Special Delivery!
For my nephew, Matt Hutchins, a real comedian
From the Files of Carters’ Urban Rescue
From the Desk of Sue Stauffacher
At ten, Keisha Carter, the oldest Carter child, knew about a lot of things. But she did not know what ricotta was, and she did not want to ask. In the container on the counter, it had looked suspiciously like cottage cheese. In Keisha’s experience, cottage cheese was lumpy and yucky. It was very hard to sit at the intake desk and feel hungry for the pancakes Grandma Alice was making, which Keisha could now hear sizzling in the pan, and imagine cottage cheese inside them.
Normally, Grandma staffed the intake desk at Carters’ Urban Rescue in the mornings, but she was better at pancakes than Keisha, and Mama and Daddy were trying to get an enclosure ready for a pair of injured ducklings that had been found by a fisherman at the Grand River boat launch.
Keisha was almost glad when the phone rang because then she didn’t have to think about her breakfast being ruined by cottage cheese’s evil twin—ricotta.
“Carters’ Urban Rescue,” Keisha said in her grownup voice (the very same voice she used when counting double Dutch).
“Is this Carters’ Urban Rescue?” Keisha heard a
man’s voice along with a bunch of crackly and windy noises.
“Yes.”
“Sorry. You’re breaking up. Is this the place where you report wild animals?”
“It depends on what they’ve done,” Keisha said. “If they’ve broken the law, you should call the police department.”
Of course, this wasn’t true. Keisha was using one of her father’s jokes. The person at the other end of the line did not laugh.
Keisha heard more whistling sounds and also what sounded like water splashing on the ground. She really didn’t like it when people called her from the great outdoors because it was so hard to hear.
“I’m over here at the community garden,” the man shouted into the phone. “It smells awful! A skunk has been here and left a trail of his stinky skunk stuff.”
“Do you mean the skunk sprayed?” Keisha asked.
“Hold on, hold on. Jane’s got a point to make.” The phone got all muffly as if the man who was talking had pressed it to his chest.
The community garden sat next to Hillcrest School. It was a big flat area that used to be a baseball diamond, but the school had closed and the city had turned it into a community garden. Keisha loved to ride her bike
past it and look at the sunflowers. By this late in summer, they were taller than Daddy. And Daddy was taller than almost everything.
Keisha heard a scraping noise. The caller had put the phone back to his ear. “My wife, Jane—Mrs. Peters—saw the skunk yesterday afternoon strolling through the nasturtiums. She thought it was odd at the time. And then this morning when Jane and I came to get our tools, all the other gardeners were standing around the shed with their noses plugged. Talk about making a stink! And it was coming from inside the shed.
That’s
where he did it.”
“And you’re sure it was skunk spray?”
“Sure I’m sure. When I was a kid, I got sprayed by a skunk. My mother washed me in a bathtub of tomato juice. Who could forget that?”
It was Keisha’s job—or anyone’s job who sat at the intake desk—to figure out if the people who called Carters’ Urban Rescue had a real problem that needed attention or they just needed information about what to do next. A problem meant that someone from Carters’ Urban Rescue drove over in the old truck to check out the situation. A question meant that no visit would be made, but Keisha might be able to educate the man on the other end of the line to help himself.
As far as possible, the Carters liked to help people
take care of their own problems. Besides, today was a very busy day because at 4 p.m., her little brother Razi was going to become the next new member of their 4-H Wild 4-Ever Club. You couldn’t be a member until you turned six. And Razi had turned six last month.
Keeping the phone pressed to her ear, she pulled the skunk file out of the drawer with her right hand and an intake form out with her left. Even if the Carters didn’t go out to the community garden, they still needed to know who called about what. Mama was very clear about this.
“Just a few questions,” she said. “Can I have your name and telephone number?”
“Peters, Albert Peters. Five-five-five six-two-seven-four. Look, it says here in the phone book Carters’ Urban Rescue. All I’m asking is, come out and rescue us from this skunk!”
“Usually, it’s wildlife we rescue, not people, Mr. Peters.” Keisha paged through her skunk file. “It’s strange that a skunk would spray in its own den,” she said. “You’re sure no one else saw it? Skunks usually have a reason to spray.”
“You don’t need to see a skunk, miss, to know where it’s been. Jane thinks he dug a hole under the shed. She’s showing me the dirt right now. Yup. There it is.”
Keisha didn’t want to sound too big for her britches by telling Mr. Peters many animals could have made that hole. Foxes, groundhogs and ground squirrels dug holes. Her brother Razi dug holes. Even baby Paulo could make a serious hole if you set him in the sandbox after breakfast with a soupspoon.
“I have an idea, Mr. Peters.”
“Well, give it to me, young lady, because I am fresh out of ideas … and I’m starting to get a headache.”
“If that skunk was traveling through the garden, it won’t be back to spray again. But if … if it is living there like you think, there’s a way to find out.”
“I’m all ears.”
“All you have to do is sprinkle a fine coating of flour around that den you found and look at it tomorrow morning. If you find little paw prints, call us up and we’ll help you identify them.”
“Flour, you say. Do you provide that or do we?”
“Well, it would help if you did, Mr. Peters. Carters’ Urban Rescue is a not-for-profit organization.”
“All right, then. We have our marching orders. Jane makes an excellent apple tart. I’m sure she won’t mind sacrificing a little flour to the effort. In the meantime, I’ll finish watering my tomatoes with one hand and pinching my nose with the other.”
As Keisha hung up the phone, Grandma Alice passed the desk with a plate of steaming pancakes. “Breakfast!” she shouted out the door.
It was as if the whole Carter family had been sitting outside the back door waiting for Alice to call. Keisha pushed the button that transferred the ringing phone right to the voice mail and headed to the bathroom to wash her hands.
Before the water was warm, Razi pushed his head through the circle of Keisha’s arms and said: “Me first.”
Razi was just about to start first grade. Keisha felt a little sorry for Mrs. Jenkins, who would be his teacher. A few months into kindergarten last year, the teachers had presented Mama with the All-Day Razi Award. Half days with Razi could be a challenge, so the teachers felt taking care of Razi 24/7 deserved a special certificate.
“You can’t be first because my hands are already clean,” Keisha said, taking Razi’s hands between hers and helping him rub-a-dub-dub them clean.
“Ugh. Your fingernails, Razi.”
“We were looking for snails and grubs for the ducks.”
Keisha grabbed a towel and dried Razi’s hands before he could wave them all over the floor. He tugged away from her and rushed to the table.
Baby Paulo wasn’t dirty. Though he was big for almost one and a half, he could still ride with Mama in the sling. You didn’t get very dirty if you were pressed up against Mama. She set him in the high chair and swiped his hands with the dishcloth. Alice put the big steaming plate of pancakes in the middle of the table.
Keisha leaned forward to see if lumps of ricotta cheese poked through. She tried not to be obvious about it. Alice didn’t like anyone inspecting the food. Daddy was serving Keisha three pancakes—her normal amount.
She might have to fake it.
“The secret here, according to Chef O’s TV show, is to beat the egg whites and the ricotta separately and then fold them together.” Grandma Alice watched Chef O’s show every Tuesday night on GRTV. Chef O said every day should be a celebration and every meal should be a party.
“Don’t forget my parasol,” Alice said as Mama poured her pomegranate juice. Grandma took Chef O very seriously.
“One parasol coming right up.” Daddy dropped a little paper umbrella in Grandma’s juice. “Did you take that phone call, Mom?”
“I took it, Daddy.” Keisha poured maple syrup over
her pancakes and cut off a small bite with her fork.… Still no ricotta in sight.
“Mr. Peters at the community garden thinks there’s a skunk living under the shed where they keep the tools. He says it sprayed last night.”
“Did they see a skunk? How do they know?”
“Because it has a stripey on its back.” Razi was eating his pancakes the Nigerian way by tearing off strips and dipping them in his syrup. As long as hands were clean, Carter children could eat either way: with their fingers, like Mama’s family from Nigeria, or like Daddy’s family from Chicago by way of Sweden did with their forks. But that rule was only for meals at home.
“The usual way. He smelled it.” Keisha sniffed at her pancakes. Right now, she couldn’t even think about nasty skunk spray because Grandma Alice had put vanilla in the pancakes, just the way she liked them, and also dusted them with powdered sugar and cinnamon.
“Keisha, eat those before they get cold.” Grandma had no patience for picky eaters. “When I was a little girl, you had—”
“Three minutes!” Razi shouted. “Or somebody else got to eat yours.”
“Six kids and full-time farmwork. I used to eat dirt for a snack.”
Mama gave Grandma a look. The look said, Alice, do not give my boy any more ideas.
“What? Times were hard.”
“Was it good?” Razi asked.
Keisha glanced over at baby Paulo, who also chose the Nigerian way. He seemed so happy with ricotta pancakes that he was trying to stuff a whole circle in his mouth.
“Can I get some dirt to try it, Mama?
Please.”
“No.” Mama had a way of saying no that nobody questioned. Conversation over.
Using her fork, Keisha popped a small piece of pancake into her mouth. She waited a minute to make sure her mouth was telling her brain the correct information. It was delicious. Very moist and sweet and just a little crispy at the edges.
Alice was watching Keisha with a critical eye. “When are you going to trust your elders, eh, miss? Ricotta cheese comes from a cow just like milk does.”
“Mmmmmm,” Keisha said.
“Can we go back to the skunk?” Mr. Carter had finished the pancakes on his plate and was eating his dish of fruit. Scoop, scoop, scoop and he was done. Daddy had a lot of stomach to fill.