The Dog Days of Charlotte Hayes by Marlane Kennedy Page A

extra hour or so for his belly rub as well.
    When I step into the beauty salon, Rhonda is busy at the front desk, taking payment from Mrs. Conti, the mother of one of Agnes’s friends. Mrs. Conti’s hair is in tight ringlets. Must have just had a perm. I catch a whiff of the stinky chemicals too.
    Rhonda smiles at me. “I’ll be with you in a minute,” she says, and continues to chitchat with Mrs. Conti.
    So I stare at my fingernails and bite my lip while I wait, my heart beginning a nervous beat. The pounding rhythm at first saying, “I want the job, I want the job, I want the job,” then: “No, I don’t, no, I don’t, no, I don’t.”
    Finally Mrs. Conti wraps up her conversation with Rhonda and turns to leave. “How are you doing, Charlotte?” she asks, suddenly seeing me.
    â€œFine.” I’m afraid she will begin talking and further delay the suspense over my possible job, but she hurries out the door, and I let out a sigh of relief.
    â€œWell, guess what?” Rhonda says, smiling. “You’ve got yourself a job!”
    â€œI do?”
    She nods, putting Mrs. Conti’s check in her cash drawer. “To be honest, it was a tough sell. Barth’s aunt thinks she can fend for herself after I have the baby, but we finally convinced her it would be for the best.” She looks up. “I have a hole in my schedule right now. Want to go on over and meet her? Julie can hold down the fort for a few minutes while I’m gone.”
    The phone rings, and Rhonda’s friend Julie picks it up and waves us on. And without even waiting for my answer, Rhonda ushers me out the door and across the street.

Chapter 24
    R honda pokes her index finger on the doorbell. “Sometimes it takes a while for her to get to the door to open it,” she says. “You’ve got to be patient, so wait awhile before ringing it again.”
    A ghostly face stares at me from the side window panel. I let out a startled gasp.
    â€œOh! Guess this time she must have been right near the door when I rang the bell,” Rhonda whispers.
    I hear the inside lock being fiddled with, and the door creaks open.
    â€œCome in,” says a voice that sounds slightly off-kilter, like an accent from a country I’m not familiar with.
    â€œGo ahead.” Rhonda practically pushes me inside. She follows me in, shutting the door behind her.
    The three of us stand in the foyer, in front of a worn staircase with a red patterned carpet runner.
    â€œThis is Charlotte Hayes,” Rhonda says, gesturing at me. “Charlotte, this is Petunia Parker.”
    I want to make a good impression, so I extend my hand. “Nice to meet you…” I pause. Do I call her miss? Mrs.? I quickly decide on Ms. to be safe. “Ms. Parker,” I say.
    â€œMy right hand doesn’t work right,” she says briskly.
    Oh, dear. Blushing from embarrassment, I withdraw my hand. The stroke, of course. Stupid of me.
    â€œAnd don’t call me Ms.,” she says, her voice slightly slurred-sounding.
    It’s then I realize she doesn’t have an accent after all. The left side of her face is drooping, her mouth turned down on the same side. Speech problems from the stroke.
    â€œOh, I’m sorry,” I say.
    â€œJust call me Petunia.”
    â€œLike the pig?” I ask.
    Oh, great. I can’t believe I just said what I said. Daddy likes watching the channel that shows old cartoons a lot, and for some reason I couldn’t stop the pig comment from flying out my mouth.
    â€œNo, not like the pig. Like the flower. I was named after my father’s favorite flower,” comes the reply.
    Rhonda is smiling at my goof, obviously amused. It looks like she is trying her best not to laugh. But it is hard to tell about Petunia, since her face is half paralyzed. I think I can see the right side of her mouth twitch, though.
    Petunia turns her back to us, leans on her