Getting Rid of Mabel Read online

  Getting Rid of Mabel

  By Keziah Frost

  Hinsdale, Illinois

  Copyright © 2019 by Keziah Frost.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Allegra Books, LLC

  15 Spinning Wheel Road

  Suite 417

  Hinsdale, Illinois 60521

  www.keziahfrost.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Book Layout ©2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Getting Rid of Mabel/ Keziah Frost. -- 1st ed.

  ISBN 978-1-7338237-1-5

  Praise for The Reluctant Fortune-Teller by Keziah Frost:

  “Delightful. Norbert Z is warm and real and we rejoice in his growth throughout the story. This is a real comfort read in an uncertain world.”—Rhys Bowen, New York Times bestselling author

  “Insightful, charming and intriguing, Norbert Z shows us that it’s never too late to change the cards that life deals us.”—Phaedra Patrick, author of The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper

  “An extraordinary book.”—Benjamin Ludwig, author of Ginny Moon

  “A warm, charming story you read with a smile.”—Catharina Ingelman-Sundberg, #1 bestselling author of The Little Old Lady Who Broke All the Rules

  “A charming book that leaves you with a lot to think about in the end…” –Lucy Burdette, author of the Key West food critic mysteries

  “I loved this charming and heartwarming story.”—Lynda Cohen Loigman, author of The Two-Family House and The Wartime Sisters

  “…charming, warm, and wittily told.”—Kirkus Reviews

  “A heartfelt story of coming-of-age late in life, The Reluctant Fortune-Teller is a poignant reminder that we're never too old to learn new tricks.”—Biz Hyzy, Booklist

  Getting Rid of Mabel

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the memory of my fifth grade teacher,

  Mrs. Dorothy Kean of Glen Rock, New Jersey, as promised.

  Thank you.

  -1-

  The Universe began to conspire against Carlotta Moon on a Tuesday afternoon in June. She could not have known, as she patted her silver hair into place and smiled at herself in her rearview mirror, that the events that would lead to her downfall were already on the march.

  On this sparkling day in Gibbons Corner, New York, her oldest friend was inhaling the fragrance of a bar of sandalwood soap. A man she didn’t know was buying a bus ticket. A tourist was unsteadily riding a bike through the charming streets of Gibbons Corner. And Carlotta, in blissful unawareness of her impending undoing, was driving to the bank.

  Gibbons Corner, New York, was a picturesque small town of winding roads, surrounded by hills, and set, like the proverbial jewel, on the edge of Lake Ontario. A fresh breeze blew from the lake and washed over the town. In the summer light, a hazy warmth floated in the air, and the gulls screeched overhead.

  Carlotta parked her well-cared-for burgundy Ford Fusion and walked into Community Bank Finance and Trust. She headed to the desk of the new “Client Service Manager.” She liked the plaque on his desk, announcing the trustworthy name: Michael Ernest.

  The young man looked away from his computer screen to his crisp and stylish customer as she sat down.

  Before Carlotta’s bottom hit the chair, she quipped, “‘It has always been a girlish dream of mine to love someone whose name was Ernest.’”

  Alarm registered in the young man’s eyes.

  Carlotta sighed. How often had she lamented to her friends the burden she bore, everywhere she went, always being the smartest person in the room. Her friends tolerated her intellectual vanity good-naturedly, because they also considered her the smartest person—at least when she was in the room with them. Which was endearing.

  Carlotta looked deeply into the darting gray eyes of the young banker, willing him to make the connection.

  “The Importance of Being Earnest,” she explained.

  Nothing.

  She leaned forward to give him one last hint. “Wilde!” she beamed, encouragingly.

  Alarm on the young man’s face was replaced with horror, fear.

  Which led Carlotta to reflect briefly on the twenty-somethings of today. She felt that young people saw her across a great divide, as a different species. She wondered now if there really was a species difference between someone like her and someone like “Michael Ernest.” What kind of orangutan doesn’t know the plays of Oscar Wilde?

  Carlotta would have a good laugh about Michael Ernest later with her sidekick, Lorraine. Lorraine, Carlotta’s senior by four years, was back in town where she belonged after a year-long sojourn with her son’s family, who had migrated to England. Carlotta, who had never been to England, had at first been on guard lest Lorraine use her European experience as a claim to superior culture. Both culture and superiority were Carlotta’s own domains and everyone in the Club knew it. Lorraine had not forgotten this, and came home saying, adorably, “You know what? You can take the girl out of New York.” And she had let Margaret and Birdie fill in: “But you can’t take New York out of the girl!” Carlotta’s friends were vain about New York State, reminding each other all the time how lucky they were to live among the winding roads, hills, woods and verdant fields. And if they were proud of their state, they were downright conceited about their charming little tourist town of Gibbons Corner.

  With one half of her brain, Carlotta conducted her routine bank business (simply managing her “wealth,” as she liked to think of it) with the literal-minded and unimaginative Michael Ernest, while the other half was busy amusing itself. This dismal fellow actually had thought she was a crazy old lady, flirting with him. The idea was so funny, she had to suppress her laughter, and could only think how she could use this scene later, with her friends. Material for her comedy seemed to keep rolling in from everywhere.

  People are so droll.

  -2-

  Meanwhile, as Carlotta was suppressing her mirth at the desk of the banker, her dear friend Margaret was being accosted on the bus by a persistent elderly man.

  Margaret Birch, eighty-seven years old, had been a petite and stunning “knock-out” in her twenties and had never gotten over it. She was riding home on the bus from Edwards Cove after a busy morning visiting the shops. Most residents of the area avoided the boutiques and souvenir shops during tourist season, but Margaret happily threw herself into the fray when expectant vacationers flocked to Edwards Cove and Gibbons Corner looking for unique finds and fun things to do.

  The “elderly man,” as she thought of him, was probably about seventy-five—younger by more than a decade than Margaret, but she always thought of herself as her younger version. Sometimes she found it odd that she, as a young and beautiful woman, had so many white-haired friends, until she remembered that she was older than all of them. It was always a jolt.

  The man had looked up at her when she got on the bus, and immediately jumped from his seat and sat down in the one across from her.

  “Mabel! Am I glad to see you again! How are you feeling today?
”

  Margaret drew herself up to her tallest extension, but measuring merely four feet, eight inches, her toes dangled above the floor. “You have me confused with someone else. My name is not Mabel.”

  The man chuckled, “Such a kidder, eh, Mabel? I don’t think there could be two good-looking women like you in the state of New York. You’re Mabel, all right.”

  Margaret had been used to approaches by strange men many years ago, and her power to rebuff was still automatic and quite firm. Her cornflower-blue eyes (she had been told once that she had cornflower-blue eyes, and never forgot it) turned to azure ice as she met the gaze of the grinning man and warned him: “If you continue to harass me, I will tell the bus driver. I will make a police report.”

  “Geez, Mabel, okay, okay. Calm down. I guess you’re still mad at me about last night. Sor-ree. I didn’t mean anything.”

  Margaret stood and marched to the front of the bus and in a loud voice told the driver, “That man is bothering me.”

  The driver motioned to Margaret to sit in an empty seat near him. Margaret did not turn to look at the annoying man again. She waited for him to get off in Gibbons Corner before she left the bus.

  When he filed past her, he mumbled apologetically, “Sorry, Ma’am. Just a case of mistaken identity.”

  Margaret stiffened, sniffed, and stared out the bus window until she could be the last person to descend into the sparkling summer twilight. That irritating man was nowhere in sight. She’d just take her purchases (a bar of sandalwood soap and a new sketchbook) to her condo a block from Main Street, have a bite to eat, and get on her painting clothes. It was Tuesday: “Oil Painting with Carlotta” tonight. She began to rehearse the version of the man-on-the-bus incident she would tell her friends.

  -3-

  The Gibbons Corner Art League had been standing downtown, at the intersection of Main Street and Quaintance Court, for fifty-seven years. Always, from its inception, it benefitted from the allure of the nearby art-and-tourist town of Edwards Cove and received its share of the disposable income of seekers of unique “finds.” Margaret and her friends were all avid members of the Art League, having happily discovered painting talent which had lain latent through the first seven decades of their lives.

  Margaret walked with purpose toward the League, passing the storefront window displaying a sampling of the works to be found inside: watercolor angels bearing the neatly-lettered signature of Birdie Walsh; an oil painting of the rolling hills of New York State signed by “C. Moon;” a large ceramic plate with Native American-ish markings; and a sprinkling of handmade beaded jewelry.

  As she pushed the door open, a bell jingled. Past the spinning display rack of handmade greeting cards, she saw ever-smiling Norbert at the back of the store, head down, tidying up the framing area. Near-sighted Norbert, thin and sinewy, had placed on the counter the usual white box of kolaczkis from Gloria’s Bakery next door, which he offered to all members of the League, and which he himself never touched. Margaret passed him with a greeting and a brief pat on the head for his Chihuahua, Ivy, who stood up in her basket and wagged her whole body at Margaret’s approach.

  Margaret went up the stairs at the back of the gallery, which smelled pleasantly of turpentine. The art students were already there, setting up their canvasses.

  Margaret’s friend Carlotta had been painting mainly in oils for ten years. She had won some prizes for her work. Her oils—along with Birdie’s watercolors—were among the hottest sellers in the gallery. Lorraine’s and Margaret’s paintings sold sometimes, too.

  Students in the oils class this summer session included two high school students, a young mother, and the core group that signed up in perpetuity for oils: Lorraine, Birdie, Margaret, and Norbert.

  Carlotta was standing next to one of the high school students and tilting her head appreciatively at his canvas. As Margaret passed, she stole a glance and saw that young Liam was working on an abstract blue heart wound all about with barbed wire, and dripping crimson blood. He seemed terribly shy and protective about his gruesome work. Carlotta was such a good teacher. She didn’t offer suggestions or reactions, but only asked if he had questions.

  “I would like the blood to look more liquid,” he mumbled, glancing at Carlotta. Margaret smiled, guessing that Liam hoped he was shocking the old people. “I’d like the heart to be a little shiny.” Carlotta helped him to achieve the effects he wanted, not touching his painting but guiding him with words. As he saw his painting take on the life-like qualities he desired under his own brush strokes, he continued his work, absorbed.

  Margaret set up her painting-in-progress of a cottage scene from a magazine picture. Norbert had followed Margaret up the stairs and was now setting up his portrait-in-progress of a grizzly bear from a National Geographic, and Birdie was painting a still life of orange roses she had arranged on the table before the wall of windows. Carlotta strode by with words of encouragement.

  Over the whole studio was a spirit of calm, quiet industry, a sense of peace. Even wise-cracking Lorraine’s face was relaxed and gentle.

  Margaret prepared her narrative. She wanted to have a good story to tell. She had always been the not-smart one. Beauty and not brains, her parents had always told her, smiling fondly, as if this were a good thing. She had always wanted to be smart as well as beautiful; she had always hoped to become smart by association with Carlotta. Margaret read what Carlotta read and pursued Carlotta’s interests in hopes of growing her I.Q.—or failing that, at least creating the impression of intelligence. Throughout the years, Margaret had suffered the sting of Carlotta’s condescension. Lorraine, it seemed, did have the ability to keep up with Carlotta, and to spar with her on her own level. Carlotta and Lorraine were always the ones telling stories. Margaret suspected them both of embellishing those stories quite a bit, but because of their entertainment value, no one challenged them.

  Margaret had been considering various openings for her story. She had mentally practiced: “Something so disturbing happened to me today,” and “Some people!” and “Well, watch out if you take the bus!” and “I don’t want to frighten you, but….” Unable to choose among these openings, she resolved to use them all.

  She cleared her throat.

  “Well, I don’t want to frighten you, but watch out if you take the bus! Something so disturbing happened to me today, coming back from the shops in Edwards Cove. I swear, the nerve of some people!”

  Birdie stopped painting and looked toward Margaret with her steady, dreamy gaze that made Margaret wonder if she was registering what was being said, or looking at her aura. Birdie was a wispy and mysterious creature who, as Lorraine often observed, seemed to “receive no earthly input.”

  Lorraine, her artistic reverie broken, whined with false anxiety, “Margaret, you’re scaring us all to pieces. What did they do to you?”

  Margaret, sensing sarcasm but proceeding anyway, began, “It was a man—.”

  Lorraine gave a little shriek. “A may-un? A may-un? Oh Lord! Where?”

  “Lorraine, don’t be so insensitive,” said Carlotta with unexpected empathy. “Can’t you see Margaret’s trying to tell us something that happened, something that is bothering her?”

  Carlotta and Lorraine were a team within the Club, always playing off of one another. They seemed to have their own signals that Margaret never caught.

  Lorraine winked at Carlotta and returned her attention to her canvas.

  Carlotta encouraged Margaret to proceed. “Go on, Margaret, what happened?”

  Margaret stepped up to the figurative microphone and took the floor.

  “Well! … A man came and sat right by me on the bus and started talking to me and wouldn’t stop. I turned my wedding ring toward him and I looked away, but he kept on. Even at my age, the men never stop!”

  Lorraine opened her mouth to say something, but Carlotta was quicker, quoting: “‘Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety.’”

  Birdie supplie
d, dreamily, “Antony and Cleopatra.”

  Carlotta affirmed, “Yes. The Bard. Go on, Margaret.”

  “He tried to act like he knew me. He called me ‘Mabel,’ and said he was ‘sorry about last night.’ I told him that my name is not Mabel, and he wouldn’t believe me. So then I told him in no uncertain terms--.”

  ”Maybe you have a double, Mrs. Birch.” A surprised pause followed this suggestion. The Club members looked around, and saw that it was the teenager Liam who had spoken up. “They say everyone has a double. There’s a German word for it—.”

  “A doppelganger!” chimed in Norbert, peering at everyone through his thick spectacles. “You have a doppelganger.”

  The high school girl piped up, “That is so cool! I wish I could meet my double. I’d go places with her and pretend we were twins!”

  The young mother exclaimed, “I’d hate to meet mine! Someone who looks just like me? Oh, I’d never want to meet that person, or know anything about her. That would freak me out.”

  Liam chuckled with play-malice, “Yeah. Now that I have found you, Doppelganger, you must die! Ha!”

  Everyone turned to stare at Liam. He blushed and went back to work. Liam was an unusual boy. He never mentioned video games or friends his own age. He had his own quiet place in the painting class, and seemed comfortable there.

  After a little silence, Carlotta nodded toward Lorraine and then turned to Margaret.

  Carlotta said, “I think I saw her today, Margaret—your double—at the bank.”

  Margaret—and everyone—stopped mid-brushstroke and looked at Carlotta. Carlotta seemed to warm to her subject.

  “It was the strangest thing. I’ve known you all my life, and yet I really could have been fooled. I knew she couldn’t be you because of the way she was dressed and the way she was behaving.” Here, Carlotta seemed a little shocked and embarrassed, as if remembering the distressing details. “She was wearing a bathing suit with shorts. I saw her and thought, ‘What’s happened to Margaret? I hope she hasn’t gone mental.’”