Charlotte Figg Takes Over Paradise

Charlotte Figg

Takes Over

Paradise

Also by Joyce Magnin

The Prayers of Agnes Sparrow

CHARLOTTE FIGG

TAKES OVER

PARADISE

A Novel of Bright's Pond

Joyce Magnin

Nashville, Tennessee

Charlotte Figg Takes Over Paradise

Copyright © 2010 by Joyce Magnin

ISBN-13: 978-1-4267-0766-7

Published by Abingdon Press, P.O. Box 801, Nashville, TN 37202

www.abingdonpress.com

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form,

stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website,

or transmitted in any form or by any means—

digital, electronic, scanning, photocopying,

recording, or otherwise—without written permission from

the publisher, except for brief quotations in printed

reviews and articles.

The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction are the

creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons

living or dead is purely coincidental.

Cover design by Anderson Design Group, Nashville, TN

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Moccero, Joyce Magnin.

   Charlotte Figg takes over Paradise : a novel of Bright's Pond / Joyce Magnin.p. cm.

   ISBN 978-1-4267-0766-7 (pbk. : alk. paper)

   1. Widows—Fiction. 2. Trailer camps—Fiction. 3. Female friendship—Fiction. 4. Abused women—Fiction. I. Title.

   PS3601.L447C47  2010

   813'.6—dc22

2010029300                              

Printed in the United States of America

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 / 15 14 13 12 11 10

To Pammy

who truly understands the meaning of friendship

It always amazes how many cheerleaders,

experts, and editors it takes to write a novel,

and this one is no exception.

Thank you to:

My friend, Pam Halter, who reads every single word,

even the words that never make it into the finished book.

My children, Emily and Adam, who continue to

understand Mama's wacky world of writing.

The Crue—ever faithful, ever ready to pray, advise,

and dress up in fat suits when you need them to.

My editor, Barbara Scott,

who continues to believe and teach.

The women in my Wednesday morning Bible study,

who laugh, pray, and listen.

Dr. Nancy Horvitz Rist,

who taught me how to deliver a baby.

All the staff and students in the Chestnutwold Elementary

Before and After School program, who make me

smile every day.

Nick Pelka, who taught me much about firefighting.

And, of course, my mother, who taught me

the importance of good pie and a good dog.

Redemption comes to people in many ways.

             —Rose Tattoo

R
ewriting the rules of Paradise did not come easy. But it did come, and I even managed to have a little fun along the way— fun with a few dollops of sadness, grief, and police activity tossed into the mix.

It all started one icy January morning in 1974 when my husband, Herman, shuffled into the kitchen, sat in his chair, opened the
Philadelphia Inquirer
with a sharp flick of his wrists, and blustered. It was a horsy kind of sound that emanated from deep within his bowels, rose through his stomach and up into his throat, and came out through his lips.

"World's coming to an end, Charlotte."

The world had been coming to an end for twenty-three of the twenty-six years we had been married. It was right after the price of porterhouse steak climbed to ninety-five cents a pound that Herman had this epiphany.

"Look here, Charlotte." Herman snapped his paper. "You know the end is coming when a man can't afford a good steak without taking out a second mortgage."

"That's nonsense," I said as I refilled his cup. "The world is not coming to an end just because of the price of steak."

But I should have known better than to say anything because Herman began announcing the imminent demise of life on Earth as we know it on a daily basis. That way I was certain no one could say Herman didn't see it coming.

But the only world that ended was his. A massive brain hemorrhage knocked Herman to the floor like a two-hundredpound sack of russets. I was busy in the powder room at the time and only heard a loud thud.

There wasn't much a fifty-one-year-old, slightly arthritic woman with only a smattering of first-aid skills could do in that situation. So I rested Herman's large and balding head in my lap and wept while I waited for the ambulance. It seemed the right thing to do.

"I didn't actually see Herman fall," I told the driver. "But I heard a loud bang—no—more like a big thud, duller than a bang. I thought at first a hollow tree limb had fallen in the backyard. But . . . " I snuffed a tear, "it was Herman."

Unfortunately, it never occurred to Herman that he would ever actually die. I think Herman always figured he'd be around for the rapture and get taken up into heaven in a blink of an eye. As a result, Herman made no provision for his death that I knew about. I searched high and low for papers, anything that would give me a clue about what I was to do now. I didn't even know where to bury him, let alone how to pay for it.

So after they took his body to the Gideon Funeral Home, I sat on the sofa and sobbed like a lost child for almost two hours until I decided I had no choice but to figure out what to do next. I rooted through drawers and boxes hoping to find an answer. At about nine o'clock that night I discovered a wrinkled life insurance policy with the Fuller Brush Company tucked away in the bottom of his samples bag. Herman was a Fuller Brush salesman, so I suppose it was the most reasonable place for him to keep the document. I doubt he ever read it. This had been the first time I ever went through his beloved samples bag. I felt a little criminal. He protected it like it held nuclear secrets.

At least his funeral would be paid for and there would even be some cash left over for me to live on. I didn't have a career, not like Herman. He loved selling his wares door-to-door, and he was pretty good at it. I think it made him sad and even angry sometimes that I did not share his enthusiasm for brushes and cleaning supplies, although I did like to keep a clean house and bake pie. It was the one thing I was good at, and maybe if the Fuller Brush Company came out with a line of pie tins I might have been more enthusiastic.

The day after I found the policy I called that nice James Deeter at the Combined Insurance Company. James was a dear. He came over early the next morning and held my hand and served me coffee and walked me through the final arrangements. I thought that I would have liked it if I had a son like James.

He even drove me down to Gideon's so I could pick out a casket. Did you know that funeral homes have a casket showroom? I didn't. And I'm not too proud to admit that I felt a little woozy when I went inside and saw all the models. I counted fifteen different coffins and thought Herman might have been able to sell the Gideon's a boatload of lemon oil to keep those caskets gleaming the way they did.

After that chore was finished and James headed back to the insurance office, I set out to find a reverend or pastor, someone who could give Herman a proper burial. I did not want Frank Gideon to drop him in a hole without some sort of service.

I opened the yellow pages and found the number for Maple Tree Church of Faith—the church I attended as a child and into my teen years until I finally had my fill of people who said one thing on Sunday and lived another the rest of the week.

Pastor Herkmeier agreed to bury Herman. Of course, he wasn't the pastor when I attended Maple Tree. That was eons ago, and I was certain that Pastor Virgil had long since retired or died. I took the bus to see Reverend Herkmeier after taking one of Herman's suits to the funeral home—he had six gray suits, exactly alike. He only wore white shirts (long sleeve in winter, short in summer) and skinny striped ties. I wondered if I should bring undershorts. I did just in case, a freshly bleached pair.

The church stood right where it always had, down a country road and tucked away off the street in a clearing near some woods. But it was still only about a two-block walk from the bus stop. I didn't drive much. No need to really. We only had one car and Herman needed it for sales calls. He drove me pretty much everywhere I needed to go, and when he couldn't, SEPTA, the Southeast Public Transportation Authority, was happy to oblige. Riding the bus was always an adventure. You just never knew who you were going to meet or what you would see. One time I witnessed an actual purse-snatching as we drove past the Italian Market. The driver radioed the incident in, and everyone on the bus rushed to the driver's side for a better look. By then the perpetrator had bolted down Arch Street clutching the old woman's bag like a football.

Generally, the passengers on board were cordial. If there wasn't a seat, I could always count on a nice young gentleman to offer me his. It made me feel special.

Maple Tree Church was a pretty little chapel with bright red doors and a tall white steeple with a lightning rod that stood just a little taller than the trees. Seemed strange to me that God would need a lightning rod. Imagine that, zapping your own house. Of course, the building showed its age. Ivy or lichen or some such parasite greened-up the otherwise gray and silvery stone walls.

After my two-block walk from the bus stop, I took a deep breath and went inside where a young woman in a tight, blue sweater greeted me. "Can I help you?"

"My name is Charlotte Figg. I'm here to see Pastor Herkmeier."

She looked at me over the top of her pointy glasses. "Go right in. He's expecting you." The woman sat about two feet from her desk, I supposed, in order to accommodate her extra large breasts that otherwise would have continually knocked her coffee cup over.

I hesitated at the office door until Reverend Herkmeier, who stood behind a large oak desk strewn with books and papers, invited me inside.

"Mrs. Figg. Come in, come in." His voice sounded like crushed velvet. "I am indeed sorry for your loss."

He indicated a leather chair—the kind with brass buttons all around. I sat and locked my ankles around the feet of the chair just in case the temptation to run struck me. The pastor, a tall, Lincolnesque man with a ski-slope nose and a high forehead that reached clear back to his ears, twiddled his thumbs on top of the desk. I made a mental note. Twiddlers, in my opinion, were the nervous sort and not to be trusted.

I imagined him in a Roman toga and wearing an ivy wreath around his bald spot. The vision relaxed me enough to speak. That was a trick I learned from my mother. She always imagined people in "alternate capacities" as she called it. She said, "Charlotte, some folks just can't be taken for who they say they are. You have to imagine their true selves and go with that." Which is why she said she always imagined my father in a tweed jacket with elbow patches. Daddy owned his own plumbing and heating company, but he wanted to write stories and live like Ernest Hemingway.

"Thank you for doing this, Pastor," I said.

"Of course, of course, Mrs. Figg." He twiddled with a tad more gusto. "I suppose the standard funeral service would be sufficient. Or did you have something special in mind?"

Special. The word stung like a mosquito. I think I might have even swatted it away with the back of my hand. There was nothing special about Herman's life, so why make his funeral into something extraordinary? Humdrum summed his life up best. Perhaps that was why Herman blustered every morning.

"No, no thank you, nothing special."

"That's fine. I can meet you at the funeral home—Gideon's, correct?—at ten o'clock on Thursday. Is that time enough to make arrangements and gather family and friends?"

I chewed my left index fingernail, still ruminating on what was special about Herman. "Unless you think it would be all right to bury him with his samples bag," I said. "I mean, Herman loved that bag. The feel of it, the smell. Kept it right near the bedside every single night. It was like his best friend."I scratched an itch above my right eye. "I think he liked that bag more than me," I whispered.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Figg. Did you say something?"

"Oh, no, no—but about that samples bag."

"Just be sure to bring it to the funeral home," Pastor Herkmeier said. "I'm certain they'll accommodate you. Frank Gideon is a good man. I once buried a woman with her cocker spaniel. They died on the same day. Can you believe that? I mean, what are the odds of—"

I coughed.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Figg. Now, how about music? My wife, Lucinda, will be pleased to play the piano during the viewing time. She plays a lovely rendition of 'In the Garden.' She can sing it also, if you like."

I nodded. The viewing. Odd the things you don't think about when planning a funeral until you have to. Imagine that, people filing past Herman's dead body. When everything was planned, I thanked the pastor, waited for the bus, and rode home. I did all this without shedding a single tear.

But I will admit that walking into my house that afternoon was one of the most difficult things I have ever done. I stood on the stoop in the freezing air for half a minute or so before opening the front door. Maybe it was just a dream. But no.

Herman was gone, yet the house still smelled like him—a mixture of Old Spice, lemon oil, and cedar spray. I could feel his presence everywhere, especially when I stubbed my toe for the gazillionth time on his oversized La-Z-Boy recliner in the living room. It was pointed right straight toward the Magnavox TV. I had never sat in the chair—not once.

I flopped on the sofa, and the first tear of the day rolled down my cheek and splashed on my knee. "Now, why are you crying, Charlotte Figg? Tears are not going to bring Herman back." But reprimanding myself didn't make the tears stop or help me make sense of this. So there I sat in my hat and heavy coat—the one with the fuzzy collar—and cried like a baby."Herman, you idiot. Now what am I going to do?"

The phone rang and startled the bejeebers out of me.

"Hello," I said with my palm on my thumping chest.

"Charlotte? What's the matter with you?"

"Mother," I said.

"I've been trying to reach you for hours. Where in the heck were you? I know something is wrong, Charlotte. Did that Herman finally haul off and hit you? I knew this day was coming. I knew—"

"Mother," I said with as much force as I could muster. "I have to tell you something."

I could hear her nervous breathing. "I knew it. I just knew it," she said. "And you know about my feelings, Charlotte."

I did. My mother had a feeling that JFK would be assassinated, and to this day she feels guilty for not informing the Secret Service? Right then, she made a solemn vow she would never let another feeling go by without informing the proper governmental agency or individual.

"Mother. Herman is dead."

"What? When? Oh, dear me, Charlotte did you finally lose your mind and—"

"Mother. Don't be ridiculous."

"It's a valid question, Charlotte. Now tell me what happened."

I told her the story and waited for the reply I knew would come. My mother, Lillian DeSalle, now seventy-two and living at the Cocoa Reef Retirement Village in Tampa Bay, Florida, never liked Herman.

"Well, Charlotte. I am sorry, now. I truly am. But—"

"Mother. Please don't. Not today."

"When's the funeral? Did you use Gideon? They took good care of your father, God rest his soul."

In my mind, I could see her look to the heavens, pick up his framed image, now enshrined on the telephone table next to a perpetual electric candle and a bouquet of plastic roses, and kiss his nose.

"Yes, Mother. I went to Gideon, and Pastor Herkmeier from our old church is going to do the service."