“I just need a couple of minutes, Daddy,” she pleaded. I checked my watch: 6:59. The zamboni will be rolling out any second now. Sigh… .
When Kristen was finally finished, she held up her freshly minted Play-Doh sculpture for my scholarly opinion.
“Hey, that looks great, Kris! Ready to go?”
“Okey-dokey.”
I helped her gather her belongings. We were just about to make like Elvis and leave the building when I heard an unfamiliar voice call my name. I turned around. A complete stranger was surging across the room towards us. A tiny waif of a girl with pixie-like features trailed in her wake. She looked to be about five years old.
“Hi, I’m Martha!” the woman trumpeted. “We just moved into the house at the end of your street, and our daughter Frieda joined Beavers tonight. My husband drives transport and he’s out of town every other Monday. Our car is going to be in the garage for the next few weeks. Would you be able take Frieda to Beavers every second week until we get it back?”
I wasn’t sure what to say. Jan usually used my little two-seater sports car to drop Kristen off at Beavers at 6:00 while I took Ellen and Alanna to the arena in the minivan. If I agreed to pick up Frieda then I’d have to transport all four of the children in the van, which would mean I’d need to leave the house earlier and do a double drop-off. As if life wasn’t complicated enough already! On the other hand, if I said no I’d look like a selfish arschloch. Even if I explained the complexities of our Monday evening schedule to her she’d probably just think I was manufacturing lame excuses. Frieda looked up at me expectantly.
“Sure, that’s okay,” I said.
“Are you certain it won’t be a bother?”
“No bother at all. Will she need a ride next week?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“All right, we’ll see you next Monday, then.”
It’s a bit of a pain, but picking up an extra kid every second week for a month or so isn’t going to kill me, right?
A week passed and it was Monday evening again. I had assumed Martha would escort her daughter to our house, but when there was no sign of Frieda at 5:50 I dispatched Kristen to go get her. A few minutes later she returned with the wee bairn in tow. Frieda promptly handed me the plastic grocery bag she was carrying.
“My mommy says for you to give this to the ladies at Beavers.”
“What’s in it?” I asked.
“A list of things I’m allergic to.”
“Oh.”
“And my EpiPen.”
“Okay.” Whatever. I ushered the foursome into the van. When they were all settled in I began backing out of the driveway.
“Excuse me?” came a tiny voice from one of the seats behind me.
“Yes, Frieda?”
“I can’t do up my seatbelt.” I stopped, twisted around, and buckled her in. “Thank you,” she said. Very polite, our Frieda.
As we headed to the arena to drop off the skaters, Ellen initiated a conversation with our new ward.
“Hi, my name’s Ellen. I’m eight. How old are you?”
“Almost six.”
“I’m in grade three. What grade are you in?”
“I don’t know.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“How come you don’t know what grade you’re in?” Ellen asked, puzzled.
“I don’t go to school. My Mommy teaches my brother and me at home.”
“Why?”
“She’s afraid if we go to school we’ll get beat up.”
“Oh.”
After the stop at the arena I took Kristen and Frieda to the Scout hall. Kristen and I exited via the van’s front doors and waited outside for Frieda. She didn’t get out. I reopened my door and stuck my head in to see what the problem was.
“Excuse me?”
“Yes, Frieda?”
“I can’t unbuckle my seatbelt.” I leaned over and extricated her. “I can’t open my door, either.” I did the honours. When we entered the hall I delivered Frieda’s lengthy allergy scroll and her EpiPen to troop leaders Bubbles and Rainbow. I thought they took it pretty well, considering the fact that they’re volunteers, not the staff of a pediatric ER. They did have one question for me, though: “Did Frieda’s mother sign the consent form we sent home last week?”
“What consent form?”
“The one giving the children permission to sing at the nursing home next Monday. See?” She pulled one out of Kristen’s coat pocket. Jan had signed it. “If she forgets to send it in, Frieda won’t be able to go.”
“I’ll let her know when I see her later.”
After Beavers and skating ended I chauffeured the girls home. When we got to Frieda's house I unbuckled her seatbelt, opened her door and walked her to the front porch. Several knocks later, her mother appeared.
“When you take Frieda next week, don’t forget to bring her permission slip for singing at the nursing home,” I reminded her.
“Would you mind taking her next week? My husband’s going to be out of town again.”
“Okay.”
After I drove Frieda home the next week she said, “Thank you,” and then quickly added: “My mom said to ask you if I’d be able to get a ride again next Monday.”
“Sure Frieda, we’ll see you then.” She made the same request the following week. And the week after that. And the week after that, too… . Finally, one night I went in and asked Martha, “Didn’t you say that she’d only need a ride every second week?”
“Oh, yes, I did, but since then my husband’s schedule has changed. Now he’s away every Monday. I hope that’s all right with you.” No it’s not all right, it’s bloody inconvenient!
“Well, I guess so. When did you say your car would be repaired?”
“Um… we decided not to go ahead and get it fixed after all. We’ve put it away for the winter.” Wonderful.
So Frieda became a permanent part of our Monday evening routine. Kristen would fetch her at 5:45. Ellen would buckle her in and off we’d go. You just never knew what little misadventure Frieda was going to have. Most of the time she didn’t have her permission slips. She often forgot to wear her winter boots. On the days she did have her boots, she usually forgot to bring her indoor shoes. Once our automatic garage door surprised her and she screeched like a miniature banshee. I’m guessing she had never seen one before. Amish much? Another time her mother gave her $15 to bring to the Beaver troop leaders and she somehow managed to lose it during the 30-second walk from her house to ours. That night Jan and I fretted over whether we should pay it for her. Fortunately, Kristen found the missing money on the road the following morning. On one occasion Beavers was held an hour earlier than usual because the hall was going to be used for some other function between 6:00 and 7:00. I notified Martha of the schedule change weeks in advance. The pickup at 5:00 went smoothly. When I returned to drop Frieda off a few minutes past 6:00, her house was dark and deserted. I asked her where she thought her mother might be.
“Probably at church,” was her response. On a Monday night?
“Which church do you go to?”
“The one with the cross on it.”
I had no choice but to take her to the arena with us. Normally I read medical journals while my girls skate. Not that day!
“Excuse me, can I run over there?”
“Sure, Frieda.”
Two minutes later: “Excuse me, can I run over there again?”
“Sure.”
“Excuse me, can I hop down those stairs?”
“Go for it, Frieda.”
“Excuse me, do you think my mom will be home when skating finishes?”
“I sure hope so.”
“Excuse me, I’m getting cold.”
“Here, Frieda, you can wear my coat.”
“Thank you! My hands are cold, too.”