Good Graces - Lesley Kagen [42]
“You sure you’re not mad at me?” I ask Ethel because she hasn’t said anything for a minute or so and is mixing the berries more than she should. They’re starting to look floppy.
Ethel sets down the spoon and says reluctantly, because she is not a complainer by nature, “It’s not you, honey. I got a few other things that’s makin’ my mind distracted.”
Since she’s my sounding board, I always try to repay the favor if something is bothering her. “Like what?”
“I can’t hardly put my finger on it . . . but . . . something strange is goin’ on round here. Miss Bertha, she had me call up Mr. Cooper to come over last week.” He is the man Mr. Gary Galecki picked out to make sure his mother’s bills are paid. He also signs Ethel’s paycheck that comes in the mail every Friday from his office called Cooper, Cooper and Barrow. I’ve only met him once. He was carrying a briefcase and didn’t say hello back to me. “After Mr. Cooper arrived,” Ethel says, “Bertha shushed me away and the two of them and Father Mickey got settled in the parlor and had a nice long visit. Usually I’m included. Can’t figure out why I weren’t.”
I bring my hand up to my chest, roll my eyes and do my imitation of her. “Lord, I can’t imagine.” That’s a very Mississippi thing to say when you’re stumped. “Maybe Mr. Cooper’s fixin’ to fire ya.” I’m trying to make her laugh because that is so silly. She will never get let go from this job. Nobody could take better care of Mrs. Galecki than she does.
When all Ethel gives me back is a small smile as she slides the bowl of strawberries into the fridge, I tell her in my regular voice, “Don’t feel bad.” Long as she’s in there, she takes a breath of that cool air and paddles some down the front of her dress. “I got worries, too.” I’ve found when somebody tells you something that’s bothering them they appreciate it if you tell them something’s bothering you, too. That way it doesn’t seem like you think that you’re better than they are. “I can’t stop thinkin’ about Greasy Al and how he’s gonna—”
“Whoa up.” She closes the fridge door and flips up both of her pink palms. “Like I told ya before on this subject, ya gotta think a something else ya really like when that boy comes to mind.”
What she really told me was, “When I’m ’bout to blow a fuse, I think about dancin’. And Ray Buck. You could think about Henry . . . or you could read or pray.”
I tried doing what she wanted me to do, I really did. The second I started thinking about Greasy Al, I tried to switch gears and think about my future husband. Or driving around the countryside with Nancy Drew in her blue coupe. But somewhere down the road, Molinari would flag us down and ask us for a ride back to 52nd Street so he could murder my sister. I also tried praying to Daddy, but all that did was make me feel like if I didn’t work harder at keeping Troo safe, how disappointed he was gonna be when we met again in heaven.
Ethel runs her big cool hand down my arm and says, “All right then. Think we ’bout wore this conversation out, don’t you? Time for storytellin’.” She steps into the back hallway and opens the milk chute, which is where I keep my book so I don’t forget and leave it at home.
“Are you gonna come out, too?” I ask when she hands over The Hidden Window Mystery.
This is the third Nancy Drew that I’ve read to them and, by far, our favorite. There’s a colored woman in this story. Lovable old Beulah who serves corn pudding and strawberry shortcake. Just like my Ethel! The story also takes place in the South so that’s gotta give her a home, sweet home feeling.
“Ya know, sittin’ down in the shade and listenin’ to ya read sounds