Maybelle's Way

Maybelle walked in the local park every day. It was only a few blocks from her house. The paths were almost perfectly groomed. She had talked to the groundskeeper about this. She was sure that he appreciated her advice.

Today was no different.

4:30 PM: Get ready.

4:45 PM: Check the stove and the oven. Off. Good.

4:47 PM: Check the current weather report. Not as accurate as Maybelle would like, but she sent an email to the site about that, too. She passed along her thoughts and suggestions. She would keep reminding them. She smiled when she thought about it.

4:50 PM: Right on schedule. She looked out her window to see if Mrs. Caufield was pulling into her driveway across the street. Late again. She would give her advice on how to avoid the traffic. Or speed up the after-work shopping. And the leaves needed raking. She would post a note on the mailbox when she went out. The neighborhood looked so much better when things were groomed the correct way. Mrs. Caufield always seemed to appreciate the attention. Her husband had left her a year ago. Maybelle stood up to get her through the trauma and pain. She had been there herself. She knew all the tricks. Mrs. Caufield always accepted the help pleasantly.

4:55 PM: Maybelle looked around for Trixie, her miniature spaniel, and she was right by her heels. Good dog. She was her best student. Always looking up at her with those “Thank you, mother” eyes. Maybelle took the leash from the hook by the door and clipped it on Trixie’s collar. “Can’t let you run free now, can we?”

4:59 PM: Maybelle opened the door and walked outside in the bright sunlight. The cool air brushed past her perfectly coiffed hair and her immaculate dress. White with black dots. All the rage. Maybelle knew all about it. White walking shoes. Clean. Crisp. Laces tied just so. Maybelle, if nothing else, was always correct.

5:00 PM: Perfect. On the dot. Maybelle locked the door. Who knows who might come try to get inside when she was gone. One had to take precautions. Maybelle knew.

Maybelle always walked to the park promptly at 5:00 PM, except when it rained. Of course. But she had noticed that her neighbors weren’t outside as often as before. Maybelle noticed these things.

House 45. Red brick with white painted gutters and an ash roof. Green shutters. Fake. Mr. and Mrs. Juantica. Mexican. She asked because it wasn’t proper to guess or make assumptions. But she also made a mental note. Tulips and daffodils were slightly out of a row and had seemingly random bulb counts. Maybelle would talk to them the next time she saw them. A little 5-10-5 and a spade should fix all the problems.

Maybelle didn’t carry her phone when she walked. She wanted to engage the people, not live life through a device. She gently reminded the kids when they were out. Seemingly less and less these days. That life was to be lived, not just experienced. Little Stevie normally rode his bike at 5:06 PM. Maybelle didn’t see him. She hoped he had taken her advice and buckled his chin strap. She didn’t want to have to give the bad news to his parents if he fell and hurt himself.

Maybelle walked the blocks looking at the houses. She felt the weight of the baggy container on the leash. She had checked it before she left. It was full. Nobody was going to scold her for not properly picking up after Trixie.

House 53. On her side of the street. Odd house number. That always made her smile. Odd number. Her husband used to call her that sometimes. Plain white house, almost no architectural style. Pillbox? She had looked it up. The house needed painting. She made a mental note. Mrs. Willoby lived there. She would mention it to her 16-year-old son when he was out shooting basketballs in the driveway. She would also mention that the hoop was 3 cm taller than regulation.

House 62. Tom Parker. He insisted that Maybelle call her Tom. Not Mr. Parker. She didn’t like him very much. Oh, he was nice enough, but he didn’t listen to her. Cape Cod house. With blue awnings. She tried to tell him that wasn’t a good look. She had even given him a copy of the House and Garden that talked about house styles and their differences. Tom… Mr. Parker… should be out cutting his hedges at 5:10 PM. But he wasn’t there.

Maybelle walked the rest of the two blocks to the park and made mental notes about each house and neighbor. She missed their conversations that she had when she went to the park. But she saw them less and less over time. She decided to just put little notes in their mailboxes when she had something to tell them.

The day was beginning to be a really good day. She had made several mental notes and almost couldn’t wait to go home and write them on her yellow sticky pad. She would head out in the morning and place them. She knew that her neighbors appreciated her attention and assistance.

Maybelle glanced at her watch. It sat on her wrist perfectly. Slim gold braid with a delicate face. Very womanly. Not at all an electric watch. Maybelle didn’t need a smart watch. Maybelle didn’t need reminding or coached or calculated. She knew the time even before she looked at her wrist. She knew her steps. She knew how many calories she was burning.

5:15 PM. She was at the park.

Where were all the people? The day was beautiful? Well, almost beautiful. She couldn’t do anything about that. She had asked Father Barnard at the Holy Seat of Christ church to pray. He said he would. He told her not to worry about it. Now it was up to God. Maybelle had done her part.

Father Barnard was a slightly fat and balding man. Both slightly balding and slightly fat. Not slightly a man. Of that, Maybelle was sure. She had heard the stories, but rejected them. She had talked to him about it. She had assured him that all it took was prayer and faith. And a good diet. She read somewhere that receding hairlines were either from too much hormones or a bad diet. His few extra pounds were to blame. She was sure. She had gifted him with a Meta Givens cookbook one Christmas. He took it and put it on the table, and quietly thanked her.

Maybelle looked down at Trixie. Perfectly trimmed. Perfectly clean. Paws clipped. She was a delight. Trixie never barked. Trixie never skipped a beat. She was always by Maybelle’s side.

Trixie looked up at Maybelle as they entered the park’s gate for permission. Wagging her tail, but cautious. Maybelle gave her a quick smile and a “Let’s go,” and they both marched into the park.

Maybelle stopped at the park map. The thick plastic over it was all scratched. It contained remnants of peeled-off stickers. The “You are here” arrow was slightly off by a few feet. Maybelle had mentioned all of these things to the park commission. They said that when they had the budget, they would take care of it. And then they moved on to other topics about additional portable toilets and the park police. Maybelle was sure that they had written down her suggestions.

The message post area was a mess. Maybelle took it on herself to tidy it up a bit. Arranging the orphaned thumbtacks so that people could easily find them. She removed the flyers and notices that were out of date. Sorted the rest. And she spent at least 5 minutes trimming the torn edges of the “Take one” strips that held the contact information for each notice.

She missed re-ordering her husband’s sock drawer. Ties, socks, cufflinks. If she didn’t do it every day, when she opened the drawer, all she saw was chaos. She wondered who did that for him now.

She patted Trixie on the head and moved on down the path.

Three boys were riding down the path on their skateboards. One had a One Wheel. Or that was what she called it. Motorized. One large wheel in the middle. Laziness. Never having to push off and keep it going. She would tell him when they passed.

But they didn’t pass. When they got about 50 feet away, they all laughed and jumped off their boards, picked them up, and ran across the field out of sight.

Maybelle made a mental note. Next time.

Mr. Williams was walking towards her. The boys had swooped around him and just barely missed hitting him. He hadn’t stopped them. He just kept going.

Maybelle would say hello to him and have a nice discussion about the current younger generation and manners. Not bad boys, just misguided. She would share her parenting knowledge. She never had any kids herself. She never had the pleasure. But her sister did. She didn’t see them nearly enough these days. But she felt like she had helped her sister raise them, nonetheless.

Mr. Williams heard the boys laugh and run off and looked up the path at Maybelle. He stopped, dug out a book from his pocket, and sat down at the nearest park bench. Oh well. Maybelle wouldn’t interrupt him. She admired his dedication to books. She couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t carrying one and when his nose wasn’t buried in it. Next time. There will always be a next time, Maybelle told herself.

Trixie stopped and looked up at Maybelle. Then back down to the path. Someone had not cleaned up after their pet. Trixie was alerting her. Good girl.

Maybelle looked around. No people with dogs out at this moment. She shrugged. teaching moment lost. She would just handle it herself.

Maybelle adeptly pulled out one of the poop-away bags from its tube on the leash and snapped it open. She reversed it inside-out and used it to pick up the waste. In one quick motion, it seemed to be contained and tied. Safe. No biohazard now. Maybelle smiled.

Maybelle saw the waste bin for pets just down the path. It wasn’t official. It was the one she had bought and paid for and donated to the park. She had informed the groundskeeper that it should be emptied every day, but he always claimed that he was so busy that he sometimes forgot. He said he wasn’t a pet person. He had fish. They talked for maybe an hour about aquariums. Fresh water versus saltwater. Filtering systems. Fish food. She even brought him a fish store catalogue one day, but she couldn’t find him. She had it for the ready in her organized magazine rack at home. Eventually, she would see him and tell him about it. Maybelle was sure that he would ask her to bring it to him the next day.

Maybelle dropped the baggy in the bin and looked down at Trixie.

“Now’s as good a time as any, sweetheart.” Maybelle took out another baggie from the tube and showed it to Trixie. “I’ll wait. Good girl.”

Trixie looked back up at Maybelle and headed for the grass.

After Trixie had complied, Maybelle tossed that bag into the bin too and noticed that it was in need of emptying. She would bring a trash bag tomorrow and empty it. She would let the trashman know the extra bag was not recyclable and contained biohazard waste. She told him every time. He would smile and say, “You are really something else, Mrs. G.” He never called her Maybelle. She liked him, even if she never remembered his name. He was just that nice trashman from Western Refuge and Waste.

Maybelle looked at her watch again. 5:45 PM. Just enough time to get back home to prepare dinner. She had set out the fixings before she left for the park. She would make Chicken Piccata.

Usually, she would have spent two hours in the park. Talking to everyone she met. But these days, people were just too busy. She read about it in the newspaper and her magazines. All these electronic gizmos were supposed to free up people for an easier life. But as Maybelle saw it, they just kept them busy. All the time. People walked by her with their faces in their phones. Always just getting a call. A text message. Even listening to music on those tiny headphones, she found out were called buds. When she was younger, buds were a term for friends. Now she thought that people replaced conversation with people with electronic friends.

Sometimes, Maybelle felt lonely. Everyone was so busy. Everyone just rushing past her and nodding and giving her the “I’m late, I’m late” response, she always connected with Alice in Wonderland.

So, two hours changed to one hour. Maybelle adjusted. Not because she wanted to, but she accepted it and used that free hour to write those sticky notes and record her mental notes into her journal. Or was it a diary? Maybelle wasn’t sure of the correct term these days. She heard Father Barnard call it “her list book”. Maybe that was it.

With a quick glance at Trixie, Maybelle turned around and started back to the park’s gate. Nope. Today was lean. Nobody much around. Maybe tomorrow.

On the way back, Maybelle searched for the boys with the skateboards. They were gone. A few other children were playing in the fields, but never came close to her. She would remember to put a notice up on the board at the gate for them. Reminding them to be safe and watch out for strangers, and not to forget to do their homework. Maybelle knew that at least their parents would appreciate it.

Once at the gate again, she picked up Trixie and looked her straight in he brown eyes.

“Nobody out today, good girl. I guess you will get the chicken leftovers early tonight. But not too much. You have to watch your diet.”

She put Trixie back down and patted her on the head.

Trixie was tri-colored with expressive brown eyebrows. She looked up again at Maybelle and gave just one tail wag.

And they were off.

Past House 72. Curtains drawn, but the television too loud. Maybelle made a mental note.

Past House 68. Car oil stains in the driveway. She would tell her guy who cleans hers to drop by their house and get that taken care of.

Past House 52. Mrs. Patterson had laundry drying on a line in the backyard. It wasn’t visible from the front of the house, but she could hear it slapping in the wind. Maybelle would get a flyer for the new dryers the next time she was out, and put it in their mailbox. They would appreciate it.

Past House 48. She didn’t know the people who lived there. That seemed strange to her. She knew everyone else. One day, she saw them moving in, talking to the neighbor across the street. They all looked her way and nodded. Now every time she goes by to introduce herself, there is nobody home. She put a welcome package in their mailbox and a sticky note on their door once, but she never saw them again. She knew they were still there. She saw their lights on in the night. She heard the radio when she walked by sometimes. Strange.

Maybelle asked their next-door neighbors once about them, and all they said was that they were very private people and didn’t go out much.

Maybelle wasn’t discouraged. Eventually, she would get to talk to them, and she had a whole list of mental notes and suggestions for them.

Maybelle smiled and moved on.

Back at house 45. The daffodils were drooping. She made a mental count of the bulbs in each grouping. She started to make a plan for how to replant them so they all matched.

And then she was back at her front door.

She took out her key from the hidden pocket in her dress and opened the door. Before she went inside, she took out some hand wipes from another tube on the leash and started to clean Trixie’s paws.

“Not as adventurous a day as we hope. Right, Trix?” The dog wagged her tail obediently.

As she opened the door, Trixie sauntered in, and Maybelle added, “Not to worry. I have lots of notes. Everyone will be so glad when I deliver them.”

With that, Maybelle followed Trixie into the house and closed the door.

There was always tomorrow.