meatloaf special from The Full Moon a couple of times. For those of you who don't know, that's a big hunk of meatloaf with a side of mashed potatoes swimming in a pint of brown gravy with a small dish of green peas alongside for color. It's not about the veggies. It's about the gravy.

"Does my heart good, Griselda," she said as she poured extra gravy on her mashed potatoes. "A body can only eat so much lettuce without worrying she's going to sprout a cottontail."

I'll keep watching out for her with an occasional indulgence.

This year, Nate and Stella claim they're growing a pumpkin they expect to tip the scales at over five hundred pounds. Seems Nate got himself some right fine seeds from a pumpkin grower all the way up in Nova Scotia. They're called Big Marvel pumpkin seeds. Last count, Bertha Ann—that's what they named their bouncing baby gourd, had weighed in at approximately one hundred and seventeen pounds and they were just getting into the peak growing season—a time when their pumpkin could pretty much double in size—right in time for the weigh-off at the annual October Pumpkin Days Festival in Shoops. Everybody in town was holding their breath, praying for sunshine and hoping Bertha Ann would come home with a big, blue ribbon.

But the Kincaid's pumpkin problems were not their only distraction that year. It seemed the rain brought more than mildew to Bright's Pond and it stunk just as bad, maybe even worse. Her name was Gilda Saucer, and she blew into town a few days after Stella Kincaid received some startling news. Suffice it to say, Stella had a lot of explaining to do.

It was about a month from Harvest Dance time in Bright's Pond. I was at The Full Moon Café along with the rest of the dance committee when Stella wandered inside looking like she had just seen a ghost. In a way she had.

Ruth Knickerbocker was in the middle of trying to convince Mildred Blessing that Bright's Pond was not ready for a murder mystery theme for the harvest dance when Stella interrupted our meeting. Yes, I was on the committee that year; Studebaker Kowalski talked me into it after Ruth went to him and begged him to try and convince me. I was not usually a committee sort of person. I liked being a loner. But I got to thinking that what with Agnes safely tucked in at the nursing home it might be kind of nice to stretch a little. Working on the harvest dance seemed a safe distance to reach.

"Griselda," Stella said all atwitter. "I need to speak with Agnes."

That perked up all the ears in the restaurant.

I grabbed Stella's hand that shook so much you'd think she was conducting the
Stars and Stripes Forever.
"What's going on, Stella? Come on now, sit down here and tell us. You look terrible."

Stella squeezed onto the restaurant booth next to Stu and Hazel. " I—I just can't come right out and say it in front of all these people. It's a personal matter and Agnes is the only one who can help me sort it all out."

By then, Zeb had come by carrying a pot of coffee. He refilled our cups and asked Stella if she'd like a drop.

"No, thank you, Zeb. My stomach is churning something fierce."

"Something wrong with Bertha Ann?" Zeb asked.

Stu tried to contain a chuckle, but was unsuccessful.

"No, she's coming along nicely. Nate managed to get the mildew under control, and we built a tent for her to grow under. Poor guy, he's been out with her for days spraying for bugs and wiping her down."

"That's nice," Ruth said. "I hope Bertha Ann takes first place. Imagine that, a five-hundred-pound pumpkin. Why Bertha Ann will weigh nearly as much as Agnes. We sure can grow 'em big in Bright's—" She plopped her hand over her mouth like she had just said something wrong. I gave her a look that let her know that she didn't say anything that I'd take offense at. Everybody knew my sister was big. At last weigh-in she was a quarter pound over 625 pounds, having lost sixty since going to the nursing home.

I sipped my coffee and Zeb plopped a Full Moon Pie—a luscious lemon meringue—on the table. "You all might as well split this," he said. "I plan on making quite a few for the dance. Think I'll add some orange food coloring to the meringue this year—"

"Ooooo," Ruth said, "that'll give your pies a harvesty look.

"Zeb smiled even though I could tell he was upset that his punch line had been hijacked. He would have said he was making Harvest Moon Pies.

I smiled and let my fingertips lightly brush his arm. "That's a good idea, Zeb. Full Moon Harvest Pie sounds like a great idea."

He smiled back at me and for a second my heart sped and I felt my toes curl in my white Keds. Zebulon Sewickey was a handsome man even if he was wearing a greasy white apron and paper hat.

"Anyhoo," Stella said, "I need to talk to Agnes. Do you think it would be all right if I went over there this afternoon sometime?"

I sipped coffee and then let a breath escape through my nose. "I—I suppose so. Just have Nate drive you over around two o'clock—after lunchtime."

"I can't do that," Stella said. "Nate doesn't know anything about my predicament and I'm afraid to tell him what with all the stress with Bertha Ann and the contest and the rain and all."

I patted her hand. "Okay, okay, Stella, don't fret. I'll drive you over myself. I was planning on going later anyway."

"Thank you, Griselda." She gave me a kiss on the cheek and a hug and then scampered out the door like a mouse. She was a little thing, about five feet tall with long brown hair she always kept in a ponytail straight down her back. She had a preference for blue jeans and flannel shirts—usually green and red and gray. Stella never learned to drive. She said it was too hard— too many things to be aware of all at the same time—so she often relied on me or her husband and sometimes Studebaker to get her where she needed to go. And honestly, Stella never seemed to really want or need to go anywhere. She could walk to the Piggly Wiggly and to see Doc Flaherty who was currently assisting her with a rash that erupted on the same day Nate switched to a new herbicide he had specially mixed by Marlabeth Pilky at the Paradise Trailer Park. Marlabeth was known in these parts as an herbalist, a folk-healer.

The committee table grew quiet for a few moments after Stella left until Ruth finally spoke up. "What do you suppose that's all about? My goodness but she seemed all in a swivet. You don't suppose she's got the cancer now. Lot of that going around these days what with my Hubby Bubby and all."

Ruth's husband died from a malignant brain tumor nearly six years previous but the event was still fresher than raw milk in her thoughts.

"Nah." Stu waved Ruth's theory away. "She doesn't look sick and believe me I'd know." He sipped coffee and pulled a piece of crust from the pie. Studebaker was one of the first cancer healings in Bright's Pond. He was pretty much a goner until Agnes prayed for him. He said at the time that he felt as though a million fire ants were crawling all over his body. He tingled for three days. It still gives me the willies when they give Agnes the credit. But that morning, Studebaker stopped short of singing Agnes's praises and I was proud of him. After all, as Agnes always says, any miracles come express from God.