Being Ethel (In a world that loves Lucy)

Being Ethel
(In a world that loves Lucy)
A Mackinac Island Story

By Michèle Olson

Chapter One

1979

“Are you looking forward to sitting in a jail cell, young lady?”

If weasels spoke, this is what they would sound like. Lovely way to wake up, with my

rent-a-lawyer screaming at me on the phone.

“You know I don’t want that. I overslept. Geez, it happens,” I say. All twenty-three-

year-olds oversleep, for crying out loud. I’m still not convinced there is a five o’clock in the

morning. Probably made up by an alarm clock company.

One of my many talents, getting my rent-a-lawyer to scream at me over the phone.

“I was able to get your hearing postponed until noon, but, Piper, I swear, if you don’t

show up this time, I’ll recommend a maximum sentence myself. You got that?” Wham!

A person could break a phone slamming it that hard. Extra emphasis noted, Perry

Mason. Thankfully, I have developed an antidote to crabby people, and it’s as easy as

pushing the play button on my cassette player. And there we go. “Good Morning” with

Debbie Reynolds, Gene Kelly, and Donald O’Connor blaring is what I always need to

change a toxic atmosphere. I hope this helps. Yes, there’s the beat and the rhythm that gets

me going. I’m right here with you gang, tap left, tap right, sway left, sway right. Wait. That

extra beat, that’s not me. Great, now I’ve got someone pounding on my door.

“Christopher Columbus, stop trying to knock down my door!” Good girl, Piper! You

didn’t swear! Yes, drawing on this line Jo uses in Little Women has helped with my potty

mouth, if I do say so myself.

Phones. Doors. As Garbo said, “I want to be left alone.” The pounding is messing with

the cool vibe I have going.

I unlock the first lock, the second one, and the dead bolt. And, here it comes, CREEEK!

That is a sound that crawls up my spine every time. And, what have we here? Hello scrawny

teenager in your oversized, dark uniform shoving a paper at me. Shouldn’t you be at the

malt shop sipping milk shakes?

“Finally! Sign here and then I can give you the telegram,” he says.

Not a blasted telegram, not on this day. And, where are they getting telegram people

lately? Are you twelve yet, Skippy?

“Hey, Pip, see you’re getting a telegram, that’s so weird, today of all days. Is the coffee

ready yet?” Freddy, my neighbor from across the hall, steps out of his apartment. I don’t

think he’s owned a razor since 1962 or thought about new clothes since then. Do a striped

shirt and plaid pants ever work together?

Crap! Why do I always forget Freddy day? And yes. He’s been cooking cabbage again.

Skippy’s face tells the whole story of what it smells like to get to close to Freddy’s

apartment.

“You’re a loud knocker, sonny boy, made the plates rattle in my place,” Freddy says.

“Hang on, Sk… sir… mister.” I don’t know what to call this nerd kid.

To my neighbor, I say, “Yah, about that, Freddy, today may not be a good day for

coffee.”

“What you sayin’, Pip? Speak up!” Freddy is already in my kitchen alcove, and I hear

the tin spoon hitting the side of the pot as he’s probably putting the grounds in the bottom,

not the cartridge on top.

“Can you sign? I’ve got other deliveries. Wow, someone likes cabbage around here.

Just sign, and then I can give it to you, ma’am.”

‘Ma’am’. I’m way too young to be a ma’am, but maybe I look old because you look

like your mom still tucks you in. You can lose the attitude, Skippy.

“Cabbage is a staple here at our De La Subsidized Villa—no Rockefellers here, buddy

boy.” I say. “You got a pen? It would take me a while to find one.”

Ironic that pens elude me when my last name is Penn.

“Of course, I carry a pen because no one ever has one. People are…”

“People are busy and not expecting a door-pounding, ever think of that?” I say. Grouch

at me and I’ll grouch back at you.

A loop and some scribbles are close enough. Geez, Skippy, stare much? Take a picture

why you’re at it. Oh yah, he thinks he deserves a tip.

“Freddy! Got a dollar for a tip?” Freddy always has money in his crusty pockets, along

with a few buttons, paperclips, and gum wrappers. Sure, Freddy, you darn near knock me

over getting into the kitchen, but feel free to take your sweet time to get me the buck.

“Used to be cheaper to send a telegram than make a long-distance call when I was a

kid.” Freddy just has to speak with every shuffling step.

“Give him the dollar, Freddy.” Can this little ensemble of weirdos hear my jaw

clenching?

It feels good to slam the door in snarky telegram boy’s face. And, score. I have a new

pen.

“In fact, I read…” Oh boy, Freddy-Know-It-All has something he thinks only he knows.

“People used the word stop at the end of a sentence ’cuz punctuation cost extra, but the word

stop was free. So, their telegram was cheaper in the long run. Bet you didn’t know that!”

Freddy says.

“When did you become the 1979 king of all things telegram?”

“Pip, have you looked in a mirror today?”

“Yeah, I’m Miss America,” I say. I too had the misfortune of catching a glimpse of

myself in the hall mirror as I headed to the door. That last attempt at cutting my own hair

was not a good idea in hindsight. Thin, blonde hair has a mind of its own if you don’t wash

and style it every day, and who has that kind of time? What’s so bad about bib overalls and a

T-shirt? Faded doesn’t always mean worn out, does it? I bet if Twiggy wore it, the fashion

mags would be all over it.

“I’ll pay back that buck, Freddy, after I get to a bank sometime.”

I won’t be paying him back. I ask for a dollar here and there, and Freddy hands it over.

It’s just what we do.

“A telegram, arriving today and on the exact same day. When I woke up, I saw my

mark on my bank calendar. I put a little star there ’cuz I know what it means. Four whole

years since that other one, and then you get one today? It’s weirding me out,” Freddy says.

“Well, the last thing we need is more weirdness out of you, and I have no idea who it’s

from. It’s probably nothing, and I don’t have time to read it now. I’ve got to be downtown,

and the BART is busy on Fridays—so let’s rain check on our coffee and gossip date, do you

mind?”

“That goofy subway. There’s walking and cable cars. Kids today. I only came by ’cuz

it’s Friday, and Friday 9 a.m. is when I always come by. Do you own a watch, Pip? I’ve

lived through riots and ’Nam and darn near the Depression. I can live without your crappy

coffee. And quit playing your music so loud!”

Great, now I’ve hurt his feelings. Apparently, this stupid get-together has become

important to the Fredster.

“Freddy…” Maybe I can salvage this horrible morning for him at least. “Although you

weren’t on the front lines in Vietnam, your honorable service as the best guard who ever

worked at Alcatraz is appreciated by the proud citizens of San Francisco. Sunday we’ll have

time to talk before the I Love Lucy show starts. I’ll even treat you to a sandwich afterward.

But, today, I have this appointment and I can’t miss it, or it will be really bad.”

“Secrets… appointments… telegrams… all right. I didn’t get to be seventy-five next

birthday and this handsome by not being able to take a hint,” Freddy says. “What did you

do, rob a bank?”

You’re not far off, Freddy. At least my deal gets him going toward the door.

“I miss them too,” Freddy says. “Best neighbors I ever had in this crap hole. Your dad

always asked how I was, at least until he got on TV. And your mom made me muffins

sometimes. Your sister was always laughing and smiling. I couldn’t tell you apart when you

were little. Now, those twins are identical I always said to the Mrs. Then you talked, and I

knew which one you were. Sassy, sassy, sassy. That’s what I used to say to the Mrs. when

she was still here. That one is sassy.”

“Ironic, huh, Freddy? You liked all of them the best and you’re stuck with me. God is

playing a joke on you.”

Four more shuffles. Come on Fred-meister, you can do it. Keep going.

“Pip, I know it’s a tender day.” Freddy’s face softens.

“Freddy, tick-tock! Let me get the door.”

I can’t do this right now. Even the watch I don’t own is ticking loudly in my head.

“Don’t you think it’s draftier in here every year? Wow, Pip, ever think about oiling this

door?”

“Okay, well… see you Sunday for I Love Lucy.” Hopefully this push cleverly disguised

as a pat gets him out the door and saves me from another Freddy knowledge-fest.

“I’m going, I’m going. It wouldn’t hurt to throw a few cookies on the table along with

the crappy coffee you get. No one likes a bad hostess, I always say.”

“Well, just bring a note from your doctor saying that Fredrick J. Coleman has

permission to eat cookies even though he has diabetes and needs to stay away from sugar.”

“Sassy, sassy, sassy…” Freddy always had to have the last word.

I don’t dare look at his face again. I can’t take what I know is there, someone who

knows and cares. Freddy, there’s no time for this, no time for tears.

“I know what the day means, I know.” His voice breaks.

Nope. I can’t do feelings and things today.

“On your way, Sir Fredrick of Fredrickville… life goes on.” I give a bow and a hand

flourish, hoping I can get a smile back. Nope. Didn’t work. Sorry, King of the Telegrams.

You don’t understand. And the reality of what could be ahead makes me crazy afraid to find

out for myself.

Chapter Two

A telegram from Michigan. My only Michigan connection is Trixie, and heaven knows

we haven’t talked in years. We thought we would be in touch every day after the summer I

lived with her and her great aunt. That’s how thirteen-year-olds think. I’ll never forget that

summer. It was one of the best times of my life. Besides, it’s 1979 not 1939, for Pete’s sake.

No one from my generation would send a telegram. This whole day is giving me a

stomachache. I feel like Barbara Stanwyck in Titanic, about to hit the iceberg. “Enough,

Piper—open the freakin’ telegram!” Great. Now I’m talking to myself, out loud, on

subways.

And here come the stares. Sorry, Mr. Gray Hair with the bow tie. You shouldn’t have

sat so close to me. He’s probably English and knows the Queen. I bet he never takes the

BART, but today his car is in the garage, and he gave the chauffeur the day off. Yes, I’m

sorry I interrupted your reading of Charles Dickens and I know that look. You think I’m a

subway crazy, the ones who talk out loud to imaginary rabbits, which, according to Jimmy

Stewart, are not so invisible as you think. I should have opened the dumb thing before I left.

This stupid court date is making me nuts. Deep breaths. Mom always said, deep breaths. Rip

the bandage off now, or I’ll have to wait until after court. What if I go straight to jail and

they take my satchel away, and I never see inside the telegram? Amazing how a crummy

piece of paper can change your whole life. Here goes nothing.

Theresa Masters from Mackinac Island, Michigan, deceased from natural causes STOP

You are named as sole heir of her store and residence on the island STOP To

understand the monetary value and how to secure inheritance, please appear at law

offices of Stumpf & Sawyer no later than May 25, 1979 STOP Failure to do so will

forfeit your inheritance to Mackinac City Council for determination of next steps STOP

What? Theresa… my Trixie! We haven’t talked in forever, but this news hurts. Trixie,

when you let me stay with you that summer on the island, you saved me from schlepping

around the country in a missionary dog and pony show. Who wants to spend their summer

raising missionary funds with parents and a Goody Two-shoes twin sister? Instead of buying

into the whole evangelism shtick—sitting on hard pews in musty buildings listening to

endless sermons and off-key singers while they raised funds—I had a glorious summer with

you, my sweet pen pal. That school pen-pal project saved me right when I needed a change.

To this day I’m shocked my parents gave their blessing. Whatever your aunt said on that

phone call made it possible. My dad paying for long distance was a miracle, too. Man, what

a place. Mackinac Island, as close to paradise as I could imagine. Blood sisters, we had

vowed, kind of strange when you have a twin. Hormones and boys. That’s what caused us to

lose touch. Now you’re dead, only twenty-three—just like me. How do you die of natural

causes so young? Why would you leave me your stuff? Your aunt must be gone by now, and

you never talked about any other relatives. Still, there must be someone better than me. How

am I going to get to Mackinac Island by May 25th? Or will I be in jail? Ugh, my BART

stop. I can’t think about this right now. At least the guy sitting by me can stop worrying if

he’s in harm’s way from a subway crazy. I didn’t say any of that out loud, I hope. Enjoy

your date with Miss Havisham, sir, and give my best to the Queen.

***

Surreal, scary, and not pretty, but somehow, the judge didn’t see me as complete scum.

It felt like I was floating in a daydream, even as he was pounding that gavel. So much

pounding today, including my heart and head. I think there might have been a bit of yelling

in his voice when he told me to pay the fine or I would do the jail time. He did remind me of

the judge in Miracle on 34th Street when they were trying Kris Kringle and all the letters

show up on his bench from the kids who wrote to Santa Claus. He must have seen

something he liked, or it was a pity move. Maybe he was just busy and wanted me gone. At

any rate, I’m not going to jail!

“You understand this is unheard of. This judge always gives jail time. Did you get that,

loud and clear, that if you ever shoplift again, there will be no second chances?”

I feel little flicks of spit hitting my face as the weasel and his voice are way too close

for my liking. Yes, rent-a-lawyer, I get it. I also get you seem disappointed I’m not going to

jail.

“That hearing went far better than I hoped for in my wildest dreams, not that you

deserved such a lenient sentence. If there’s a brain in your head, you will pay the fine on

time, and you will never, ever shoplift again. If you don’t believe in God, this is the time to

start, because what just happened, Piper… that was a miracle. So, say your prayers, Miss

Lucky, because multiple offenses never get off that easy. Take a hint and don’t shoplift ever

again. I don’t mean not get caught, I mean never do it. And if you do decide to do it again,

don’t call me.”

“Thank you!” I probably should have said that a little quicker because I doubt he heard

it halfway down the block when I finally was able to speak and wipe off my face. I get it,

you don’t like your job. No need to take it out on me, rent-a-lawyer.

“Eh, be gone, before someone drops a house on you, too.” That’s all that comes to mind

right now. Public defenders need personality lessons. They get stuck with cases they don’t

want. Maybe things went well because God owes me one. I wasn’t ready to be an orphan.

It’s probably not how it works, but we all keep score. I don’t care. He was no prize as a

lawyer, no Katharine Hepburn or Spencer Tracy in Adam’s Rib. With them on board, I

would have ended up with scads of money and living happily ever after. That’s how

Hollywood does things, always a satisfying ending, always getting it right. Hollywood never

lets me down. I hate this day, but I’ll still take it over this day four years ago when the first

blasted telegram showed up.

It was Walter Cronkite who informed the country on the evening news that my whole

family had died. Either indigenous people burning down a hut with a TV evangelist, his

wife, and his daughter inside is a big story, or it was a slow news day. No state department

representative pounded on my door that day—hut-burning protocols were probably not in

the training manual at the agency. I didn’t see Walter say it. I was sitting in a corner with the

lights out in my apartment like paralyzed roadkill. It was the first telegram I ever received.

When the guy brought it, I thought I had won something, like some movie scene. Talk about

stupid. After the numbness wore off, all I felt was anger. Teen Beat Magazine had an article

saying there were different stages of grief. I read it. I feel one stage all day, every

day—anger—a fancy word for mad, mad, mad! As if they can sum up devastation in a two-

page spread, all wrapped in a neat “How to Become Alive Again” package. And, those

comments at the funeral were no help.

“Aren’t you happy? They are with the angels now.”

“I know exactly how you feel, my aunt just died, and she was ninety-seven, bless her

heart.”

“Now you have three guardian angels to watch over you.”

“It was God’s will.”

My favorite comment was from a hippie guy who said he watched my dad on TV once.

All he said was: “Well, that’s a crappy thing to happen.”

Preach it, brother. So, now, my pocket has a fresh new telegram. Like four years ago, a

yellow piece of paper is breaking my heart and changing my life. And once again, I don’t

know what to do.

Right now, I need some kind of “Get-Out-of-Jail-Free” card celebration. If Trixie were

here, she would have celebrated with me. She was the one who introduced me to my first

five-finger escapade, but her goals didn’t go beyond bubble gum and lip gloss. Funny she

ended up being a store owner on Mackinac Island.

This fine will wipe the final stash under my mattress so this party must be cheap. That’s

it—Frap! Yeah, it pays to be friends with the ticket booth guy at the Bijou. Frap lets me

waltz right in, no trying to sneak in the side door. Frap and I don’t care about real life

stuff… we live for old movies. It’s like an unwritten rule—don’t spoil life as it should be

with reality. Thank goodness my mom taught me to always put a dime in my shoe. The next

phone booth will be my ticket to an evening of escape. And fiddle-dee-dee, I’ll think about

my problems tomorrow.

“Hello, The Bijou, can I help you?”

“Hey, Frap, it’s Piper… I’m in need of a movie!”

“Miss P, it’s been too long!” Frap is a hoot. “Up for some Singin’ in the Rain?”

“Are you kidding me? I was just enjoying some ‘Good Morning’ earlier today.”

“Ah, the trio can’t wait to hang out! The movie starts in two hours and I’m ready for my

break—wanna catch a burger?” Frap asks.

Frap’s a mind reader! I don’t remember eating today; a hamburger sounds amazing.

Maybe that’s why I was so spacey in court.

“Frap, you’re a lifesaver. I’m starving and ready for some love from the big screen. I’ll

catch the BART and be at Jack-in-the-Box in ten or fifteen.”

“Sounds like a plan… hey, did you get together with your cousin?”

“My cousin? I don’t have a cousin. Tell me at dinner, I gotta catch the BART.”

Cousin? Frap’s been eating the brownies. Why is someone asking about me and why

are they asking Frap? I keep my “Frap-life” very separate from the rest of my glowing

existence. People asking about me. Who am I in trouble with now?

Enjoy the full book of Being Ethel (In a world that loves Lucy) filled with mystery,

romance, friendship, and faith…eBooks on Amazon and paperback and audiobook

available everywhere.