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The Royal Treatment, and Croquet
The first two days at Willow House have been an explosion of new things. I know I’ve let my guard down way more than I should have, but here’s the deal: there are definitely some weird things going on, but none of it seems to be coming from Mrs. Hallovich. I think she really likes us, and not as a side dish for dinner.
Right now, Tommy and I are swaying side to side in a hammock she strung up for us between a couple of trees. We’re just relaxing and looking up through the branches. Mrs. H. has spent the morning getting things ready for a special lunch outside, and she seemed happy when I asked if Tommy and I could go out to the yard for a while.
The first thing I did was take Tommy by the hand (because I knew he’d be nervous), and lead him up the stairs of the carriage house to the guest’s quarters. There wasn’t much to see, just a room with a bed, a table and chairs, and a dresser. The weird thing was that everything was clean and tidy. No dust anywhere. The bedcover smelled like fresh laundry and there was even a small bouquet of real daisies in the center of the table. Someone has definitely been spending time up there. Why would Mrs. Hallovich lie? Did she even know?
I had pulled Tommy with me toward the dresser. I admit, I was going to open a drawer to see if there were any clothes in there, but as I was getting near, something crunched under my right foot. I looked down to find a miniature birdcage. It had to be the one from the dollhouse, but how had it gotten here? I had smushed it.
Now, as I swing back and forth with Tommy in the hammock, I reach into the pocket of my shorts and pull it out to have a better look. It’s smushed alright, but the wires seem to bend pretty easily. I’m no professional-miniature-birdcage-repair-person but I might be able to fix it and bring it back tomorrow. The trick will be getting it back where it belongs. Where does it belong? Should I return it to where I stepped on it?
I look over to the little, iron table and chairs under the willow tree. They have a new coat of white paint. Mrs. H. has placed colorful cushions on the seats. The weeds are gone, and the table is prepared like she’s expecting royalty to show up. She has set out flowery china plates, two crystal glasses with raspberry lemonade, one silver goblet of milk, cloth napkins, and platters full of dainty, little things to eat. One of the platters is stacked with small sandwiches cut into triangles, one holds apple slices, grapes and baby carrots, and the third holds oatmeal cookies so thin and lacy that, if you hold them up to your face, you can see through the little holes. Plus, she’s added a bag of potato chips, because we’re kids.
Mrs. H. has gone back in the house for a moment. She said she forgot something.
I close my eyes and listen to the wind rustling through the leaves of the trees. I hear birds, and I’m starting to wonder about the trickling sound of water, when I hear the back door slap shut as Mrs. H. returns.
“Look what I have here,” she says.
She’s wearing a wide-brimmed, straw hat tied with pink ribbons, and she’s holding up a similar hat decorated with straw flowers for me. An old fashioned top-hat dangles from her left hand.
We scramble out of the hammock and join her beneath the willow. She sets the top hat on Tommy's head, and I am amazed that it doesn’t slide down to cover his face.
She gives me a nod. “I stuffed it with tissue paper.”
I put my hat on, and she slips me a pair of little white gloves.
“Ladies and gentlemen should be properly attired when lunching under this magnificent tree,” she says.
We take our seats. The weeping branches surround us like the walls of a room. Mrs. H. instructs us to hold hands, and then gives a small prayer of thanks for the beautiful day, the bounty of which we are about to partake, and the company of dear friends.
That was really nice.
I can’t say I dig in to the food. One doesn’t “dig in” when one is wearing white gloves and a fancy hat. I fill my small china plate with all it can hold, and nibble daintily at a sandwich, with my pinky extended.
Mrs. H. seems to appreciate my effort.
Several sandwiches, grapes, and cookies later, I give my pinky a rest, and begin to notice the world around me again.
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to a box attached to the trunk of the willow.
“That’s a bat box.”
“A what?!”
“A bat box. A place for bats to sleep.”
You’ve got to be kidding.
“Is there a bat in there now?” I whisper.
“Maybe. Go have a peek,” she whispers back.
As if.
“Bat’s are very good for keeping the mosquitoes at bay,” she informs us. She sees my I’m-not-wanting-any-part-of-this face and continues. “Bats can eat up to 1000 mosquitoes in an hour.” Then, when my face muscles don’t change a bit, she adds “Google it.”
“But they’re creepy,” I say.
“They are mammals, just like us. But unlike us, they were given the gift of flight. Isn’t that wonderful?”
I can tell I’m still wearing my disgusted face, so she adds, “and as far as they’re concerned, you’re creepy too.”
“You keepy too!” Tommy points at me and laughs.
I can still hear the sound of trickling water. I ask her about it.
“Just on the other side of the willow, past the shrubs, is an embankment that leads down to a small stream.”
“Can we see it?” I ask.
“You saw a part of it Monday. This is the same stream that passes through the greenhouse and feeds the pond.”
“Cool,” I say.
When we’re done eating, Mrs. H. tosses the leftover crumbs and bits of fruits and veggies out onto the lawn.
“Lunch!” she calls out. I give her a funny look. “For the animals, Dear,” she adds.
She takes off her white gloves and lays them on the table. “Time for your croquet lesson,” she says. “Follow me.”
I take off my own gloves and reach for Tommy’s hand. We follow her from the shady hideaway beneath the willow, out into the bright sunshine, and back into the darkness of the carriage house. I think my eyes are having trouble adjusting because the carriage looks like it’s been washed and waxed since we saw it two days ago. I don’t have time to look closer or ask questions before I hear Mrs. Hallovich say, “Ella Dear, can you grab those?” She points to the tall, wire basket with six wooden balls. “And can you carry this for me, Tommy?” She hands him a blue mallet that’s nearly as tall as he is. “I’ll carry the rest,” she says.
We take all the croquet pieces out into the yard. The colors of the balls and the matching mallets certainly seem a lot more colorful than they did before. But then, what do I know? My eyes are fried.
Mrs. Hallovich sets the mallets down and leads Tommy a little further out.
“Now, young man, you’re going to help me set these up.” She holds a wire wicket upright on the grass and tells Tommy, “push!” The wicket sinks easily into the ground, making a little arch for the balls to pass under. Before long a nice little croquet field is all set up.
“We’ll start with some practice shots,” she says.
She shows me how to hold the mallet, and a couple of ways to shoot the ball. I select the yellow ball to match the mallet I’m holding, and begin to practice hitting it through the wickets. She turns to help Tommy hit a few balls with his own mallet. That lasts about three minutes. He’s getting grumpy. The only time that Tommy gets grumpy is when he’s sleepy.
“Why don’t you continue to practice while I lay Tommy down for his nap. When I come back, we’ll have ourselves a real game.”
I hit the ball around for a few minutes, until Mrs. H. returns with something that looks like a cellphone. I realize I haven’t seen any technology at all in her house - not even a television.
“Is that your phone?”
“Ha!” She snickers. “Not a phone. Baby monitor. See?”
She holds it out to me, and there’s my baby brother on video, snoozing away.
“I never saw anyone in my life who can fall asleep as fast as your brother does.”
“It’s a gift,” I say.
She laughs. She hooks the monitor to her waistband, and proceeds to teach me the rules of croquet; how to hit your ball around the field, pass through the wickets, and collect points. She smiles as she knocks into my ball with her own.
“When you hit someone else’s ball you have two options,” she tells me. “You can take two shots toward the next wicket, or you can do this.” She gives me an evil grin from beneath the brim of her fancy hat, places her orange ball gently against my yellow one, steps lightly onto her own, and then whacks her ball hard enough with her mallet to send my ball flying way off course across the lawn.
My jaw drops. I can’t believe she just did that.
“Now I still have one more shot,” she says. She hits her ball gently through the next arch, which gives her another turn, and then hits again, leaving herself lined up nicely toward the next wicket.
I’m still standing in the middle of the field with my mouth open.
“You can do that to me as well.” She pauses then adds, “if you ever get the chance.” She winks at me.
I turn, and head off to where my ball lies in the next county. Game on.
After all that wonderful instruction, we begin our cutthroat game of croquet in our big beautiful hats. She checks the baby monitor frequently, and reports that Tommy has turned twice in his sleep. It’s a perfect summer afternoon. There’s a lot of shade back here in her yard, so it’s not too hot, and my hat is keeping all the extra sun dapples off of my face. Several birds have flown down and perched around the fountain like they’re expecting it to start spewing water again any moment.
“Tell me more about Daleni,” Mrs. Hallovich says, as I line myself up for a shot.
“She’s been my best friend since I moved here last year.”
“And what do you and Daleni like to do?”
“When we’re at Daleni’s house we like to dance.” Then I remember the most important thing, “Oh! And eat!”
“Both of those are great things to do.”
“Daleni’s mom makes great Cuban food, and sometimes both of her parents dance with us.”
“Salsa?”
“Yes! She makes it with a lot of cilantro. It’s fantastic!”
Mrs. H. laughs. “I mean the dance. Do you all salsa dance?”
“Oh! Haha! Yeah! I’m not great at it, but Daleni’s parents look like professionals.”
“Wonderful! My husband and I used to travel. I’ve been to Cuba, and believe it or not, I’ve done the salsa!”
“Really?!” Somehow, I’m able to imagine her doing it. “Daleni says I need to loosen my hips more. I think Spanish people are born with looser hips.”
“That may very well be true. I admit my hips weren’t terribly loose either, but we sure had fun!” Mrs. H. is really enjoying our conversation.
So am I. “Maybe you can dance with me and Daleni. She can bring her music over here!” The second it’s out of my mouth, I wish I could stuff it back in. I don’t even know how I’m going to get her over here for a simple visit, let alone a salsa party.
“That would be wonderful, Dear! I can prepare a nice lunch, and we can teach her to play croquet!”
I nod and turn my attention back to the game.
“Any other friends?” Mrs. H. asks.
“There’s the M & M’s,” I say.
“The M & M’s?”
“Mandy and Melanie. Mandy’s great but Melanie . . . not so much.”
“And just what is it about Melanie that you don’t like?”
“She’s always competing with me,” I say, as I swing and hit Mrs. H.’s orange ball with my own. I give her my own evil grin from under the brim of my hat. I plop my ball gently down next to hers, step lightly on my own, swing my mallet and give it a firm smack that sends the orange ball sailing away across the grass.
“Yes. I can see how a competitive friend would be difficult.” One of her eyebrows is up while the other is in its regular place.
“But she’s competitive all the time,” I say.
“Maybe you’re recognizing, in her, a part of yourself that you find disagreeable.”
“What?! I’m nothing like her!”
“We’ll change the subject for now,” she says. “So tell me, Miss Eleanora Owens, what made your family decide to move here to Saint Clair?”
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