Griselda Takes Flight Read online

  "I said I already sprayed all around." I heard Stella say with a tinge of annoyance in her voice.

  "Then how come she got so many dang blame beetles jumping around on her leaves, Stella? Huh? Tell me that."

  "Maybe you got the wrong spray, Mr. Bug Buster. Ever think of that? Maybe you need to take a sample of them bugs over to the county agent and get an opinion."

  "So now you're telling me how to raise Bertha Ann?"

  "Well, she's my pumpkin too, you big goof. There ain't no crime in identifying the proper bug for the proper spray."

  "I know what kind of bugs they are, Stella. Them dang rotten cucumber bugs."

  "Then you better get the Diazinon, Nate."

  I coughed, not that I really needed to. I wanted their attention and figured their pumpkin problems were none of my beeswax.

  "Oh, Griselda," Stella called. She had turned with a start. "Is it one-thirty already?" She brushed dirt from her blue jeans.

  "Why's she here?" asked Nate. "We got work to do. Need to fertilize before the rain comes back."

  Stella turned back to Nate, who picked a bug from one of Bertha Ann's leaves and crushed it between his thumb and index finger. "I thought I'd go with Griselda and pay a little visit to Agnes, if that's okay with you."

  Nate screwed up his mouth and tossed a rock over the pumpkin patch fence into the cornfield on the other side. He was a big man, must have stood six feet four inches with shoulders as wide as a door. "Go on," he said. "Don't know why you need to see her though. She stopped praying for us and now look what's happening to our patch."

  It wasn't Agnes's fault, but I could see there was no point in pressing the issue.

  "I just thought it would be nice to visit," Stella lied. Then she tried to reach up and kiss him but he turned away—much to Stella's embarrassment, I'm sure. "Be that way," she said.

  We had driven about a mile before Stella spoke. "Honestly, that man is impossible anymore. All we do is bicker, bicker, bicker."

  "He's just worried about the weigh-off," I said.

  "I know, I am too, but he doesn't have to treat me so mean. I'm not treating him that way. And sometimes I hear him . . . I hear him out there talking to Bertha Ann about me. Now that ain't right, Griselda. A husband discussing his wife with a pumpkin—she is a pumpkin."

  "I'm with you. That doesn't even sound right." I turned left onto Route 113. Now it was only a straight haul to Greenbrier for about four miles. I was just about to ask Stella about what was going on when I heard the buzz of a low-flying airplane overhead.

  "Look at that," I said. "I can see the pilot. Why is he flying so low?"

  Stella grabbed onto the dashboard and ducked. "Holy cow, that's nuts! Are they allowed to fly that low?"

  The sight nearly took my breath away. But in a surprisingly good way. "Wow. It must be exciting to fly a plane like that."

  "And dangerous," Stella said.

  I kept the plane in sight as long as I could.

  We drove another mile or so before I turned the subject back to the matter at hand.

  "Are you going to tell me what the real problem is, Stella, or should I wait until you tell Agnes?"

  Stella gazed out the window. The farms with mostly mowed over cornfields whizzed by. I could hear a flock of migrating red-winged blackbirds overhead, no doubt making their way to a cornfield to rest and forage.

  "Look at them," I said. A black cloud of birds soared in the sky, dipping and swirling on the currents like spilled ink. "They are magnificent."

  Stella didn't respond for a long second or two. "I'm sorry, hon. Did you say something?" Her southern accent dripped through. Stella had come to Bright's Pond from Tennessee about ten years ago. She was twenty-three when she arrived with one suitcase and very little to say.

  "I was noticing the blackbirds, Stella. They're amazing."

  "Blackbirds, right." She strained to look at the sky. But I knew she couldn't see anything but blue. "They're beautiful."

  She couldn't have cared less. Whatever was preying on her mind must have been mighty heavy. I decided I would have to wait until we were with Agnes to learn about it.

  The Greenbrier Nursing Home was a series of four long, one-floor, red brick buildings arranged in a square. A steel flagpole stood in the center and flew three flags. The Stars and Stripes, The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania's blue flag with two horses reared up on hind legs with a golden crest in the middle, and The Greenbrier Nursing home's green and white banner lowest but not least.

  "Here we are."

  "My stomach is upset now," Stella said.

  I pushed the gearshift into park. "Why so nervous, Stella?"

  "You'll learn soon enough." She pushed open the truck door and hopped out. "Guess the whole town will find out sooner or later once my troubles make their way into the rumor mill."

  Agnes admitted herself into Greenbrier about nine months ago. It was time. Her weight had reached nearly 750 pounds from what we could estimate. Her asthma attacks became more frequent, and after keeping herself imprisoned at our house for nearly ten years, she was ready for a change.

  Fortunately, and probably because of her size, Agnes had a single room at the nursing home. They gave her a specially reinforced bed able to hold about a thousand pounds. It was much wider than regular hospital beds so finding sheets to fit was difficult and expensive until the Society of Angelic Philanthropy, which did secret charitable acts in Bright's Pond, got together and started sewing two sets of full size sheets end to end to make them fit. At last count they had completed six sets of sheets—all white except for one set with daisies all over, like a meadow.

  "She's in room 116," I told Stella, who was moving a little slow, maybe even cautiously, kind of slinking down the hall like she didn't want to be seen. "All the way at the end of the hall."

  "How can they stand the smell in here?" Stella asked pinching her nose. "It's worse than the cow barn."

  "Guess they get used to it."

  "Can you die from swallowing bad odors?" Stella asked.

  I smiled. "Don't know for sure. But I never heard of anyone inhaling too much stink and keeling over."

  A man in a wheelchair came whooping around the corner. He made vroom vroom noises as he blazed passed us. It took a second before it registered that he had no legs.

  "I hate it here," Stella said.

  Agnes's door was open, which meant we could walk right in. Sometimes I would arrive and the door would be closed, which meant the aides and nurses or doctors were in with her doing whatever it is they needed to do.

  "Hey, Agnes," I called. "Brought you a visitor today."

  Agnes made a noise and managed to pull herself up with the aid of a triangular trapeze bar that dangled over her chest. She sat mostly propped up in a tangle of blankets and sheets. Two thin pillows supported her head and one them had fallen to the side so much it was about to fall on the floor. Other than the bed and a hospital tray table, Agnes's room was decorated with homey touches like her mahogany highboy dresser brought from home, the matching nightstand, and a pretty little lamp with a pinstriped shade. The objects from home made it appear less medicinal.

  "Stella?" Agnes said. "Is that Stella Kincaid? Praise Jesus! I haven't seen you in a dog's age. How's the prize-winning pumpkin business treating you?"

  "Hi, Agnes. This year we named our entry Bertha Ann. She's doing fine, real fine, getting bigger every day. Nate's been busy with mildew control and taking care of the pests."

  "Kind of like me," Agnes said with a chuckle. "They keep telling me they're gonna haul me down to the truck stop scales out on the turnpike to get an accurate number. They think I might have dropped a few pounds. But I am not letting them hoist me onto a forklift ever again." She slapped her knee. "If that wasn't the most humiliating experience of my life I don't know what is."

  I patted her hand and kissed her cheek. "Don't worry. I won't let anyone haul you around on a forklift again. But right now, Stella has something personal she needs to dis
cuss. I didn't think you'd mind."

  Stella moved closer to the bed. Agnes readjusted herself and that was when the precarious pillow fell, causing several Baby Ruth wrappers to float to the floor like autumn leaves. I snatched them. "Where'd you get these?"

  "Oh, Griselda, you're such a worrywart," Agnes said. "It's only two or three candy bars. Stu brought them by. Ain't gonna hurt me none. The so-called food they give me here isn't fit for a dog most of the time. I'd do just about anything for a tuna salad on white bread, like you used to make me. You always made the best tuna salad with the tiny shaved carrots mixed in and sweet onion."

  "I count five wrappers," I said.

  "Five wrappers? You better toss them out before nurse Sally finds them."

  "Agnes, you promise to tell Stu not to bring anymore, and I'll see about the tuna salad, maybe without the bread."

  Agnes smiled. Her tiny eyes grew as wide as they could in their sockets.

  I crumpled the wrappers and was about to toss them in the trash.

  "Hold on," Agnes said, "mind shoving them in your pocket and getting rid of 'em at home? Don't need the evidence lying around. I think she looks through my trash."

  Agnes grabbed onto the trapeze bar and pulled herself up even more. It seemed to take a full thirty seconds from start to finish. "So, Stella, what's on your mind?" I watched Agnes take a breath. It always pained me to see her struggle for air.

  Stella opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She walked toward the windows. "You got a right pretty view, Agnes. I can see so far, and that grass is still so nice and green, and look at those trees all around. The fall colors are a little off this year, don't you think? Probably on account of all that rain. Not enough sun—"

  Agnes clicked her tongue. "Stella. Now I know you did not come to talk about leaves."

  Stella turned around. Her eyes glistened with tears. "Okay, here goes. I got a phone call yesterday. It would appear that my—" she paused and took a shaky breath—"brother has been in an accident, and he is right this minute lying in a coma right here at Greenbrier, in this very building." She tossed the words out fast and hard. And then she started to blubber.

  My heart leapt into my throat. Agnes coughed so hard I worried she might have an asthma attack. "Brother?" she said. "We never knew you had a brother."

  "And he's here? At Greenbrier?" I added. "In a coma?"

  Stella wiped her eyes and nodded. "For going on two weeks now. The people here just found me yesterday."

  Agnes patted her bed. "Sit, Stella. Tell us the story."

  For the next little while, Agnes and I listened, listened and nodded and stroked Stella's arm as she told us a sad, sad family story about betrayal and lies, back-biting and blackmail.

  "So you see, we haven't spoken for going on ten years."

  "I had no idea you were carrying all that hurt," I said.

  "Do you know anything about the accident?" Agnes asked. "About what put him in a coma?"

  Stella shook her head. "All I know is what they told me. A few weeks ago Walter was up near the coal mines. They're not sure what he was doing, but he took a spill down one of those—what do you call them?—slag heaps up there near the quarry and knocked himself unconscious—or so they think. They brought him here two weeks ago."

  "How did they find you?" Agnes asked. "I mean if he can't talk or—"

  "They used his driver's license to track down his home in Tennessee. When they called the number a woman answered."

  "A woman?" I said. "Is your brother married?"

  "Not that I know of," Stella said. "The nurse said her name is Gilda."

  "But how did they find you?" Agnes repeated.

  "I'm getting to that, but I'm not a hundred percent sure. The nurse said she found my name, my maiden name, in Walter's wallet and when she mentioned it to the woman in Tennessee she told her I was his sister—does that make sense?"

  "Yes," Agnes said. "It makes sense, but it sure is a lot to take in."

  "I know," Stella said. "It's more complicated than pumpkin growing. My mind has been reeling since I got the phone call."

  "Just take it easy," Agnes said. "You'll start to feel better now that Griselda and me know."

  Stella swiped at more tears. "I just don't know what to do. Should I go to his room? And if he has a girlfriend or a wife then maybe he doesn't need me, maybe he doesn't even want me."

  "How can I help?" Agnes asked.

  "I can't decide if I should go see Walter or not. I mean what if he wakes up, sees me, and has some kind of stroke or something. I don't want to kill him by surprise, and he's probably happy with things the way they are seeing how he ain't bothered to look me up or—"

  "Now, Stella," Agnes said. "Did you ever go looking for him in all this time? Ten years?"

  Stella looked ashamed and then piped up. "Weren't you listening to that tale of woe I just told you? Calling me those most awful names and cheating me out of my half of the inheritance? I mean, Lord, Agnes. He's a scoundrel."

  "Maybe he's changed," I said.

  That was when a nurse came in carrying a little white paper cup. "Time for your pill, Agnes."

  Agnes looked at the small orange clock on the wall. "My goodness. We all been yakking for nearly two hours. It's after four o'clock."

  "I am sorry," Stella said. "I didn't mean to take up so much time, but I thought you needed to hear the whole story about what happened to my family and Walter and all."

  Agnes patted Stella's hand. "Perfectly all right, dear."

  "So are you gonna go see him?" I asked.

  Stella pursed her lips and stood. "I just can't say, yet. We got so much trouble in our family. Maybe it's best to let it go. He's got what's-her-name . . . Gilda, and I'm sure scads of other friends who will rally around."

  "But only one sister," Agnes said. She looked at me and smiled.

  "I did come here for another reason," Stella said. "To ask a miracle."

  Agnes screwed up her face. "I'm not in the miracle business too much anymore, Stella."

  "You can still pray—and I know, I know, it's up to God and all—but I was hoping you might ask the Almighty to keep Walter in that coma for a bit longer—until I get it sorted out."

  Agnes chuckled. "Now that's a new one. Most folks would ask God to bring a loved one OUT of a coma not to remain locked inside."

  "Just for a short while longer," Stella said.

  Agnes closed her eyes. We waited, expecting to hear her pray when her eyes popped back open. "I need to think on this one, Stella. But rest assured. It's all under God's control."

  Stella nodded and then opened her purse. A brown leather bag held closed with some kind of hemp string knot. She sneaked something under Agnes's pillow. "For later."

  I leaned down and kissed Agnes on the cheek. "I'll be back tomorrow."

  "That's fine," Agnes said. "And see about the tuna salad?"

  I shook my head. "I'll try, Agnes, but it might go against your doctor's rules. Bad enough the folks from town are sneaking you candy bars and M&Ms. Don't think I don't know it's not just Studebaker." I looked at Stella. She looked away.

  Agnes harrumphed. "Worry wart."

  "Stella," I said when we got to the hallway, "now you know sneaking Agnes candy is against the rules."

  "Ah, it's just a Three Musketeers."

  When we got to the truck, it occurred to me to ask, "Stella. Just one thing. If Walter wasn't looking for you, why was he up here in the mountains? I mean why isn't he down south? Isn't that where your people are?"

  Stella took a long moment before speaking. "That's a good question, Griselda. I'm sure I don't know why he was up here."

  3

  Stella barely looked at me or spoke the whole way back to town. She sat in her seat and picked at her fingernails. It was almost as if she regretted spilling the beans to Agnes and me, and I ached to tell her that I wasn't standing in judgment about her. I could understand her struggle. But I didn't say anything.

  It wasn'
t until I pulled up in front of her house that she finally spoke. "I'm glad it's out in the open, Griselda. But would you please keep it to yourself?"

  I assured her I would.

  She reached over and kissed my cheek. "Thank you, Griselda. You are a good friend."

  "Think Nate got the bugs under control back there?" I said as she pushed the truck door open.

  "Oh, he's a pain in my rear end," she said. "He fusses more over that pumpkin than he does the mortgage that is always late."

  "Are you gonna tell him about Walter?"

  Stella shrugged. "I'm afraid to. He's so tense right now what with the weigh-off coming around. One more problem might send him over—"

  "I think you should tell him."

  Stella paused a moment. "Heck, I haven't even made up my own mind about Walter, let alone whether to tell Nate all this. He doesn't know much about my life before we got married."

  "I guess you can wait to tell Nate, but Walter? He could die."

  I pulled away from the curb with an uneasy feeling setting in my stomach. I had known Stella for several years and in all that time she never seemed vulnerable in any way. She always went about her business without a care. I guess it goes to show that everybody has their troubles. Some are better at hiding them.

  It was Thursday, meat loaf night at The Full Moon. It used to be on Mondays, but Zeb decided to change it on account of more people came out on Thursdays. And I will admit to having a weakness for Zeb's meatloaf, so I headed to the café.

  Mildred Blessing's police cruiser was parked in her usual spot. Zeb gave her a reserved parking spot because she was a guardian of the community, and he felt it was a good idea to honor her that way. She also gets free coffee while she's on duty.