I peeked through the side curtains framing our front door and snapped them shut. Yep. Only one person in all of Howard County wore floral prints the size of dinner plates.
“Vilonia?” Miss Bettina said again.
Maybe she’d put two and two together, see Daddy’s boat was gone, and make like a tree and leave.
Knock. Knock.
Nope.
“Vilonia, this is important business. Right up there with the sheriff’s wedding. Is your mama home?”
I groaned. Everything was important to Miss Bettina, especially when it was none of her business. I don’t know why I opened that door. She buzzed in faster than a fly to jellied toast.
“Where’s that mama of yours? Mrs. Tooley’s kicked the can.” Miss Bettina clapped her fingers together with glee. Only she would be thrilled when a member of our town passed on. That meant news to spew. She bowled by me in screaming hibiscus print, and honest to goodness, I tried to protest.
“Mama’s resting,” I said, following her into the kitchen. “She doesn’t need to be bothered.”
“Nonsense, Vilonia. This is Mrs. Tooley we’re talking about. It’ll be the biggest obit of the year!” She leaned close (a pet peeve of mine) and cackled. Her breath smelled of onions, garlic, and hush puppies. “Mmm.” Miss Bettina closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. “I smell . . .”
I stole that second to position myself strategically between Mama’s boss and the cooling rack.
“Cinnamon!” Her eyes flew open. She reached her arm around me and helped herself to a cookie. My cookie.
Now, Mama pretty much liked everyone in Howard County, Mississippi, and even though her job was to consult next of kin when writing our dearly departed’s obituaries, I knew for a fact she already had a draft put back for her boss Bettina B. Wiggins. It wasn’t scathing. But it wasn’t overly kind.
Just like Miss Bettina.
“Do you think there’ll be one of those fancy estate sales?” Her cheeks wobbled with excitement. “I’d love to get my hands on her iron skillets. Why, they’re positively ancient.” Leave it to Hush Puppy Breath to think of estate sales and skillets at a time like this. She popped my cookie into her cavernous mouth. “And did you hear about her pregnant dog, Harper?” she asked, spraying cookie bits in my general direction.
I shook my head, not sure I wanted to know.
“So grieved by her owner’s death, the poor pup’s gone into preterm labor. Have you ever heard of such a thing? In dogs, I mean?” I opened my mouth to answer I had not heard of such, but Miss Bettina kept on and helped herself to a second cookie. Now, I’m not the best at math, but I knew how many cookies that left.
“What about the puppies?” I asked, helping myself to the last cookie while the getting was good.
“I’m glad you asked.” She tapped her fat finger against my chest, driving home each syllable. I stepped backward into my personal space. “Wilfred, her gardener, found the sweet thing whimpering under the front porch. Martha had the loveliest front porch, especially this time of year, when the lilacs bloom.” She paused a moment to wipe at an invisible tear or maybe a cookie crumb. “Anyhow, Wilfred—that sweet, gentle soul—drove her immediately to the veterinarian, Dr. Kieklack. Have you ever met Dr. Kieklack? He guessed she had six pups inside. Of course, we’re all just praying the young’uns survive. Have you any milk?” she asked, throwing open our refrigerator door like she lived here instead of us.
“Oh! I don’t think we . . .”
Miss Bettina stared in silence at the contents of our fridge. The top shelf held a half stick of butter and, thanks to Eleanor, six hard-boiled eggs. Two zucchini squash rattled in the vegetable crisper next to a wrinkled tomato, while a bag of golden delicious apples tried valiantly to fill the other drawer. An expired package of deli meat shared the middle shelf with last night’s pizza leftovers and Daddy’s catch of the day: catfish neatly filleted and marinating in a plastic bag. And in the door, a jar of Nana’s blackberry jam made its home next to pickles, spicy brown mustard, and packets of takeout soy sauce. The spot for milk contained a near-empty carton of juice.
“We used up all of the milk this morning.” I crossed my fingers behind my back.
Miss Bettina pinched her eyebrows together and frowned. “Something funny is going on, Vilonia.” She shut the door and glanced around the kitchen. “Lookie here, your calendar is still on March.”
“Well,” I said, crossing the room to block the pantry—even though it was plenty stocked, because Mama bought baked goods in bulk. “Nana died, and we haven’t thought to update the calendar.”
Miss B’s face softened like ice cream left in the sun. Pointing to my ruined library book, open on the table, she read its title. Of course she did. She read everything whether it belonged to her or not. “You know, Vilonia, if those puppies survive, they’ll need homes.”
What? My heart flopped like a fish in the bottom of Daddy’s boat. “You mean adoptive homes? Like a pet, for keeps?”
Does a bullfrog croak?
“Miss Bettina. As founder and chief financial officer of the Great Pet Campaign, I can assure you that’s an affirmative. But as Terry and Janet Beebe’s daughter, it’s . . . complicated.” I let out a sad sigh. After Daddy’s lecture, I didn’t dare bring up adopting a real live puppy. But the possibility of finding a puppy that’s a preemie, like me? That made me giddy dizzy. “It’s just, Opal and I have this thing in common.” I nodded to the book’s cover. “We have to convince our dads first.” I swiped away stray cookie crumbs with the back side of my hand.
“I respect that. Puppies aren’t for everyone.” Miss Bettina’s face turned serious as stone. “Especially preemies. They’re fragile. They demand the best care, the most attention, and you must steel yourself, Vilonia, for the harsh reality he or she may not survive. If they come out alive to start with.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I swallowed and rubbed my thumb across the line of silver dots and dashes traveling the inside of my wrist. My story wounds. Leftover IV scars from my own stay in the hospital’s special nursery for super-sick newborns. They called it the NICU, or Neonatal Intensive Care Unit.
“Well. If your daddy changes his mind, swing by Dr. Kieklack’s and pick up an adoption sheet. No commitment, just a list of questions so they can get to know you. Now, if you could fetch your mama . . .” Miss Bettina wandered into the living room, plucked a stray sock off the back of the sofa, and inspected it. There was no doubt in my mind she would have sat right down had Laundry Mountain not occupied the space first. I steered the subject back to the puppies.
“Why would Dr. Kieklack need to know more about me?”
“To make sure the dog is going to a good home. Also, competition. It’s possible someone else may want the same dog as you.”
“Oh.” Worry flapped like blackbirds inside my chest.
“Never fear.” Miss Bettina smiled for a brief instant. “The dog chooses its owner, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know.”
“All we can do is wait and wish Harper and her puppies the best. This part, it isn’t left to us.” That might be the wisest thing Miss Bettina’s ever said—even wiser than, “A nose for news just knows.”
I sat silent (unheard of, I know) and turned all this news—Mrs. Tooley, Wilfred, and the puppies-yet-to-be-born—over in my head. Meanwhile, Miss Bettina glanced at our wrinkled laundry, our wilting plant, and our coffee table with “Leon was here” written in its dust. As good as Daddy’s homemade cookies were, her nose had to sense something was o-f-f.
Miss Bettina cleared her throat.
“Right!” I tiptoed down the hall to Mama’s room. The door was shut. My hand found the knob, and the door clicked open. I peered through the crack.
“Mama?” I whispered. “You awake?” I crept across the hardwood into the dark. Mama kept her curtains pulled tight, and my eyes needed a moment to adjust to the lack of light.
Mama, her back to me, was sound asleep. She wore her new uniform—the paisley pink pajamas we’d given her on Valentine’s Day. Her nightstand held crinkled tissues, a framed wedding photo of her and Daddy, a glass of water, some pills, empty Little Debbie wrappers (Mama’s favorite treat not baked from scratch), and one book, open and facedown. I squinted at the title. A Grief Observed. If anyone was observing Grief, it was me, now. Mama looked peaceful. Not sad. Not happy. But peaceful. I couldn’t wake her. I wouldn’t.
I slipped out and shut the door.
Miss Bettina bolted upright when I reappeared. She’d been crouched in front of our bookcase, reading all the spines. Snooping, was more like it.
“Miss Bettina.” I smiled too big and waited for her to put the framed photograph she clutched back on the shelf. “Mama’s not feeling well, but she says to e-mail her Mrs. Tooley’s information, and she’ll have a draft for you ASAP.” I clasped my hands together and stuck my smile like Ava Claire sticks her dance routine.
“So, I can’t see her?” Miss Bettina’s huge eyes narrowed.
“Afraid not.” My palms grew sweaty. I had to get Hush Puppy Breath and her nose for news out of here. “I hate to be rude, but I’ve got math homework up to my earlobes. Mrs. Crewel loves fractions.” I yanked on my earlobes to drive the point home. “The paper’s probably missing you anyways.”
“Oh my stars, yes. They can’t function without me.” Miss Bettina bustled to the front door, which I conveniently held open. “Next time, when your mama’s feeling better, let’s visit over a slice of her heavenly pound cake. Not that the cookies weren’t scrumptious; they’re just missing something.”
Not something. Someone.
I smiled, ignoring her use of “next time.”
“And I’ll e-mail Mrs. Tooley’s particulars, God rest her soul.”
“Amen,” I muttered as her burgundy sedan with the broken headlight screeched out of sight.
I itched to run next door and blab to Ava Claire about Miss Bettina’s bizarre visit, but I couldn’t. Leon would be home soon and hungry as five-and-a-half men. Daddy, too, if he didn’t work until dark. . . . I dug through the freezer and found three mini chicken potpies, plus one turkey. It wasn’t catfish and hush puppies, but it’d do.