The Dog Days of Charlotte Hayes (10 page)

T
he walk to Petunia's after school is a windy one. Stray orange and yellow leaves scoot across the sidewalk, and the sky is a deep blue. I stop by the post office and fish through my backpack for Petunia's key, which I placed inside a small zippered compartment. I find the key among loose change and sticks of gum, locate Petunia's PO box—number 82—among rows and rows of similar boxes, then stick the key in with a twist. I collect a few business-size envelopes, and I'm on my way again.

I cut over to Fenton Street, and before I know it I'm on the porch of the weathered yellow house with crooked green shutters. It takes Petunia a while to
answer the front door. I remembered Rhonda's advice not to be impatient, so I don't ring the doorbell twice, but when the door finally opens, Petunia still looks upset over something.

“Come in,” she says, her voice not exactly welcoming.

I step inside and hand her the small bundle of mail I collected from her PO box.

“Thank you,” she says stiffly, placing the envelopes on a small foyer table near the stairway.

“So what did Rhonda have?” I ask.

“A girl. Amber Rose.”

“That's pretty. And she's named after a flower, like you.”

“Well, that's better than being named after a farmyard animal, I suppose.”

Petunia's back is turned, and she's looking through the envelopes she placed on the foyer table, so I can't tell if she is trying to make a joke about my foot-in-mouth episode two days ago or if she is trying to make me feel bad.

Do I laugh or do I not laugh? Do I make a silly
comeback or ignore the comment? I end up remaining silent.

Petunia turns around to face me. “You may go sit in the parlor.”

Parlor. Would that be the big living room to the left? Or the small sitting area to the right that has two wingback chairs and a couch?

I stand there with a confused look on my face. Petunia leans on her cane and thumps toward one of the wingback chairs. I follow her.

She sits in one of the blue velvet chairs, which is placed in front of a big picture window, so I settle onto the couch across the way. That way I'm not too close and yet not too far away.

“Do you need anything from Grater's?” I ask.

“No. I'm fine. I'll need milk tomorrow. Maybe a can of soup.”

I'm sort of disappointed I don't have to make a grocery run. I already feel like I need a break from Petunia. An ornate cuckoo clock hangs on the wall nearby, ticking away. I've been here only five minutes. Fifty-five more to go. What am I going to do to fill the time?

I clear my throat. “So Rhonda and the baby are doing fine?”

“From what I've heard.”

A long pause.

“I think I'll read,” Petunia finally says. There is a thick book next to a lamp on a small round table by her chair. She picks the book up, finds her place, and starts reading without a further word.

From the front cover I can tell it's a murder mystery. A glinting knife and a crumpled silhouette of a body. This does nothing to ease my discomfort.

I unzip my backpack, which I placed at my feet, and find my own library book. I'm still reading the one about a girl named Maddie lost in the woods. She was on the verge of being found when I left off, and I have only a few chapters to go until the end.

Twenty-five minutes later I am finished. Maddie has survived her adventure in the woods and as a result no longer seems like a spoiled rich girl.

I just don't know if I can survive my remaining thirty minutes with Petunia.

Petunia appears to be engrossed with her book. The
afternoon sun is shining from behind her, and again, like the first time we met, I am struck by how pretty she is. Tiny nose. Tiny chin. Big eyes. She's wearing a rose-colored skirt today, and a blue knit sweater, and she has a small bit of makeup on. I find myself wondering what she looked like when she was younger.

I glance around the room, trying to see if there are any pictures displayed. I don't find one of Petunia, but on the side table by the couch is a framed picture of the house. It looks different. Cheerful. Probably because the house was freshly painted. I know that because a man is standing in the front yard, and he's grinning and holding up a paint can. It's an old color photo, and the yellow of the house reminds me of a baby chicken. Not garish or bright, but a warm and fuzzy shade.

I want to pick up the picture to get a closer look, but I don't dare.

A voice makes me jump. “Can I get you anything to drink? A snack?” Petunia is staring at me, the murder mystery closed on her lap. “Lemonade and a cookie?”

I am thirsty and hungry, so I say, “Yes, please.”

“Come with me to the kitchen then.”

 

Seated at the kitchen table, I feel a little guilty for saying yes to Petunia's offer. Considering her stroke, it's no small task for Petunia to get me a cookie and pour me a glass of lemonade. Shouldn't I be taking care of her and not the other way around? But for some reason, Petunia doesn't seem as gruff as she did earlier.

Still, right at the moment I take the first bite out of my iced molasses cookie, Petunia tells me she needs to write out some bills. She makes her way over to a desk with cubbyholes in the corner of the kitchen, and the only sound I hear is my self-conscious crunching.

By the time I leave, a ten-dollar bill tucked in my pocket, I believe Petunia and I have exchanged all of ten words.

A
fter a week I believe Petunia's and my daily word count is even less. It's not a hard job, but it's certainly an uncomfortable one. It's not that Petunia is mean exactly. It's more like she just doesn't want me there. So when she has me go to Grater's to pick up something like a loaf of bread or a half gallon jug of skim milk for her, I walk verrrrry sloooowly. I also take the time to read all the headlines of the magazine covers by the checkout, even though I'm not really interested in what celebrities are up to. I do anything to take up time; otherwise each second back at Petunia's drags by forever.

The early-morning bell rings for school and Grace
rushes into the room. She flashes a smile as she passes my desk. I notice something different…

“You got your braces!” I say.

“Yep.” She nods, stopping in her tracks. “Mom says you and Luanne can come for a sleepover tomorrow night since it's Friday. We can rent movies or something.”

“Okay. Sounds fun.”

“Hey, Grace. Braces with pink bands. Cool,” says Becca, who sits at the desk across from mine.

“The orthodontist says next time I can change the color,” Grace replies.

“That's neat.”

A few more kids come up to study Grace's braces. She has become a regular member of our class now, no longer someone to be stared or whispered at. Roxanne, Madison, and Becca have actually started joining our lunch table. It's a bit crowded, but no one seems to mind.

 

Petunia does not need any groceries today. She sits in the blue velvet wingback chair, reading another
murder mystery. This one has a gun on the front.

I have finished another two library books since I started my job here but haven't made it back to the library to return them and get more reading material. So I am stuck with nothing to do. Not even any homework. I decide to get out a school notebook and do some doodling on the back pages I hope I won't need. I stare at the framed photo of Petunia's house and begin sketching it out. Once I get the house looking good, I start in on the grinning man with the paint can, but I feel like I need a closer look to get the details right.

Since Petunia seems so in tune with her book, I pick up the framed photo of her house that sits on the nearby side table.

“That's my father.”

Startled, I nearly drop the photo.

Petunia has her book folded on her lap.

“Oh.” I quickly close my notebook with my free hand, not wanting Petunia to see what I have drawn.

“He painted the house himself. Took him a
month. He was so proud of how it looked when he was finished.”

“I can tell,” I say. I place the picture back on the table. “It does look nice.”

“He died the very next day. Heart attack.”

Oh, dear. What can I say to that? Finally I get out the words “I'm sorry.”

“I know the house looks bad from the outside now.” Petunia sighs, shrugs, and reopens her book.

After the brief bit of talking we did, the silence in the room somehow seems strangely bothersome.

“Well, why haven't you repainted the house?” I ask, before realizing how rude I must sound. I want to clamp my hand over my mouth, but it is way too late.

Petunia looks up from her book. “I guess, in a way, it would seem like repainting over the memory of my father. I did go to the paint store once. Collected dozens and dozens of paint chips. Blue ones, tan ones, red ones, even pink ones. But I was so overwhelmed by all the color choices it just ended up being easier to make no decision at all.”

The fact that Petunia is actually talking to me, almost confiding in me, makes me suddenly brave. I gesture at the picture of her father and the freshly painted house. “Do you have other pictures I could see?” I ask.

“There's an album in the living room. Bookshelves by the fireplace. You may go and get it if you wish.”

I slip my notebook into my backpack and make my way to the living room.

By the time I return with the photo album, Petunia is busy reading again. I sit at my usual place on the couch, wondering if she'll join me to explain some of the pictures, but she remains seated in her wingback chair.

I
t's hard not to pester Petunia with a million questions as I make my way through the photo album, but I don't want to pry or appear nosy. So I quietly leaf through the pages, being grateful that at least I have something to do to pass the time.

It looks like Petunia had a brother a few years older than her, but I gather something happened to her mother. She's in a few baby pictures, but then she disappears, poof, just like that. Did she die? Run off with a boyfriend? There are lots of happy pictures, though, of Petunia, her father, and her brother. And she was beautiful. There are pictures of her in her
teen years looking glamorous, dressed up like she was going to a dance, with a handsome boy at her side. Pictures of her as a young woman, looking serious in a businesslike narrow skirt and jacket and then grinning in a bathing suit at the beach with others her age. But there are no wedding pictures to be found. The last picture in the album is another shot of the freshly painted house and her father. I close the album.

“Are you ready for some lemonade and a snack?” Petunia asks. “Oatmeal raisin cookies today. Fresh from the box.”

“That sounds good. Thanks for letting me look at the photo album.”

“Sure.” Petunia begins her unsteady gait to the kitchen.

Once I get settled at the table with my cookie and glass of lemonade, I expect Petunia to busy herself with something like she always does, but instead she sits herself down across from me.

“I don't think it's fair for you to have to come here every day after school,” she says. “I'm sure you
would rather be spending time with your friends than being bored to death here. I know Rhonda said you needed to earn some money. But all I really need is for someone to get the mail or run to Grater's for me. You really don't need to stay here until four-thirty. You can start leaving early if you want; I'll still pay you the same. Rhonda worries about my being lonely, but I'm fine, really.”

Now a few days ago I would have jumped at such an offer. But for some reason, after looking through the photo album and talking with her a bit, I want to find out more about Petunia Parker. “I don't mind being here,” I say. I take a sip of lemonade.

“Are you sure?” she asks.

I nod.

“Well, how about a game of gin rummy then?” Petunia says. “You have a half hour left, and my latest murder mystery has been solved.”

Petunia gets a deck of cards from her kitchen desk drawer. She hands them to me. “I can't shuffle anymore, so you do the honors.”

I start shuffling the cards.

“What I really love playing is euchre, but you need four people for that,” Petunia says. “Goodness, it's been a good fifteen years or so since I've played that game.”

It's difficult for Petunia to play. Basically she has the use of only one hand, her left, but she manages by setting the cards facedown after she looks at them, withdrawing the one she wants to play, and picking the rest up again by sliding them toward the table edge.

By four-thirty I end up winning one game of rummy. Petunia wins four. And I've got an idea brewing for tomorrow. A surprise for Petunia Parker.

T
he walk home from Petunia's is a cold one. The wind is downright nasty, and I stuff my hands in my coat pockets, wishing I were wearing gloves. By the time I reach our driveway, I notice a few stray snowflakes falling from the sky. October 21, our first snow of the season. A little early to have anything more than a brief flurry, so I doubt it will amount to much. I'd really like to go right inside and get warmed up, but Beauregard needs tending to.

Beauregard's tail starts wagging to beat the band the moment he sees me. After filling up his water bowl, instead of giving him a belly rub, I wrap my
arms around his neck, hugging him just to get warm. His fur feels nice and toasty against my cheek. He doesn't seem to mind. But when I start to walk away, he quickly collapses on the ground, belly up.

“All right,” I say, walking back. “A hug
and
a belly rub. I guess today's your lucky day.”

 

When I go through the breezeway, I notice the same blank canvas sitting on the windowsill that has been taking up space for a while. Daddy never did start a new painting after the flowers in the vase one. I pick up the how-to-paint book Daddy left on top of a cluttered pile of stuff, take it up to my room, and read it until I hear Mama's voice calling me to come set the table for dinner.

A bit later, as I'm dipping a slice of bread into a puddle of gravy, I mention to Daddy how cold it is. “Don't you think maybe we should bring Killer inside? At least at night?” I ask.

“No dog in the house,” Mama says sternly.

“But…” I begin.

Daddy waves his hand at me, shooing away
my attempt to fight the issue. “Are you kidding? Charlotte, didn't I tell you those dogs were bred to rescue people up on the snow-covered mountains of Switzerland? He'll be fine.”

I wasn't happy with Daddy's answer, but I knew arguing wasn't going to change his mind. He's stubborn that way. Mama, too. I decide to ask about something else I've been wondering about. “You going to paint anymore, Daddy?”

“Naw. Don't think so.”

“But you did such a nice job with your first painting,” Mama says, surprised.

“Oh, I enjoyed it, I guess, but it's such a hassle getting everything set up. And you can do only one layer at a time. And don't get me started on cleaning those brushes afterward; I just don't have the patience for it. It's a shame 'cause I really do have the talent for it.” Daddy grins. “I'm a regular Vincent van Gogh, but the world will have to settle for just one of my paintings.”

“Could I use your paint set sometime then, Daddy?” I ask.

Daddy nods.

 

The house is dark, the clock glows 12:20
A.M
., but I can't sleep. The wind is howling outside, and I'm thinking about Beauregard and his too small doghouse. Fall here in Greater Oaks started out like summer; now it isn't close to being over, and you'd think it was winter already. I get up and look out my window. Daddy always leaves the back porch light on before going to bed, and I can see scattered snowflakes whipping around the light. Still, it's too dark to see Beauregard clearly from up here, and I wonder if he's shivering. I bet those rescue dogs in Switzerland had decent shelter, when they weren't doing their jobs, and got a break from the cold. I wish I could bring Beauregard up to my room, but someone would be sure to hear him clumping up the stairs with those big clumsy paws of his.

I slip on a pair of fuzzy slippers and grab my pillow from the bed and my alarm clock, too. I creep out of my room and tiptoe down the stairs, careful to step over the creaking fourth stair from the bottom. I place my pillow on one end of the couch, set my alarm
clock for 5:00
A.M
., and then stuff it under my pillow so the sound will be muffled when it goes off. I feel my way through the kitchen, careful not to bump into anything, and quietly unlatch the lock on the breezeway door. Once outside, I race over to Beauregard, the wind stinging my cheeks and making my eyes water. There's no snow gathered on the ground, but everything feels hard and frozen under my feet. I can only imagine what it feels like for Beauregard, lying out in the open, exposed. I unclip his chain, grab his collar, and lead him back to the breezeway door.

“You be good,” I say, before letting him in. I keep a firm grip on his collar and guide him to the couch. Pushing on his lower back, I make him sit; then I softly pat the floor to get him to lie down. I settle onto the couch.

“Good night, Beauregard,” I whisper, putting my face close to his.

He licks my cheek.

Oh, gross.

I fall asleep, my hand clutched around his nylon collar, soft fur wedged between my fingers.