Cat Dubois' Odyssey to Enchantment Read online

  “My secretary made it a month ago,” she said as she searched in her huge tote bag and found a confirmation letter and a fingernail file, extended the piece of paper to him, and said, “There you are.” She began filing her nails as she waited for the clerk.

  “Sorry, no reservation.” The clerk closed the book and looked straight into her brown eyes. “Nope, you don’t have one.

  “Oh, yes. Yes, there is; look again,” she said, not looking up from her manicuring.

  Then, Eleanor leaned over the counter and opened his book to the day, November 26th. She pointed to the name on the list. “There. Right there.” She tapped her finger on her name clearly printed on the list. “It’s the only name on the list, I see—Mrs. Eleanor Harding.” She smiled big.

  The clerk looked again. “Well, it wasn’t here a moment ago,” he muttered. “We’ve had no one on our list in months. We only have two automobiles, and they’re being used by the residents in this town right now. There isn’t anything else available.” He, again, closed the book.

  “Mr. Smith,” Eleanor began, glancing at his name badge, “I assure you that my name has been on the list for a while, and I need transportation immediately. I do not care who has the cars; I reserved one of them for today; and you, sir, should have known this if you paid any attention at all to your job. Now, may I have the car?”

  Her eyes spun spirals into his that sent the unspoken message, “You’d better get me a car, right now, or else!” The hypnotic phenomenon of Eleanor’s eyes was a skill she had finely honed for many, many years. She could use her eyes in a swirling fashion making them seem as if they were a kaleidoscope, or turn them ‘round and ‘round like a barber pole. For the clerk, she used the barber pole movement of spiraling golds and browns. Her eyes were impossible to turn away from, if you were a mortal man.

  So, the clerk spoke, changing his tune, “I’ll get you transportation. Can you wait a moment? I have to get the car cleaned up.” Mr. Smith jumped to action, surprised at himself, thinking, “I guess I have no choice.”

  Eleanor stepped outside to wait on the sidewalk, being sure to stay away from the men still standing outside at the bar, who were still puzzling over her identity and connections with Cat Dubois. She stared up at the sky and took note that it was beginning to turn overcast and dreary. The clouds were building up in the eastern sky. The men in front of the store stood speechless as they gazed at her. They whispered between each other about the mysterious old woman.

  Eleanor sighed, “Oh, what the heck…” She just simply had to show them a small lesson. “I have to,” Eleanor reasoned with herself, chuckling at the opportunity to have a wee bit of fun before the weather turned bad. With a circle of her hand, and a pointing of her finger in the direction of the men’s wives—the hornet’s nest—Eleanor knew just what to do. She had supernatural privy to the enemies’ territory, meaning the wives of Glory Town. She pointed, with deliberation, their way.

  One of the wives emerged from the store looking at the men gathered there like she was the town’s sheepish-cute and very innocent, sexy saint. “What she really looks like is a well-dressed slut, in her black leather mini skirt with dark tights and burnt-orange, tightly-fitting, cashmere sweater,” thought Eleanor. “Tart.” Her body was perfect, trim and petite, and her long, chestnut silky hair hung over her shoulders and almost touched her waist.

  She nodded, looking at Eleanor grimly. “Well, how do you do? Can I help you?” She said she had overheard Eleanor say that she was going to Cat Dubois’ house.

  Eleanor knew better. She had seen her listening just on the other side of the door to the store. “No. You may not help.” With a twirl of Eleanor’s little finger in a polite swirling manner, the woman’s face changed for a brief moment. For one flash second, the tart’s face looked like a mule with long ears and crooked, long, buck teeth. It was as if something had crawled under her facial structure and, for a split-second, she resembled a grinning donkey.

  “Aw! What was that?”, the men gasped in unison.

  “Now, what did you say, dear?” Eleanor turned, then, to answer the hussy.

  The tart didn’t see anything but the reactions of the men who saw the donkey’s face. “What the hell are you men staring at?”, the woman demanded, angrily.”

  “Nothing. Let’s call it a day, shall we?”, one of the men said, upon which they scattered. They weren’t certain what they had seen, and they didn’t dare speak, but, they’d all seen something and witnessed the old woman chuckling at them.

  “Eleanor, what are you doing? You don’t have time for games!”, Tadhg spoke, supernaturally, to Eleanor.

  “Just letting them know that Eleanor has arrived, Tadhg,” Eleanor responded.

  “Not your job!”, Tadhg reminded Eleanor. “Stay focused.”

  Eleanor looked around for a brief moment, to see who remained in view, and decided to return to the store to check on her rental car. She stood at the counter as Mr. Smith called for the nearest of his rental vehicles to the store, and the resident argued why he couldn’t give it up.

  “It doesn’t matter, I have to have that Jeep now!”, Mr. Smith insisted. “If I don’t, this old woman is going to report me. Bring it now,” he muttered under his breath.

  One of the men from the store, who had lingered out of curiosity about Eleanor, spoke up, addressing her, “The weather is going to change pretty soon, ma’am. We’re expecting snow and ice tonight. You’d better get to the hotel soon. It’s not gonna be safe on the roads if you’re traveling anywhere else.” He sounded concerned.

  Eleanor smiled, politely. “Thank you. I will be fine.”

  The man nodded and watched her while she waited. He stood far enough away not to seem too obvious, but periodically glanced at her as she tapped her toes anxiously, standing in impatience, then walked around the store looking at things. The man asked if he could get her a cup of coffee while she waited.

  “No. No, thank you,” she abruptly responded.

  “Then, how about a cup of hot tea?” He brought it over to her as she stood there and insisted she take it. “Here. It will keep you warm. It’s getting cold, you probably could use it.”

  “Well, alright; thank you. It would be warming.” She gave him a sweet smile.

  He shyly asked, “May I ask you how you did that?”

  Eleanor looked around to see if she could recall anything she’d moved or done. “Did what?”

  “Oh, you know—the donkey’s face.” He chuckled. “I thought it was kind of funny. She deserves it,” he added with a chuckle. He had a warm smile.

  Eleanor said, “What are you talking about? A donkey’s face?”

  He giggled as he swept the floor to the store. Shaking his head “no” and still chuckling. Then he stopped sweeping and got really serious, “Then, who did if it wasn’t you?”

  “Sir, whatever are you talking about? Are you okay? Are you on drugs?” She put the tea down. “I think I’m finished. Thank you.”

  She arose to leave, as if perturbed with his questions. But, truly, Eleanor thought it was funny, as well. She sheepishly smiled to herself. “Eleanor, stop with the pride. You need to get going. The weather’s changing quickly.”

  Tadhg scolded his friend—first, for not adhering to the rules of not tampering with human foolishness unless ordered from above; and second, for wasting time with petty behaviors. “Don’t let yourself get caught up in unfortunate human choices.”

  A yellow Jeep pulled up in front of the general store, covered in generous layers of mud. Mr. Smith turned to Eleanor. “I’ll clean it up right now and you’ll have it in a minute or two.” He winked apprehensively.

  “Have you ever driven a four-wheel-drive Jeep? You’ll need to engage it if you’re going to Cat Dubois’ tonight.”

  Eleanor realized she had said absolutely nothing of her plans to travel to Elizabeth Catherine Dubois’ tonight to Mr. Smith.

  “It seems, Mr. Smith, that you must have spoken to one of the men who was
loitering about outside. How quickly gossip travel around here.”

  “Yes ma’am, we keep no secrets,” Mr. Smith said as he nodded, and his eyes raised in expression to say, “That’s the way it is, and if you don’t like it, leave,” and continued cleaned the windshield.

  “I see that.” Sternly she rolled her eyes. He saw her look. She glared her own expression in return, “If looks could kill, then you’re dead.”

  “It’s ready. Come here and let me show you how to drive it.” Mr. Smith held open the Jeep door and motioned for her to come closer.

  Eleanor sat in the driver’s seat as he showed her how to work the four-wheel-drive option. “Like this?”, she asked, grinding the gears out of the space.

  “Easy! You don’t have to strip the gears,” Mr. Smith tersely warned.

  Eleanor drove him around the main street of Glory Town on a quick test run. By the time they circled the block, Mr. Smith couldn’t wait to get back to his office desk in the store. He got out at the front door with a final word, “Well, are you sure you can handle this vehicle, Mrs. …?” He paused.

  Before he could recall her name, Eleanor butted in, “Which way to the hotel, Mr. Smith?”

  “I hope you have a reservation?”, Mr. Smith snappishly responded.

  “Mr. Smith…where is the hotel, please?”, Eleanor insisted.

  He pointed in the direction across the street. “Up two blocks on your right.”

  Eleanor nodded in thanks and turned the steering wheel towards the quaint hotel. She revved the motor and peeled the Jeep out onto the road. The tires squealed as she pressed the gas peddle and the Jeep tore off. It was a good thing that no one else was on the road to see, or she’d have another piece of gossip circulating about Glory Town’s newest stranger.

  Eleanor stopped in front of the hotel. She got out with only her tote that she threw over her shoulder, and she used her hip to shut the door.

  In she walked, as if she owned the place. Up to the front desk without hesitation, she said boldly, “I’m Mrs. Eleanor Harding.” The hotel receptionist looked up. “Well, Mrs. Harding, are you certain you have a hotel room?” He cleared his throat and looked eye-to-eye with her, before looking down at his ledger. “You don’t have a reservation. It’s not in the book,” he said, confidently.

  “Oh, yes. Yes, there it is.” She pointed to her name written in beautiful Old English cursive.

  “Well, it may be written in this reservation book, but it’s not recorded in our computer reservations. I’m sorry; we simply don’t have a room available. Someone made a mistake.” He smiled smugly. He had seen her pull up, just out the Victorian double-doored entrance, and wanted to know how she managed to be driving the yellow Jeep that had been on almost permanent loan to a local for more than a year; and, now, how she had just happened to get her name assigned to the last room in the hotel on the handwritten roster. Plus, her upstart attitude usurped what little control this clerk had chance to exert. He said with the most affronting of protocol, “I’m curious, Mrs. Harding, if you have in your possession, a receipt of confirmation for this room?”

  “Oh, this?” Eleanor reached into her tote and pulled out a booklet with receipts and notes, an address book and coupons, which fell everywhere. “By the way, call me Eleanor,” she delightfully smiled, like the cat who ate the canary, when she handed him her confirmation of itinerary. “Postmarked, mid-summer, earlier this year,” she said and muttered, “My, my,” waiting just a second before ordering, “Look again.”

  “Well, you may have this confirmation, but, nevertheless, there isn’t a reservation, I assure you,” he declared using a sharp, dismissing tone. Your name is not listed in the computer, and all our rooms are occupied by tourists. Most everyone who visits here makes their reservations several years in advance.” He put down her paper reservation and started to come around the desk to escort her from the hotel.

  She bent over the registration desk to look at his computer, “Wait just a second, there’s my name, right there on your screen,” Eleanor said, causing him to turn back. Sure enough, there it was, and couldn’t be denied.

  “The wedding suite,” she noted, and it was then her turn to smile with the same kind of smirk he had issued. “There. All set now? Key, please.”

  Just like the vehicle reservation, Eleanor’s name had magically appeared on the hotel roster and the computer.

  Eleanor extended the open palm of her hand, “The key, please.”

  The clerk slapped the key in her hand, grimacing. His nostrils were flaring with indignant subservience.

  She already knew enough about these townsfolk, from her earlier observations—that they were riddled with forged gratuitous idiosyncrasies and braggart pretense. The expensive, oversized wedding suite—saved for celebrities, politicians and newlyweds who might, for whatever strange reason, pass through Glory Town—was the only room available, and it was nothing anyone would write home about.

  Once situated in her room, Eleanor washed her face and freshened up for the ride ahead. Glancing out the window, she realized that the weather was quickly becoming an issue. She inspected the phone, realizing she would have to contact the fellow at the front desk, again, to place her phone call. There was no answer. “Hmmph,” she snorted as she grabbed her tote and headed back downstairs to the lobby.

  She thought on her way down in the elevator, “No time for small thinking. There’s work that must be completed that cannot wait another moment. I have been delayed for years. Not one more second shall prevent us from our majesty’s service. We are here because there were many little battles that had to be fought and won before we could get here. We had to wait for the domino effect. But, now we are here; and we will advance this war and win, once and forever.

  Eleanor thought further, “I would have come sooner, if I could have. But, as seems, far too often in these modern times, bureaucracy stymies everything of importance.” She was ready to meet Catherine Dubois, and it wouldn’t be much longer.

  She addressed the front desk clerk as if they hadn’t met. “Excuse me, I am Eleanor Harding from Room 112, I would like a phone number, please.” The clerk angrily pointed her to a smug-looking concierge sitting just a few feet from the registration counter. The concierge looked her over, then nodded to man standing near the entrance to the back office of the hotel. He had visited with some of the men who had witnessed the donkey face earlier that afternoon, as they had stopped in on their way home to tell some of their friends on the hotel staff about the weird woman visitor. The concierge winked to tell him it had to be her. “Watch this!”, he lipped to his friend.

  “Which number would you like, Mrs. Harding?”, the concierge inquired.

  “The number for Miss Elizabeth Catherine Dubois, please,” Eleanor requested.

  There was a deliberate silence upon her request, but Eleanor had almost expected the concierge’s disapproval, so his answer would come as no surprise; and it would remove any further doubt about the townsfolk’s vehement dislike of Catherine Dubois.

  The concierge cleared his throat, just like “Mr. Busybody”, Jasper Jones, from the general store. “I see. Miss Dubois is not listed. She must not have a phone.”

  "Oh, how odd,” Eleanor said. “Then could you give me directions to her home? I will have to go, unannounced.”

  “Mrs. Harding, the weather is poor and will continue to worsen. There will be fog and possibly snow with ice. I suggest you wait until the weather improves,” the Concierge smirked. “It is just too dangerous,” he said, obviously enjoying himself as he spoke to her, condescendingly, down his nose.

  Eleanor decided to step up her English charm and play the quaint old lady disguise. She spoke with a soft voice, such a sweet tone, "Why, thank you; I understand your concern, but I must see Miss Dubois immediately. And, I will be driving there one way or another.”

  Eleanor could have been ruffled by the fact that several people were obviously now involved in, directly or indirectly, sabotaging her visit t
o Miss Dubois with bleak, controlling and unwelcoming advice; but Eleanor refrained from demonstrating her powers. She resolved to simple leave the hotel and not give a mighty show of who, exactly, was controlling whom.

  The truth was she did not need a vehicle, nor a hotel room, but these were the plans and she would stick to them. Eleanor, with Tadhg’s help, decided entering Glory Town and going to Catherine Dubois’ house must seem normal and ordinary in every way possible, except for a few minor incidents like the whirlwind, or Eleanor’s unrestrained donkey face manifestation, or magic writing on reservation logs. So, Tadhg—who was very much accompanying Eleanor, but invisible and behind the scenes—reminded Eleanor to be on her very best behavior. She was carefully instructed before, and would continue to be throughout her stay, not to bring any attention to herself or to Catherine Dubois, in particular.

  She was the perfect person for this mission, but Eleanor was not a personality who blended into normal everyday life. There was nothing about her that was mild, meek or timid; and she would not be made to look pale, weak, or subservient to any human. She was a grandmother’s great-great-great-grandmother of all grandmothers; she was a fairy godmother; she was an angel to some; but…she could not, and would not, be pushed, controlled, manipulated, or made to look like a fool to anyone. And, it wasn’t at all pride that gave her power; it was wisdom, experience, rank of command, and time. She had thousands of years of expertise within her.

  Tadhg’s job was simply to be the constant voice to remind Eleanor of her manners—the human kind—and to guide her as she walked in fleshly form while in earth’s atmosphere.

  Earth’s gravity made truth vague and ambiguous. It would be easy to get lost and pulled into human drama and conflict, which Eleanor was already persuaded to do by the ionic pulls.

  “Eleanor, you must be human,” Tadhg once again reminded her.

  She stood in front of this man, this concierge whose job it was to help, who was giving her absolutely no help.