Blame It On The Mistletoe - A Novel of Bright's Pond by Joyce Magnin Page A

was sitting next to me, grabbed onto my hand. Sometimes I think the woman had a sixth sense. She held on tight and whispered in my ear. "You'll get it figured out." We held hands for almost five minutes, and I appreciated the comfort it brought.
    After the service, Ruth and I headed up to the Paradise Trailer Park for the Blessing of the Fountain. I had not been in Paradise since Ruth and I went up there to watch one of the Angels softball games. Charlotte Figg was not only a tremendous pie baker, but she was also the Angels coach and nearly coached the team to a championship. From what I understood, she had moved to Paradise after her husband died. She started the team because she didn't think there was enough community spirit in the trailer park. Apparently it worked because ever since then everything I hear about Paradise is positive and sweet.
    I couldn't help smiling when I drove under the Paradise Trailer Park sign. There was something totally endearing about the place. I enjoyed seeing all the colors of the trailers— everything from bland gray to turquoise. Now I don't mean no disrespect but trailer parks do seem to attract a different kind of people. They are their own culture. And Paradise was, of course, no different. But I suppose the strangest thing in the park was the giant concrete hand that Rose Tattoo had in her front yard. It was there that she and some of the other residents went to pray—safe in God's hand.
    Studebaker told me that he and his cousin Asa rescued it from a defunct amusement park. They hauled it back to Paradise, and Rose immediately set it up in her front yard. Then, Stu says, she proceeded to paint the names of every individual in the park on the hand. Stu said it was a physical manifestation of the Scripture that tells us we are all safe in God's hand and that our names are written on his palm and nothing and no one can pluck us from it.
    I've seen the hand only the one time, but I will admit that that day I wondered if maybe some time in God's giant palm might help me think through my quandary.
    "Maybe I'll do it," I said.
    "Do what?" asked Ruth.
    "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm thinking out loud. Maybe I'll sit in that giant hand they got here and pray about Cliff and Zeb."
    "Couldn't hurt," Ruth said. "And while you're up there, Pray for my Thanksgiving."
    We drove a little farther down the road. People were walking toward the center of the park carrying lawn chairs and blankets and covered dishes.
    "Looks like they're gearing up for the festivities," I said.
    I parked the truck against a curb between a black Oldsmobile and a yellow Duster. I haven't seen such a gathering since the night Studebaker unveiled the welcome sign to honor Agnes Sparrow and the supposed miracles she was performing. The sign was wrong in many ways from spelling to purpose and the festive feeling failed. Now that was the debacle to end all debacles and in my opinion was far greater than what was happening at Greenbrier. I caught a glimpse of Asa making his way to the front of the crowd.
    Asa was himself quite a character. He was missing his right arm. The story goes that he blew it off playing with dynamite when he was teenager. I saw children carrying American flags. And every so often a firecracker would go off. Studebaker said Asa had gotten his hands—or I should say hand—on some real fireworks, and they were planning on setting them off after dark.
    I sailed a silent prayer that when the fountain was revealed, nothing would go wrong.
    The Paradise folk gathered in a small crowd near the fountain. From where Ruth and I were it was hard to get a good look unless we could stand on something. But I didn't see anything that would accommodate us.
    "Come on," I said grabbing her hand. "Let's get closer."
    I saw Rose Tattoo standing next to Ginger Rodgers, the little person who played shortstop on the Angels softball team. I never met her before, but I watched her play in a couple of games. She could run like greased