Part 5 (2/2)
Chapter Seven.
Minda?” I could tell by my cousin's voice something was wrong.
”Gatlin? What is it? Vesta hasn't had a wreck, has she?” I pictured the dangerous intersection near Calhoun Street, where I knew our grandmother was meeting for lunch. Vesta drove like she was racing the devil and had the speeding tickets to prove it. If she hadn't taught the local police chief in Sunday school, she'd be under the jail by now.
”No, no, nothing like that. It's Mildred. She's not answering her phone, and I'm kinda concerned is all. You know how she's been since Otto-”
”Maybe she's not there.” I looked at the kitchen clock; it was almost two in the afternoon. ”Even Mildred has to eat. She probably went to the store.”
”Minda, she could've walked to the next county and been back by now! I've been calling all morning.”
”I'll meet you there,” I told her. A nasty little tongue of fear flickered inside me, but I wasn't having any part of that.
”I'm sure she's okay,” I said. ”But how do we get in? I don't have a key.”
”I do,” Gatlin said. ”Actually, it's Vesta's. She left it with me that night Mildred insisted on going back there. Said I might need it sometime.”
”Mildred may be in trouble. I hope her angel's on duty,” I told Augusta as I grabbed my coat. ”She does have one, doesn't she?”
Augusta was was.h.i.+ng the kitchen windows with something that smelled like new gra.s.s and looked like spring water. She didn't turn around. ”Of course she does, Arminda, but I don't have my directory handy just now.”
”Huh!” I said. Sometimes I couldn't tell if Augusta was joking, but I wouldn't be surprised if she really did carry an angel directory in that great big bag of hers.
The front of Papa's Armchair looked dark and deserted, and a blind was drawn in the doorway, so I parked behind Gatlin's ten-year-old red Pontiac at the back entrance to the rooms Mildred and Otto had called home. Gatlin already had her key in the lock by the time I got out of my car.
”I've rung the bell three times and knocked until my knuckles are raw,” my cousin said. ”I'm going in.”
”Maybe we ought to call somebody first,” I said. ”What if something's happened? You don't know what we'll find in there.”
But it was too late. Gatlin swung the door wide and stepped boldly inside the dark, narrow hallway with me crowding her footsteps, only to be met by a pink apparition.
I'd like to say I imagined it, but I'm almost sure I screamed. The apparition made a funny growling noise, s.n.a.t.c.hed a lamp off the hall table, and shook it at us.
”Look out, it's got a lamp!” I yelled just as the pink figure and the lamphit the floor together.
”Minda, for heaven's sake, it's Mildred!” Gatlin ran to hover over the dazed-looking woman who sat, still muttering, in the hallway while I rescued the lamp.
”What's going on?” Mildred spoke in a hoa.r.s.e, hesitating whisper. ”I don't understand...and...oh, my head hurts so...”
Mildred Parsons was not a heavy person, but even with our support she walked like an adolescent in her first pair of heels, and it took the two of us several minutes to help her to a chair. If I hadn't known about Mildred's strict Methodist principles, I'd have suspected she'd been into the booze.
I whispered to Gatlin over Mildred's head. ”Maybe we'd better get her in bed.”
”No, no!” Mildred croaked weakly. ”Just let me sit a minute-and water-a gla.s.s of water...”
”Easy now...sipit slowly.” In the tiny living room Gatlin held the gla.s.s to Mildred's lips while I shoved a footstool under her feet and covered her with a throw. The throw had a smirky-looking cat on it and read IF YOU CAN'T SAY ANYTHING NICE ABOUT PEOPLE, COME AND SIT NEXT TO ME. This woman I had known all my life was surprising me at every turn.
Gatlin and I watched anxiously as she drank most of the water, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes for minutes that seemed longer than an off-key wedding solo. I was about to grab her wrist for a pulse when Mildred opened her eyes and announced that somebody had ”slipped her a Mickey.”
”A what?” Gatlin grinned and jabbed me with her elbow. ”You've been watching too many of those old movies, Mildred. You must've eaten something that disagreed with you, or picked up a virus somewhere.”
”Don't tell me what I picked up! I reckon I know what I picked up-I picked up a drink with some kind of dope in it!” Mildred sat a little straighter and then winced with the effort. ”What time is it? I feel like I've been asleep a thousand years.”
”It's close to three in the afternoon, and whatever you picked up, you need to see a doctor,” I told her. ”How long have you been sick?”
”Since I got home last night. Hardly made it to bed before my head started swimming. Sick as a dog and up half the night.” She rubbed her eyes and pulled the coverlet closer about her.
”Got home from where?” Gatlin wanted to know.
”UMW. Wouldn't have gone, but we're in the middle of planning for the Christmas Bazaar, and I'm in charge of the quilt raffle this year.”
”Did you eat anything there?” I asked, touching her forehead to check for fever. It felt clammy.
”A couple of pieces of Scotch shortbread and coffee. We met at Janice Palmer's, and she always serves that.” Mildred put a trembling hand to her mouth. ”Don't think I'll be wanting any more for a while.”
”Who else was there? Maybe somebody else got sick,” I said, although I couldn't imagine those refreshments causing an upset as severe as Mildred's.
”The usual-except for Gertrude Whitmire. She hardly ever comes. And Edna Smith. Vesta, too, but she came in late, so I'm not sure if she ate anything.”
”What about supper? Did you have anything to eat before the meeting?” Gatlin reached for the phone as she spoke.
Mildred made a face. ”Just some of Edna's vegetable soup and corn bread. But it couldn't have been that.”
I wedged a pillow behind her. ”Why not?”
”Because she had some with me. Said she didn't like to think of me eating alone.” Mildred reached out for Gatlin. ”Look now, who're you calling?”
”The Better Health Clinic. Somebody should take a look at you, Mildred. You might have food poisoning.”
”I'm eighty-three years old. I don't have time to spend the rest of my days in their waiting room, thank you. Besides, what could they do? If this was going to kill me, I'd already be dead-and believe me, there were times last night I wanted to be!” Mildred reluctantly accepted the cold cloth I applied to her forehead. ”I told you-somebody slipped something into my coffee-something to knock me out.”
”They could check your stomach contents,” Gatlin reasoned. ”See if there's anything toxic-”
”What stomach contents?” Mildred looked a little green and turned away.
”Or the soup. We'll have them a.n.a.lyze what's left of the soup,” I suggested.
”Too late. We ate it all, and I'm afraid I rinsed out the jar.” Mildred attempted a smile. ”Edna does make good soup....
You might call, though, and see if she's all right. Wouldn't hurt to see about Vesta, too.”
”She was fine when she came by this morning,” I told them. ”But I'll try to track her down.”
Willene Christenbury, who had hosted the luncheon for the Historical Society's renovation committee, told me my grandmother had left about thirty minutes before for a fitting at Phoebe's Alterations. ”Said she was going to have that long black coat cut down to jacket size,” Willene said. The coat was at least twenty years old, and I could tell by Willene's tone of voice that she wondered why Vesta would bother. I could have told her why. Vesta Maxwell got her penny's worth out of every thread she wore. My grandmother had never forgotten the Great Depression.
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