cane, and walks away with a strange shuffle hop. âWell, I might as well show you around,â she says.
We take a slow tour of the downstairs portion of the house. To the right is a small formal sitting room, which leads into the dining room and then the kitchen. There is a hallway to the left of the kitchen that meanders around the stairway and ends up at the front entry. Petuniaâs bedroom is at the rear of the house, then a bathroom, and a big living roomat the front of the house. So we have, in effect, just made a circle. Everything looks old-fashioned. Like Iâve stepped into a time warp. But the place is tidy. And so is Petunia. Petunia is kind of pretty, I decide. Her white-gray hair is gathered in a loose twist in the back and she is wearing blush, lipstick, and a purple skirt with a lightweight tan sweater. Noticing these things makes her a little less frightening somehow.
âYou have a nice house,â I say.
âThank you,â Petunia replies. And I think I catch a certain amount of pride in her voice.
Rhonda explains the routine I am to follow. She gives me the key to Petuniaâs post office box and tells me that Graterâs Groceries down the street has set up an account for Petunia. Iâm to get the mail first, then check with Petunia to see if I need to run to the store for anything.
Petunia remains silent through all this. It occurs to me that she is looking just as uncomfortable as I felt a few minutes ago.
âWell, I need to be getting back,â Rhonda says, checking her watch. âI have a four oâclock clientcoming in for a trim.â She touches my shoulder. âIâm planning on working until I go into labor, so I wonât need you until I have the baby, but Iâll call you when Iâm headed for the hospital. Okay?â
âOkay,â I say, following Rhonda to the door. Petunia and her cane thump after us.
âGood-bye, Aunt Petunia.â Rhonda leans over and kisses her on the cheek.
âGood-bye.â
I say good-bye, too, but without the kiss, of course, and follow Rhonda out the door.
âWell, that didnât go too bad,â Rhonda says, while waiting for the traffic to clear so she can cross the street. âIt actually went a lot better than I thought it would. She likes you, I think.â
âShe does? How do you know?â I definitely couldnât tell.
âWell, it took her years to accept me. Believe me, if she doesnât like you, she lets you know in no uncertain terms.â
I donât ask for details.
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Beauregard lets out an excited bark when he sees me approach. He knows Iâm late. Wish I could explain to him why. Thereâs still a little water left in his bowl, so I donât feel too bad about keeping him waiting. He doesnât even need to take a drink after I fill it full of fresh water. Just flops over for his belly rub.
Once Iâm done with the belly rub, I try to ignore the piles of poop that have accumulated since the last time I cleaned up after him, which was only a few days ago, but itâs hard to ignore poop âcause otherwise youâll step in it. Iâve done that before and donât exactly want a repeat experience, so I go to the garage to get a shovel and stop by the kitchen for a plastic bag. Soon Iâm wrinkling my nose as I wedge the shovel between the ground and one of the presents Beauregard left me. Earning that $325 canât come quick enough.
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After dinner Daddy visits his breezeway studio, Mama gives Justin Lee his bath, Agnes giggles on the phone with Tom, and I pull up saintrescue.org with a satisfied grin, imagining what it will be like to see Beauregardâs profile there.
I click off the Web site, though, when one by one my family starts drifting into the living room: first Mama and Justin Lee with his damp hair, then Agnes, and finally Daddy. Daddy has brought his painting with him. He is holding it gingerly from the
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