The Dog Days of Charlotte Hayes (9 page)

I
walk to Rhonda's Cut and Curl after school the next day, wondering if I have a job or not. Part of me is desperately hoping for the job, while part of me is desperately wishing Rhonda will say it won't work out. I'm a little scared of going into that creepy old house and looking after what could be a creepy old woman. I feel guilty for being uncomfortable that way; just because someone is old and has had a stroke doesn't mean she can't be nice, after all. But still, I can't shake the feeling things will be awkward.

Mama and Daddy have given me permission to accept Rhonda's job offer, if there is one. They both think it will be good for me. But if it weren't for
Beauregard, I doubt I'd even consider it.

I think of Beauregard and how if I start going to Rhonda's aunt's house every day after school, our usual routine will be interrupted. I guess he'll survive, though. Since the weather has been getting cooler, he doesn't go through as much water as he used to. He should be able to wait the extra hour or so for his belly rub as well.

When I step into the beauty salon, Rhonda is busy at the front desk, taking payment from Mrs. Conti, the mother of one of Agnes's friends. Mrs. Conti's hair is in tight ringlets. Must have just had a perm. I catch a whiff of the stinky chemicals too.

Rhonda smiles at me. “I'll be with you in a minute,” she says, and continues to chitchat with Mrs. Conti.

So I stare at my fingernails and bite my lip while I wait, my heart beginning a nervous beat. The pounding rhythm at first saying, “I want the job, I want the job, I want the job,” then: “No, I don't, no, I don't, no, I don't.”

Finally Mrs. Conti wraps up her conversation with Rhonda and turns to leave. “How are you doing, Charlotte?” she asks, suddenly seeing me.

“Fine.” I'm afraid she will begin talking and further delay the suspense over my possible job, but she hurries out the door, and I let out a sigh of relief.

“Well, guess what?” Rhonda says, smiling. “You've got yourself a job!”

“I do?”

She nods, putting Mrs. Conti's check in her cash drawer. “To be honest, it was a tough sell. Barth's aunt thinks she can fend for herself after I have the baby, but we finally convinced her it would be for the best.” She looks up. “I have a hole in my schedule right now. Want to go on over and meet her? Julie can hold down the fort for a few minutes while I'm gone.”

The phone rings, and Rhonda's friend Julie picks it up and waves us on. And without even waiting for my answer, Rhonda ushers me out the door and across the street.

R
honda pokes her index finger on the doorbell. “Sometimes it takes a while for her to get to the door to open it,” she says. “You've got to be patient, so wait awhile before ringing it again.”

A ghostly face stares at me from the side window panel. I let out a startled gasp.

“Oh! Guess this time she must have been right near the door when I rang the bell,” Rhonda whispers.

I hear the inside lock being fiddled with, and the door creaks open.

“Come in,” says a voice that sounds slightly off-kilter, like an accent from a country I'm not familiar with.

“Go ahead.” Rhonda practically pushes me inside. She follows me in, shutting the door behind her.

The three of us stand in the foyer, in front of a worn staircase with a red patterned carpet runner.

“This is Charlotte Hayes,” Rhonda says, gesturing at me. “Charlotte, this is Petunia Parker.”

I want to make a good impression, so I extend my hand. “Nice to meet you…” I pause. Do I call her miss? Mrs.? I quickly decide on Ms. to be safe. “Ms. Parker,” I say.

“My right hand doesn't work right,” she says briskly.

Oh, dear. Blushing from embarrassment, I withdraw my hand. The stroke, of course. Stupid of me.

“And don't call me Ms.,” she says, her voice slightly slurred-sounding.

It's then I realize she doesn't have an accent after all. The left side of her face is drooping, her mouth turned down on the same side. Speech problems from the stroke.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” I say.

“Just call me Petunia.”

“Like the pig?” I ask.

Oh, great. I can't believe I just said what I said. Daddy likes watching the channel that shows old cartoons a lot, and for some reason I couldn't stop the pig comment from flying out my mouth.

“No, not like the pig. Like the flower. I was named after my father's favorite flower,” comes the reply.

Rhonda is smiling at my goof, obviously amused. It looks like she is trying her best not to laugh. But it is hard to tell about Petunia, since her face is half paralyzed. I think I can see the right side of her mouth twitch, though.

Petunia turns her back to us, leans on her cane, and walks away with a strange shuffle hop. “Well, I might as well show you around,” she says.

We take a slow tour of the downstairs portion of the house. To the right is a small formal sitting room, which leads into the dining room and then the kitchen. There is a hallway to the left of the kitchen that meanders around the stairway and ends up at the front entry. Petunia's bedroom is at the rear of the house, then a bathroom, and a big living room
at the front of the house. So we have, in effect, just made a circle. Everything looks old-fashioned. Like I've stepped into a time warp. But the place is tidy. And so is Petunia. Petunia is kind of pretty, I decide. Her white-gray hair is gathered in a loose twist in the back and she is wearing blush, lipstick, and a purple skirt with a lightweight tan sweater. Noticing these things makes her a little less frightening somehow.

“You have a nice house,” I say.

“Thank you,” Petunia replies. And I think I catch a certain amount of pride in her voice.

Rhonda explains the routine I am to follow. She gives me the key to Petunia's post office box and tells me that Grater's Groceries down the street has set up an account for Petunia. I'm to get the mail first, then check with Petunia to see if I need to run to the store for anything.

Petunia remains silent through all this. It occurs to me that she is looking just as uncomfortable as I felt a few minutes ago.

“Well, I need to be getting back,” Rhonda says, checking her watch. “I have a four o'clock client
coming in for a trim.” She touches my shoulder. “I'm planning on working until I go into labor, so I won't need you until I have the baby, but I'll call you when I'm headed for the hospital. Okay?”

“Okay,” I say, following Rhonda to the door. Petunia and her cane thump after us.

“Good-bye, Aunt Petunia.” Rhonda leans over and kisses her on the cheek.

“Good-bye.”

I say good-bye, too, but without the kiss, of course, and follow Rhonda out the door.

“Well, that didn't go too bad,” Rhonda says, while waiting for the traffic to clear so she can cross the street. “It actually went a lot better than I thought it would. She likes you, I think.”

“She does? How do you know?” I definitely couldn't tell.

“Well, it took her years to accept me. Believe me, if she doesn't like you, she lets you know in no uncertain terms.”

I don't ask for details.

 

Beauregard lets out an excited bark when he sees me approach. He knows I'm late. Wish I could explain to him why. There's still a little water left in his bowl, so I don't feel too bad about keeping him waiting. He doesn't even need to take a drink after I fill it full of fresh water. Just flops over for his belly rub.

Once I'm done with the belly rub, I try to ignore the piles of poop that have accumulated since the last time I cleaned up after him, which was only a few days ago, but it's hard to ignore poop 'cause otherwise you'll step in it. I've done that before and don't exactly want a repeat experience, so I go to the garage to get a shovel and stop by the kitchen for a plastic bag. Soon I'm wrinkling my nose as I wedge the shovel between the ground and one of the presents Beauregard left me. Earning that $325 can't come quick enough.

 

After dinner Daddy visits his breezeway studio, Mama gives Justin Lee his bath, Agnes giggles on the phone with Tom, and I pull up saintrescue.org with a satisfied grin, imagining what it will be like to see Beauregard's profile there.

I click off the Web site, though, when one by one my family starts drifting into the living room: first Mama and Justin Lee with his damp hair, then Agnes, and finally Daddy. Daddy has brought his painting with him. He is holding it gingerly from the back edges where the canvas is stretched and stapled onto the frame. “Needs to dry, but I'm finished,” he says. “For you, my sweet.” He presents the painting to Mama.

Mama looks happy. Happier than I've seen her in a long time. “Thank you. It's lovely,” she says.

And it is kind of lovely. It doesn't exactly look like the picture in the book—much simpler and flatter maybe—but it still looks sort of nice.

While Justin Lee toddles over to his book basket, Mama carefully takes the painting and holds it above the empty space on the wall, right above the couch. “Perfect,” she says. She gives Daddy a smooch on the lips. And Daddy, who almost always looks happy, somehow looks even happier than usual.

Justin Lee brings the
B
book over to me. “Char Char,” he says. I scoop him onto my lap, breathe in the lingering
baby shampoo smell, and start reading to him.

Later Justin Lee is sleeping soundly in his room and Mama and Daddy are watching TV downstairs while I'm waiting for Agnes to come out of the upstairs bathroom so I can have my turn to get ready for bed. After the toilet flushes and I hear water running in the sink, Agnes finally emerges, her cheeks pink from a fresh scrubbing. Before heading in myself, I can't help mentioning to Agnes how Mama is starting to seem more like her old self.

“That painting must have done something,” I say. “Or maybe it's because Justin Lee is finally sleeping through the night.”

“I think it's mostly because she is getting over her postpartum depression. She was on the phone with Aunt Renee yesterday, and I heard her say she felt like a gray cloud had finally been lifted, that she's feeling much better.”

“I was worried about Mama.”

“Me, too.”

I pause for a moment. “Do you think we should still be worried?”

“Don't think so. Even you noticed she's getting better.”

I go to bed knowing I should be feeling pretty good. Mama's coming back to us, I've got a job, and Beauregard will be getting a new home soon.

But I can't help worrying anyway. Rhonda said Petunia Parker likes me.

I'm not so certain that's true.

S
leepy-eyed, I straggle out to the upstairs hallway and am greeted by a “Morning, birthday girl!” which snaps me out of my just-woke-up fog. It's October 13. I'm the birthday girl.

And there is Mama standing in front of me. She's got on her sweats. And running shoes.

“Daddy's keeping an ear out for Justin Lee while I take a run,” she says. “What kind of birthday cake should I make for tonight?”

“Chocolate with fudge icing,” I tell her.

“Will do,” she says.

I watch her as she jogs down the stairway and disappears from view.

 

At lunch the main topic of conversation is my new job. Luanne and Grace are all excited for me, and I know I should be excited, too. But I can't help wondering if Petunia Parker will make things unpleasant for me.

“Petunia's a weird name,” Luanne says. “But kind of cute.” She takes a bite out of her pizza slice.

“I know. I asked her if she was named after a pig.”

Grace's mouth drops open. “You didn't.”

“I did.” I nod, still blushing from the memory.

“Was she mad?” Luanne places her slice of pizza back down on the pink plastic school tray.

“I couldn't tell. Her face kind of droops. And she doesn't get around too good either. That's why Rhonda thinks she needs my help.” I take a bite of my own pizza. “Problem is, I'm not sure she actually wants my help.”

 

I blow out the twelve candles on my chocolate fudge cake and watch as the tiny trails of smoke disappear.
There are no birthday presents nearby waiting to be opened, but before I can cut the cake, Daddy shoves a card at me. It's a funny one with a monkey on it. Daddy picked it out, I assume, and it's stuffed with two twenties.

“Thanks,” I say.

“You can always change your mind, you know,” Daddy tells me. “You could buy something for yourself with the money if you want.”

“No. I'm buying Killer,” I reply.

Agnes looks at me like I'm crazy for saying so, but instead of making a smart comment, she asks me to hurry up and cut the cake.

Soon we all have nice-size chunks on our plates. Even Justin Lee has a small piece on his tray. He pokes a finger in the icing and licks his finger.

“You're next in line,” Mama tells him.

He squashes his piece of cake with an open hand and plasters half of it to his mouth. Justin Lee's birthday is in early December; he'll be a big one-year-old then.

The phone rings.

“I'll get it.” Agnes jumps up. A few seconds later she says, “Charlotte, it's for you.”

It's Rhonda's husband. “The baby's coming early,” he says, his voice all quick and excited. “Rhonda wants to know if you can start tomorrow.”

“Sure,” I say.

“Aunt Petunia will expect you around three-thirty then. Visit a bit, and you can leave at four-thirty.”

“Okay. Good luck with the baby,” I say.

“And good luck with Aunt Petunia.” Rhonda's husband gives a nervous laugh.

I hang up the phone not quite sure if the nervous laugh is over his wife's impending birth or me having to put up with an old lady named after a flower.