by Susan Matthewson
Kate, Looey, and I had been trying everything we knew for weeks to lift Emma’s spirits, but it took a spitting, furious squirrel, a pitcher of “lemonade,” and a tipsy Methodist minister to raise her out of her despair over James’s unexpected death three months ago.
Who knew that a minor domestic disaster would finally drag Emma out of her deep-seated grief and heartbreak and set her on the path to, if not total recovery, then a more measured mourning period?
Of course, I had no idea that the day would turn out like it did when Emma called in a panic yesterday.
I’d barely said hello before Emma interrupted.
“Oh, my God, Georgie, that squirrel that’s been residing in our attic, running up and down and wreaking havoc finally got itself caught in the trap James put up there the day before he died. The damn thing is banging on the cage and rattling it and I’m going crazy. I’m scared to death to go up there by myself, but I can’t stand to listen to that creature one more minute. And it’s going to die if I don’t get it out of there. What should I do?”
I
was so glad to hear from Emma that I didn’t at first notice the note of
desperation in her voice. She’d been cocooning in her house since the funeral,
refusing to go to lunch or to a movie or even for a cup of coffee. She’d quit
calling like she once did once or twice a week just to chat and I was really
worried that she was isolating herself way too much. Kate, Looey, and I kept
trying to get her out of the house, but she’d always say she was too tired,
didn’t feel well, had to wash her hair, had paperwork to do concerning James’s
estate and bank accounts…a million excuses that none of us could seem to break
through.
So,
just hearing her voice was such a nice surprise that it took me a minute before
I grasped what she was telling me.
“A
squirrel, Emma, a stupid squirrel? Are you trying to tell me you are in a panic
over a stupid squirrel?” I guffawed.
“Seriously,
Georgie, don’t laugh,” she wailed. “James always took care of things like this.
I can’t even get the ladder up to the attic opening by myself. What am I gonna
do?”
“Well,
you could just call the pest control people and have them come remove the darn
thing,” I told her. “But hold on, Emma. On second thought, you and I can do
this. This will be great for you. James is dead Emma and that is devastating
and I don’t mean to minimize how awful it’s been and how hard it may be, but
you’re not dead and you need to get back to living. You are an intelligent,
responsible woman and James would be so disappointed if he thought you couldn’t
deal with a silly squirrel. I’m coming right now. We’ll take care of this
together and you will find out that you are more than capable of living your
life without James and, in fact, that you need to start living your life
without James right now because that’s how it is and how it’s going to be.”
As
I jumped into the car, I hoped I hadn’t been too harsh with her, but I saw this
as an opportunity to get Emma moving. To tell the truth I’d been somewhat
marooned by lethargy and confusion myself, trying to figure out what the hell I
was going to do now that I was back in Troy Hill and starting over with very
little money stockpiled to tide me over. The move from New York had been
emotionally difficult but financially necessary, and I hadn’t been making much
headway in trying to reinvent myself and a new career. I think I probably
needed this squirrel as much as Emma did. I needed a project, a
problem…something to do, something to solve, something to take action on,
something to get me moving.
When
I got to Emma’s house, she was standing in the middle of the garage underneath
the square covered opening to the attic in the garage ceiling. She’d pulled the
ladder out and it was lying on the floor.
As
I pulled into the driveway, she turned around to face me, tears running down
her face.
“Oh,
Georgie, I can’t be without James. He took care of everything like this. He was
not only my heart and soul; he was my handyman, my electrical engineer, my car
mechanic, my financial advisor, my psychologist, my life coach. Whatever am I
going to do?”
“Right
now, you’re going to become Squirrel Remover Woman and I’m going to be Squirrel
Removal Woman’s helper. Come on, Emma,” I laughed, trying to jolly her out of
her tears, “Get in touch with your inner squirrel. We can’t let some silly
squirrel out-squirrel two of Troy Hill’s finest, if also squirreliest,
citizens.”
Emma wiped away her tears and started to smile while I used a long-handled rake to push the sliding attic cover away from the opening. All had been quiet when I arrived, but as soon as the cover slid back, I could hear the cage begin to rattle and shake.
“Okay,”
I said. “Emma, you go up the ladder and climb into the attic. Then I’ll come up
half-way and you hand the cage down to me.”
Emma started up the ladder with me right behind her, patting her on the fanny for encouragement. She reached the top and then stuck her head through the opening.
All of a sudden, she screamed and slid back down two rungs, kicking me in the
head.
“Oh,
Lord, let me down, let me down, let me out of here,” Emma screamed. I sort of
fell/jumped off the ladder and grabbed to steady it as Emma scrambled down and
collapsed on the floor.
“What?
What is it? What’s the matter Emma?”
“Well,
shit, shit, shit. James put that cage right by the opening. If you stick your
head up there, that frigging squirrel is spitting and hissing and rattling the
cage, and you’re nose to nose with him as soon as you poke your head up. I
cannot do this.”
Emma
was huddled on the floor, her arms wrapped around her knees, shaking like a
leaf.
Just the picture of Emma nose to nose with a
spitting pissed-off squirrel tickled me so that I sat down beside Emma, put my
arm around her, and started laughing. I couldn’t help myself and my giggles
finally began to affect Emma and she started laughing, too, while blubbering:
“That
frigging squirrel is spitting, spitting something, I could feel it on my face.
And he’s huge, Georgie. He’s a huge, huge squirrel. Probably as big as a
raccoon. And then something flew through the top of my hair. It’s probably a
bat and I’m going to get a bat tangled in my hair. Or it could be an owl, or
maybe a hawk. Remember when the hawk flew down the chimney into the fireplace
and James had to call the wildlife center to come get it. There’s something
huge flying around up there and that squirrel in the cage is huge and the attic
opening is so small that you can’t avoid coming in contact with the cage as you
boost yourself up. In fact, you have to grab onto the cage to boost up because
James has boxes stacked around the edges and you can’t get any leverage any
other way and…”
The
more Emma babbled, the more distressed she got and gradually her giggles
started to turn once again into sobs.
“Stop
it, Emma. I want you to call on your inner squirrel,” Georgie joked. “Now that
I know what to expect, I’ll go up in the attic and hand the cage down to you.
And if there’s a bird or bat up there, I’ll wrap my head up so it doesn’t get
in my hair.”
I
scanned the garage for something to tie over my head and spotted an old
football helmet left behind by one of Emma’s sons. I put it on, grabbed a pair
of work gloves on the work bench, and started up the ladder. I heard a snorting
noise and turned around to see Emma doubled over in laughter.
“What?
What?” I demanded.
“Oh,
my God, Georgie, you look hilarious. Like some pint-sized, red-haired
transgender quarterback with all these copper-colored curls spilling out under
that helmet.”
“I
don’t care what I look like. I could look like Lawrence of Arabia for all I care. I just need to
get this squirrel out of here. I’m going up. Get ready.”
I
started up the ladder, cautious and slow. As I reached the opening, I leaned as
far back as I could as I stuck my head through the opening. I caught my breath,
felt my heart turn over, but I steadied myself and took a deep breath. There I
was, just like Emma said, nose to nose with the most wild-eyed, spittingest,
pissed-off squirrel I’d ever seen. It wasn’t as huge as a raccoon. It just
looked huge since it was splayed out with all fours spread across the side of
the cage.
“Jesus,”
I yelled down. “He is spitting something fierce. I hope you can’t get rabies
from spit. I can feel it on my face. You’re right, I have to hold on to the
cage and pull myself up.
“Okay,
I’m up. James has a rope tied onto the handle so I’m going to lower the cage
down by the rope and you...Oh, shit!!!” I felt something brush the top of my
head and could hear the flapping of wings. A breath of wind and I could feel it
swoop down again and then back up.
“What?
What’s happening?” yelled Emma.
“Well,
yes, there is some frigging flying fucker up here. Is there a light up here? I
can’t see anything but Mr. Squirrel who is now running back and forth in the
cage, throwing himself against each end.”
“Yes,
but I don’t know where you turn it on. James always did that. I don’t know
where the switch is.”
I
sighed with frustration. Oh, Emma, my lifelong friend, I love you dearly, but
you have been one protected little lady with a husband who adored you and did
everything he could to make you feel like a princess. And he succeeded too
well. You are such a princess. I thought about the call I got from Kate two
days after James’s funeral. Kate said she’d had to take Emma up to the gas
station and show her how to put gas in the car because James had always kept Emma’s
car gassed up and ready to go. Kate said she had to hide her dismay that Emma
didn’t know how to work the gas pump because she thought that there were
“attendants” to put gas in the car. Emma didn’t even know where the switch was
inside the car that unlatched the gas cap cover. Kate simply couldn’t get over
it that Emma had never put gas in her own car. What in the world are we going
to do with her, she’d asked.
“Okay,
never mind, Emma,” I sighed. “I’m probably better off not being able to see
what’s flying around anyway. I’m going to ignore it. Now get ready. Here comes
the cage.”
I
picked the cage up by the rope and then realized that the Have-A-Heart animal
trap, professionally and specifically designed to show mercy and trap pests
without killing them, was four feet long while the opening to the attic was
just three feet square. I was going to
have to tip the cage and send it down end first. I called down to Emma and told
her to put on gloves because she was going to have to grab the cage and right
it once it came out through the opening.
“Tell
me when you’re ready,” I yelled.
“Okay,
I’m ready.”
The
rope tied onto the handle, located in the very middle of the cage, was about
four feet long and as I picked the cage up, it began to tilt wildly back and
forth from end to end like a teeter totter. It was an ungainly thing to deal
with and I struggled to tip the end into the attic opening while the damn
squirrel was now really going wild and about ready to have a heart attack. Good, I thought. You sucker. Go ahead and
die. Screw this Have-A-Heart baloney. I have no mercy. Die, die, right now.
It was even harder because since there was no solid floor in the attic, I was
balancing on the joists so as not to step through the garage ceiling. Every
time I picked the cage up, it started to tilt and swing, and then I started to
waver back and forth too.
Emma
had climbed half-way up the ladder so she could grab the cage as it came
down. But each time I managed to
maneuver the cage to the opening and tried to tip it through, the metal flap
over the end of the cage that kept the squirrel trapped started to come loose
from the latch and swing open. It was so damn hot in the attic that sweat was
running down my face and into my eyes, making it hard for me to see. My shirt was stuck to my back with
perspiration. All we need now, I thought, is if this damn squirrel gets out of
this cage and I am damned determined that is not going to happen.
“Emma,
back down. We need to revise our plan. I’m coming down.”
I
lowered myself through the opening explaining that we needed twine to secure
the metal flap so it couldn’t swing open.
“Otherwise,”
I said, “you are going to reach up for that cage, that metal door is going to
open, and that squirrel is going to jump out and splay himself across your
face.”
“Oh,
no, no, no….” Emma screeched and covered her face with her hands.
I
eased down the ladder, pulled the football helmet off, grabbed an old
advertising placard on the work bench, and started fanning myself. “Jeez, is it
ever hot up there,” I grumbled.
“Oh,
Georgie, you’re a mess. Your hair is soaked with sweat. Let’s just call the
pest control people and let them deal with this.”
“Absolutely
not, Emma,” I fired back. “We can do this. We must do this. We are going to do
this. I just need a break and something cold to drink. We are not going to let
James down. We’re going to show him that you are going to be just fine without
him because I know wherever he is, he’s watching and cheering us on. No giving
up, ever.”
“Oh,
I don’t know Georgie whether we can do this, but I do know just what we need
right now,” said Emma and, for the first time since James’s death, I heard a
familiar note of confidence and certainty in Emma’s voice. “It’s lunchtime and
that means margarita time and left-over taco salad,” Emma trilled as she headed
for the kitchen.
A
few minutes later we were relaxing on Emma’s back porch, sipping margaritas and
eating salad. It was a beautiful summer day and Emma’s yard was in full bloom
with a kaleidoscope of color—pink, red, and yellow roses, white daisies, pink
and purple petunias. The bees were buzzing around the flowers and the breeze
whispered softly as it feathered through the leaves of the tall oaks
surrounding the yard.
I
held my glass up to my cheek, felt its icy cold coolness, and watched as Emma
leaned back, lazily lifted her glass, and took a sip. It was almost as if a
tight screw inside Emma had loosened. Her body began to loop and soften and
mold itself to the chair. She closed her eyes, sighed, and smiled, and I felt
my heart clutch with relief, so happy was I to see a glimpse of the old Emma,
the contented, congenial, capable Emma I’d known since first grade. Lately,
every time I’d seen Emma, she was tense and stiff, clutching herself around the
waist with both arms, each hand holding on to an elbow as though she had to
hold herself together physically, afraid if she let go, if she unwrapped her
arms, let them hang at her side, she might just come apart.
She
sat up then, covered her mouth, and started laughing. “God, Georgie, won’t it
be fun to tell Kate and Looey about this. Kate thinks I’m the most spoiled,
helpless woman and Looey keeps telling me to put lavender under my pillow for
serenity, meditate twice a day, and moon-bathe so I can absorb the spirit of
the Universe. They’ll die laughing at us.”
“Well,
they’ll only die laughing if we make a mess of this, so let’s get going and get
that sucker out of that attic.”
“Come
on, Georgie,” Emma wheedled, “let’s just have one more margarita. I’ll go get
the pitcher out of the fridge. It feels so nice out here; we just need a few
more minutes.”
About
half-way through my second margarita, I knew I had to get moving or I’d be
ready for a nap rather than squirrel removal duty.
“Okay,
no more sitting around. Let’s have another go at it,” I said and pulled the
football helmet back over my head. “It’s so hot up there though I need to
change clothes. These jeans and long-sleeved shirt are too much. Do you have
some shorts I can wear?”
Emma
had taken home a box of donated clothes from church on Sunday that she had
washed and ironed for the church thrift shop. There was a maternity bathing
suit among the donations, so she dragged that out for me. I pulled off my
clothes and slipped it on.
“Okay,
let’s go.” Just then the doorbell rang.
“Now
who could that be?” Emma wondered. “Just let me get the door and I’ll be right
back.”
I
took another sip of my margarita and relaxed back in the chair. All right, I
thought, I need to channel Looey here and get the universe on my side. I closed
my eyes and tried to meditate, hoping to attract some of that positive energy
that Looey always said was so available if you just trusted the universe. I
wanted very much to trust the universe, but I thought there was always the
possibility that the universe might be in a squirrel-friendly mood today so I
crossed my fingers and said a quick prayer.
“Oh,
Georgie, look who’s here,” said Emma. My eyes snapped open to see Pastor
Norberg standing in the doorway to the back porch.
I
jumped up to greet him, forgetting that I was wearing the football helmet and
the maternity swim suit until I noticed him staring at me with amazement. Emma
was standing slightly behind him with a helpless look on her face, shaking her
head and holding out her hands like “What was I to do?”
“Pastor
Norberg just dropped by to see how I was getting on. He was out for his lunchtime
walk and when he passed the house, it occurred to him to drop in and check on
me. Isn’t that nice of him?” Emma asked with a broad grin.
“Oh,
great,” I said as I yanked off the football helmet and gave Emma the evil eye.
“You probably wonder why I’m dressed like this, but I assure you there is a
good reason. I haven’t actually gone crazy.”
“Oh,
Georgie,” he laughed, “I’ve known you ladies since you were grade schoolers and
nothing either one of you do could ever surprise me. But I’d sure like to hear
about it because you are a sight and I know there’s got to be a good story if
you’re involved in it.”
I
knew Emma didn’t want the tee-totaling pastor to know we were lounging on the
back porch drinking margaritas at 1 p.m. in the afternoon, but I had to pay her
back for exposing me in my outlandish get-up though I knew she really hadn’t
had a choice.
“Well,
have a seat, Pastor Norberg. Emma and I were just having a glass of lemonade.
Why don’t you have one, too, and I’ll try to explain why I’m wearing a football
helmet and a maternity swim suit. Emma, why don’t you bring another glass and
I’ll pour the pastor a glass of lemonade from our pitcher here.”
Emma
grimaced at me and shook her head “no,” but I’d trapped her and she knew
it.
“Sure
thing,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
Emma
and I regaled the pastor with the story of our morning’s exertions with the
squirrel in the attic while he sipped his “lemonade.”
At
one point, he broke into the conversation to say, “Emma, this is such refreshing
lemonade. It just hits the spot.”
In
fact, the pastor said he thought it was the best lemonade he’d ever had in his
whole life and even asked for a second glass. The pitcher was still half full,
so Emma poured away. Naturally, we decided the two of us might as well have
another glass of lemonade, too. You know, in for a penny, in for a pound, as
they say. I did at some point excuse myself for a minute to remove the
maternity swim suit and change back into my jeans and shirt, but I’m a little
hazy about exactly when that happened.
I
do know that by the time the pastor decided he’d better finish his walk and get
back to the church, the pitcher of “lemonade” was gone. The pastor had a rosy
flush creeping up his complexion and he couldn’t quit complimenting Emma on the
“fabulous lemonade.”
“You
really must give my wife your secret,” he told Emma, “because she makes
lemonade all the time, but it never tastes this good.” He tried to stand up,
but stumbled and sat back down hard in the chair. He tried once more to get to
his feet and this time made it as far as the door before he stumbled and caught
himself. Emma and I stared at each other.
“My
heavens,” he said, “I seem to be a little dizzy. Must be the heat, don’t you
think?”
Emma
gave me a desperate, pleading glance, and mouthed, “What can we do?”
“Hey,” I said, “you know I need a little walk myself. Why don’t Emma and I
walk back with you to the church? It’ll do all of us good.”
“Great
idea,” Emma chimed in. “And you know we could even take a little detour by the
café a few blocks down and get a latte or a cappuccino. How about that,
Pastor?”
“Why,
sure,” he said, weaving a little as he grabbed on to the door. “Sounds like a
really rooty-tooty-patooty idea to me.” And then he actually giggled.
I
think at this point, the pastor would have agreed to anything. We could have
suggested swimming to Hawaii for some coconut juice or flying to London for a
cup of tea and he’d have been on board.
Emma
and I positioned the pastor between us and somehow the two of us knew without
saying it that we needed this to be a long, long walk even before stopping at
the café for a cup of coffee.
We figured he wasn’t going to notice so we walked
around Emma’s block about five times before heading off for the café and some
sobering coffee. The fifth time we passed by Emma’s house, the pastor stopped
and gesturing toward Emma’s house said, “This is the prettiest house in the neighborhood
and there are five of them that are exactly the same right down to the flowers
in the front yard and the color of the front door. Isn’t that amazing. Five
people with the exact same house. I wonder who was first?”
By
the time we got him back to the church, he’d recovered his senses enough to
remember the story about the squirrel and offered to send the church janitor
and one of his helpers over to remove the squirrel from Emma’s attic.
“That’s
so nice of you, Pastor,” Emma said. “I’d be happy to pay them for their help.”
“No
need, no need,” he said, “I haven’t had so much fun in a long time. You ladies
really lifted my spirits today. You just sit those two fellows down for a glass
of that heavenly lemonade when they’re done and that’s all the reward they’re
going to need.
Three
days later Emma, Kate, Looey, and I went to lunch and spent the whole time laughing
about what we came to call The Day of the Squirrel. On the way to Emma’s house,
we drove by the church and out front on the church announcement board, Pastor
Norberg had posted his weekly spiritual saying in big black four-inch letters:
“Even a glass of lemonade can lift your
spirits. So raise a cup to the Lord today and rejoice in God’s sweetness.”
I
cannot describe just how hard we all laughed, but Looey, who was driving, had
to pull over and stop while we hooted and hollered.
"Yessiree,
girls,” I said, “and if you throw in a squirrel and a tipsy pastor, you have no
idea how spiritually uplifting a glass of lemonade can be. As your cup runneth over, so shall
your spirit tippeth over.”
