Bindi's Gift

Waffles! I hate waffles!

The smell crept up the stairs, down the hall, and seeped under the crack of my bedroom door. Gross!

Any minute my mother would burst in, comment about the state of my room, and alert me to the inevitable: school.

I surveyed the situation…

Yeah, it was a mess.

Yeah, my mother told me to clean it a couple of times. Okay, a couple dozen times.

Yeah, the pile of laundry commandeering the corner of my floor was working on expanding its territory. Good thing I didn’t mind wearing dirty clothes. I randomly pulled something from the pile and slipped it over my body.

IT’S TUESDAY!

That realization punched me in the gut. I took the stairs as fast as I could and spilled out into the kitchen. “It’s Tuesday!” I shouted.

My mother hummed as if she didn’t have a care in the world. “She’ll be back.” She said, dumping batter into the waffle maker. This woman did not understand the severity of the situation! My throat throbbed, my chest ached, my eyes stung. I was going to cry, I hate crying! “She’s been missing since Friday.” My voice cracked giving me away.

“Sweetie,” she said setting a plate in front of me, “don’t be upset. She’s a cat. That’s what they do.” Before I could protest she launched into: The needs of a cat. Complete with a lecture on: The birds and the bees. That’s what she called it, the birds and the bees. So embarrassing! I had to get out of there. I had to get out of there quick! I shoved a heap of dry waffles into my mouth and  washed them down with warm milk. Trying not to gag I muttered, “Gotta go, school.”

I tossed my backpack into the basket and straddled my bike. Bindi was out there somewhere on her own and I would find her. She could be dead in a ditch, bleeding, all alone, scared, she could have been kidnapped. My mother wasn’t going to take this seriously, but I would. School was a right turn and three blocks, I turned left.

I started with the houses that I knew. I knocked on the doors, peeked in the windows, checked the backyards. Nothing until, the last house on the end of the street; a dish of cat food on the porch. The Cooper’s didn’t have a cat, suspicious! Mrs. Cooper came to the door, her frilly apron wrapped around her body, house smelling like waffles. Why did every stay-at-home mom make waffles? Disgusting. I pulled my eyes tight and made my voice deep. “Hello.”

“Janet. Why aren’t you in school, is everything okay?” Mrs. Cooper said. Her sweet voice hiding something.

I looked to her left, then her right. “Have you seen Bindi?” I fixed my gaze to catch her in a lie.

“He—”

“She.” I corrected.

“She was wandering around on Sunday. Over near Mr. Tyler’s house.”  

“I see you have a pan of cat related food on your porch?” Nancy Drew had nothing on me.

“Yes. The kids have been feeding a stray.” Mrs. Cooper said.

I rubbed my chin and determined her to be telling the truth.

I approached Mr. Tyler’s house with caution. He was known to chase kids from his yard with bug spray, frying pans, shovels, fire pokers, even a selfie stick. I definitely didn’t want to know why he had that!

The house was quiet and dark. Mr. Tyler slept in a recliner in the front room. The walls could not hold back his snoring. I moved from window to window proud of my stealthy skills. The backyard showed signs of a scuffle: displaced rocks, hair, maybe blood. I ran my index finger through the red stain in the dirt and rubbed it between my thumb like in the movies. Paint. Maybe I was being a little dramatic. Mr. Tyler had been cleared of all charges.  

Determined, I swept the next block, then the next, nothing. I had to keep going.

A chill slipped down my spine sending a shudder through my body. Focused on my mission, I didn’t notice the sun disappearing. It had to be at least six. By now my mother had surely called in the National Guard. I needed a cell phone. “You don’t need a cell phone.” My mother’s old-fashioned voice played in my head. Clearly I did. For this exact situation. I suppose I didn’t have an argument. She would say, “If you were at school where you were supposed to be.” I guess she was right.

I looked around. The houses were different, bigger, older, larger yards. The street sign:  “Parker Street?” I was lost! “Okay. No big deal.” I said out loud as if that would calm my nerves. “I’m a smart girl, I can figure this out.” I was positive that I needed to go north, or south, maybe east. I wasn’t positive at all. Something about moss, the sun sets in the? Wow, I really needed to pay more attention in school.

“Where did you last see it? Trace your steps.” My mother’s voice…again! Trace your steps, her answer to everything.

It might work. What other option did I have?

I went right out of the driveway, then left, then right, then maybe right again? Who was I fooling, that would never work. I had one option left, my intuition.

I turned left, then left, then left. The street narrowed, and narrowed, and narrowed until it became dirt. I saw that movie. The naive girl goes out on a quest, she doesn’t tell anyone where she’s going, and a psycho killer cuts her head off!

“Okay, it’s fine. Hold it together. No need to worry. It’s only getting dark and you’re lost and someone is probably watching you right now planning your death.” I turned in a circle as if seeing my murderer first would give me a chance. “Bindi!” There she was, standing four feet from me. This wasn’t a murdering moment, this was a divine moment. I saw that movie, too. The cat appears and saves your life.

OR NOT!

I stopped dead in my tracks. A figure to my right, wrapped in the darkness of the trees. Nope, nope, this was not a divine moment, this was definitely a murder moment! My heart stopped. It literally stopped in my chest. Good, a better way to die. Just drop dead rather than being tortured and mutilated. I closed my eyes and waited. Wondering what it would feel like to die. But I felt the same. I inched one eye open, the figure still there, me still standing.  

“This is private property, young lady.” A woman’s voice. That calmed me, slightly. Women are not killers, at least that’s what I told myself.

 “I got lost. I was looking for my cat.” My voice cracked.

The woman stepped from the shadows. Her eyes lost behind deep wrinkles, her straw-like white hair hung over her twisted shoulders, her once tall posture pulled down by gravity. “This your cat?” Her voice harsh, cutting, ancient. I didn’t remember her picking up Bindi.

“Yes.” I said.

She took a step forward, I took an instinct step back.

“What’s your name, Child?”

“Janet.” The squeak in my voice surprised me.

“I’m Margret. Come, it’s cold out here.” She shuffled toward her house. Bindi still clutched in her arthritic fingers.

Against my better judgment, as If I had any to start with, I followed her. She had Bindi, what else would I do?

The double doors creaked open. She led me through the foyer and into the parlor. I craned my neck to take in the high ceilings reaching up and beyond the second floor. A shiny staircase on both sides of the room connected to a balcony. Vivid red carpet lined each step. It looked like something from a Disney fairytale.

Margret put Bindi down, she ran off as if she knew the place. “Sit.” She said. Pointing toward two chairs in front of a marble fireplace. “Tea, you need tea. Warm your insides.” She disappeared into the back part of the house.

Grateful for the massive fireplace that pumped out heat in a spectacular way, I sat in the chair and rubbed my hands together, no questions asked. If I was going to die, I would die warm.

A painting of a young woman hung over the mantel. The wooden frame cracked and weathered. I had to get out of my chair to take it all in. My neck aching from the workout.  

“That was me. I was fifteen.” The woman placed a copper tray on a side table. “It was nineteen thirty-eight.” Her hands shook as she poured the tea, steam rising around her fingers. “I met the love of my life that summer. James Edward McWhorter. He was three years my senior.” A childlike smile danced on Margret’s face. “He was handsome. Sandy blond hair. Blue eyes. Blue as the sky. He had crooked teeth, but I didn’t mind.” Margret blew into her cup. Her eyes projecting the memory like it happened yesterday. “He would sneak to my window and leave flowers and chocolates.” I pulled my eyes wide then shut them tight. For a moment Margret looked like the girl in the painting. Young, beautiful, tight skin, red lips, auburn hair twisted into curls. What did she put in the tea? “My father did not like him.” Margret took a long sip. “He asked me to marry him three days before he left to fight the Germans.” Her smile faded, her head hung. “It was a different time back then.”   

Hours slipped away as Margret took me back in time. Orson Well’s War of the Worlds. Hitler’s reign. Minimum wage going from twenty cents to forty cents. Losing the love of her life to war. I had never been so interested in history! Sitting in a classroom reading from a book, Margret was a real live person. She experienced it, she lived it.   

She led me to the main road equipped with a hand-drawn map and pointed me in the right direction. I would pick-up Bindi in the morning. I pulled my leg over my bike and turned to say goodbye, she was gone.

My mother thanked the police officers and watched as they drove away. I stood behind her waiting for the explosion, waiting for the lecture, waiting for my punishment. I deserved it. By the time I got back to the house it was nine-thirty. At twelve-years-old I could understand how hard that was for my mother.

She didn’t turn around, even after the squad car pulled out of view. Her shoulders jiggled, a sharp breath inflated her rib cage. Then suddenly, she turned and pulled me into her. I thought I would suffocate she held me so tight. Her tears falling into my hair. “I’m sorry.” I said softly.

After telling my mother all about Margret, Bindi, and my journey, I promised never to do something like that again. She promised that she would definitely kill me next time. I guess we had an agreement.

The house looked different in the day. Not nearly as spooky but more run down than I remembered. My mother pulled a face, “Are you sure this is the place?” I jumped out of the car and started to the front door. “Wait, Janet, maybe we should bring an officer with us?”

A truck pulled in behind us, a young woman stepped out. “Can I help you with something?” She said to my mother.

I rang the doorbell then impatiently knocked. My mother relayed the situation to the woman. “When were you here?” The woman looked confused.

“Last night. My daughter spoke with Margret.” My mother pointed to me. I pushed the bell four times and rapidly knocked.

“There must be a mistake.” The woman’s voice quivered, her eyes moist. “Margret was my grandmother.”

I peeked through the window. The beautiful staircase with the sharp red carpet aged, faded. I rubbed my eyes.  

“She passed away two weeks ago.” The woman continued.

I looked to the fireplace. The marble chipped, dirty, cracked. The inside barren, no trace of wood or fire. The chairs ripped, springs showing. The discoloration on the wall above the mantel where the painting used to hang.

My mother looked at me, “Honey?” I backed away. “Are you sure her name was Margret?” Four eyes waiting for my response. “Sweetie?” My shoulders slumped, my head hung, I took the stairs slowly.

“I’m very sorry for your confusion. Maybe someone was playing a prank.” The woman said.

“I’m sorry that we caused you pain.” My mother said. The woman nodded and excused herself toward the house.

I passed my mother on the way to the car. “What about the cat, Honey?”

“Bindi is gone.” I said as I closed the door.

That was the first time I talked to the dead.