Folly Beach - Dorothea Benton Frank [51]
I filled the old kettle, placed it on the back of the stove, and put a slice of bread in a creepy-looking toaster oven I had discovered in the cabinet. After I knocked it against the wall of the sink, checking for spiders. No spiders. I opened the new box of cereal, poured some in a bowl, and covered it with skim milk. While I stood on the back porch, shoveling bran flakes in my mouth, and waiting for the water to boil, I decided that as soon as I’d drunk a cup of coffee I was going out to buy a newspaper. And a coffeemaker. And a toaster. I wasn’t destitute yet.
The yard was a mess. It appeared that a raccoon had made himself at home in the garbage can last night. But there wasn’t much to clean up, just some paper that I had used to wrap things and the paper towels I had used to wipe down the counters. I’d have to get one of those elastic straps people used to keep the lid on cans. What did you call them? Well, I’d just go to a hardware store and ask.
The kettle began to go insane with its high-pitched whistle, so I spooned a heaping scoop of coffee crystals into a mug and stirred them around in the boiling water, lacing it with a generous pour of fat-free half-and-half, which definitely seemed like an oxymoron if I’d ever heard of one. It didn’t smell that bad at all.
Somewhere in the distance I heard a rooster crowing like mad and wondered who had chickens in their yard? And how often did that crowing happen? Wasn’t it supposed to be only at dawn? That could grow to an annoyance. Quickly. I wondered if the raccoon that got into my garbage had ever bothered the chickens down the road. I think I heard somewhere that the crazy bandits like pullet eggs better than anything in the world and they didn’t mind snacking on the mother, either. How could such an adorable little animal be so nasty?
I rinsed my dishes—no dishwasher—and went upstairs to dress. My cell phone was ringing. It was Patti calling.
“Hey you!” I said, happy to hear her voice. “What’s going on?”
“You’re asking me? Nothing. High today of fourteen. It’s colder than a whore’s heart. That’s what. How’s it going at the Porgy House?”
“Well, to be honest, and I know beggars shouldn’t be choosers, it’s about ten steps above camping. But it’s actually pretty sweet at the same time. I mean, it’s old, you know? Nothing in here post-Eisenhower. But, well, I like it. You’d think an ex-princess like me would be miserable, digging around under the mattress for peas.”
“Truly.”
“I mean, we’re talking no dishwasher. No shower.”
“No shower?”
“Yup.”
“Wow. Dishwasher, who cares? It’s just your own mess, which can’t be much.”
“Right. And if I wanted to make a big dinner I could, I’d just have to be hyper-organized, because it’s about the size of a Manhattan studio apartment kitchen.”
“That would kill me.”
“No, it wouldn’t. You, of all people, would adapt.”
“Humph. How’s the oven?”
“June Cleaver used to make Thanksgiving for Wally and the Beav in it.”
“That’s when ovens were really ovens. Remember Aunt Daisy’s was like thirty years old when we were kids? That thing baked a perfect cake.”
“True story. Now they make appliances to wear out in five years. Ah, Patti. There’s so much wrong with the world. So much.”
I could hear her laugh a little and thought I was glad I could spread a little mirth in her direction. It would make her worry less about my mental health.
“Well, we can’t change it, honey. But! There is some news on this end.”
“Tell it.”
“Your piano is ready. What should we do with it?”
“Hmmm.” I thought about it for a minute and then said, “How much do they want to ship it?”
“Nada. Mark’s got it covered.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, he didn’t tell you but he ripped off a case of LaTour that was in the garage. He says it was worth a load of money.”
“That dog! Ship it to the Porgy House. The front parlor needs something jazzy and it’s from the thirties, I think. So it would probably look amazing here.”
“So? I gather then that you’re thinking of staying there for a while?”
“Yeah, I guess. I mean, it’s not like I have so many choices.”
“Well, you