Ginny Aiken - Priced to Move

“You’re vouching for her?”

“We all are, Chief.” She opened the door. “And my girls had to go to bed without me. It’s the first time ever I haven’t been there to hear their prayers. Had it been for a good reason, I wouldn’t be so steamed. Go home and get some sleep. You might do better figuring things out in the morning after you’ve snagged some shut-eye.”

Julie’s no-nonsense statement gave everyone else the push we needed. In spite of the chief’s sputters, we all said good night and went our individual ways.

At home, it took all my wiles to duck a dousing of Great-Great-Grandma Willetta’s fish oil.

Now I have this charming wake-up call to deal with.

Why me? Why does trouble stick to me like lint to black velvet? Oh, did I ever mention it does? Well, now you know.

It occurs to me the poor parrot might actually be hungry. But what does a parrot eat? Aside from the clichéd “Polly wanna cracker” bit, I don’t know what to feed it. And that might be why he keeps complaining. I figure I’d squawk too if I hadn’t had a bite to eat since the night before.

Come to think of it, I haven’t had a bite to eat.

When I drag myself to the bedroom door, I catch the thump-thump of Aunt Weeby’s cast moving around down in the kitchen. “Hey, there! Do we have any crackers?”

“What d’you want crackers for?” she asks. “I’m making us eggs, bacon, grits, and fruit. Isn’t that better’n any ol’ crackers?”

For my taste buds? Oh yeah. My arteries? Oh my.

“Breakfast sounds great. The crackers aren’t for me, but the bird might want some. He’s been letting the universe know he’s not happy, and I don’t know what one feeds a parrot. I didn’t give him anything last night. He’s probably starved.”

“Maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to haul him up to your room. Whyn’t you bring him to the kitchen? It’s sunny, and I seem to recollect parrots are from hot, steamy, sunny places.”

“They’re tropical, Aunt Weeby. I’m not sure Kentucky’s ever going to fake him out, not even if you use the electric oven like a space heater.” But since anything’s better than rooming with the feathered earsplitter, I grab the cage and head down.

“Maybe we won’t pull no wool over his eyes,” Aunt Weeby says, “but at least he’ll be outta your room. When he kicks up a fuss again, he won’t wake you up.”

I snort. “Hey, this is no stealth bird we have here. I’ll hear him coming miles before I see him. How could anyone not hear that awful noise?”

As if on cue, Rio lets out an ear-shattering “ Shriek!

”

“Oh, sugarplum. He sure is loud. Gotta say that much for him.” She shakes her head. “Wonder why that foreign man came all that way here, and to give you a parrot, for goodness’ sake. Isn’t that the most peculiar thing ever?”

Aunt Weeby’s talking about peculiar? I love it when pots call kettles black.

“I’ve wondered myself. And aside from wishing me good luck with the new job, and telling me a little about Rio, the card still leaves things clear as the tax code.”

She arranges four strips of sizzling bacon, a field of sunflower-colored eggs, and a perfectly pillowy biscuit on a plate, and then, next to all that, builds Mt. Kilimanjaro out of fluffy grits. My mouth waters and my stomach growls on cue.

“Well, I sure do hope Donald gets to the bottom a’ this whole hoo-hah. Who’d’ve thought we’d find us a dead man in the vault?”

I dig into the fat-fest she puts in front of me, and wonder if it wouldn’t be more efficient to just trowel the stuff onto my hips and thighs. This living with Aunt Weeby deal could prove risky for my wardrobe. And thinking of wardrobe, what am I going to wear today? To counteract that fiasco yesterday, I have to look way more professional than usual. Maybe the Ann Taylor pieces will seal the deal.

But the thought of the show gives me the worst case of cold feet I’ve ever had. Who’d want to face the world after that ? I could never have imagined my first day on the job would go off with such a series of disasters.

And the death of Mr. Pak is a real tragedy. It puts things into perspective. Even Max’s ignorance doesn’t seem so outrageous by comparison.

I push my hair behind my ear and shove away from the table. I take the dishes to the sink, run water, and then wash up. “Maybe if I talk to Mrs. Pak, I can figure out why Mr. Pak wanted me to have that bird.”

“Do you know her?”

“No, but he always talked about her. He really loved her.”

“Well, there you go, sugarplum. You just toddle over to the S.T.U.D. and give the lady a call. I don’t have long distance here at the house. Not since you gave me this cute little toy thing.”

Toddle? Yikes!

She points to the cell phone in front of her plate—I gave it to her last Christmas when I got worried about her being all alone in this great big house. “It’s not a toy, and you know it. Besides, isn’t it more convenient to have a phone you can carry with you all the time?”

“Why, sure it is.” She patted the device. “It was right handy when I found myself at the mercy a’ that horse and the horse’s behind of a stable hand what’s supposed to have been showing me how to muck the stall.”

My stomach plummets when I think what could have happened to her. Aunt Weeby’s only a hair over five foot three, and while she’s sassy and spry, there are limitations to sassy and spry—like a ton of farm horse dancing on her head.

“I’m just thankful you got help fast. From what I’ve figured out so far, that leg of yours is a real mess.”

She leans down and raps her knuckles against the pink cast. “It’s a battle wound. Life’s nothing more than a brand-new battle after the last battle you fought ends. If a body doesn’t collect herself a war wound or two along the way, why, then she isn’t really living, now is she?”

What a way to look at things! “Gotta tell you, Aunt Weeby. I’m allergic to pain.”

“We all are, sugarplum, but if things don’t come up against us enough to rub our noses a bit the wrong way, then we aren’t doing our part. And that goes twice for Christians. God didn’t put us all down here with cotton balls around us. He told us to go out and salt up the earth for him, and if that means we rub someone or something the wrong way, well then, the Lord’s just gonna have to deal with us and them.”

How our conversation about a parrot’s shriek issues made its way around to Aunt Weeby’s theology, I’ll never know. But I do know she loves her Lord without any holding back, and lives her life fully for him.

And, scary thought, she kinda makes sense.

So before I catch any more of the Aunt Weeby brand of nuttiness, I snag a cracker, break off a piece, and learn that Rio does love crackers. I also learn that little parrots aren’t just way too loud.

“Good grief, Aunt Weeby! What a messy eater. Are you sure you want him in your nice, clean kitchen? Look at all the cracker crud he’s flicked out of the cage.”

My aunt, practically mesmerized by the bird, nods. “Sure.

It’s not any big never mind. The floor’s good ol’ pine, and it cleans up right nice. Don’t you worry yourself about Rio and my kitchen. I know we’re going to get on real fine.”

That doesn’t exactly reassure me. Then again, nothing much about Aunt Weeby does.

But I’m not a woman of leisure. I can’t stick around and babysit . . . er . . . keep an eye on things. I have a show to prepare for. Thank goodness Sally and I determined ahead of time what I’d sell in the first six shows. Last night’s events are renting too much room in my brain for me to go in and choose a whole show’s worth of material right now.