The Finnish Fiasco, Chapter Two

Kenya is a country in east Africa that is famous for its wildlife preserves. Mr. and Mrs. Piper had been on their way to one of these preserves to research the habits of the rare Northern White Rhino. According to the report, their plane had developed engine trouble shortly before it was due to arrive at the airport. The pilot had radioed that he was going to make an emergency landing, but the landing had not gone well. Everyone had been killed instantly. Celia told herself that there were worse things than being killed instantly. Being eaten by a crocodile, for example, would be worse. That’s the way she tried to look at it, anyway. She was a Silver Lining sort of girl. Even in the face of death and disaster she could find one. So she ignored the jagged, jumbly thing inside her chest and told herself that it was lucky that her parents had not been eaten by crocodiles.

In the weeks after she became an orphan, several things happened to Celia. None of them were good. The first Not Good Thing was the double funeral. If you’ve never been to a double funeral, you’re fortunate. The church where the Piper double funeral was held smelled like a perfume factory that specialized in perfume no sane person would ever buy unless it was a gift for someone they disliked. The air was filled with a sickly aroma because of the lilies, which are popular flowers for funerals. Lilies covered every flat surface in the church. Vases of lilies, pots of lilies, lilies and more lilies. Her parents didn’t even like lilies, Celia thought. They would have hated this. She wondered why nobody had asked what flowers her parents DID like, so she could have told them. Her mother loved pink and orange zinnias, and her father enjoyed lilacs. Neither of them had ever mentioned lilies. 

Everyone at the funeral was crying and blowing their noses and they patted Celia on the head and hugged her. Neither of the Piper parents had any brothers or sisters or cousins, or indeed, any close relatives whatsoever (although we shall see a relative of sorts turn up shortly), so Celia was the only family member present. She had to listen to one person after another tell her how very sorry they were. She pretended that she was a famous actress in a movie, and that the funeral was make-believe. In a way, it was make-believe, because the caskets in the front of the church were empty. No bodies had been recovered from the fiery plane crash, and it was assumed that all remains had gone up in smoke. Even so, someone had decided that caskets were necessary, to give the full and proper effect, and so there they sat, empty and covered with lilies.

A voice in the crowd caught Celia’s attention. It was not the kind of voice that could be ignored. It was a shrill voice that made her teeth ache. “Where is the Darling Angel? I must see her!” A woman elbowed her way through a cluster of people. Perched on her head was a stylish black hat with a black veil that obscured her face. She wore a tight black dress and black stilettos. A string of black pearls was wrapped around her neck. If you happened to see this woman somewhere other than a double funeral, you might think she was on her way to a fashion show featuring the very latest in elegant black clothing.

The woman spotted Celia and Mrs. Thompson. “There you are! You Poor, Poor, Pitiful Pumpkin!” She rushed over as quickly as she could on her precarious heels and clutched Celia to her bosom (which was on the bony side). “I came the instant I received word of the terrible tragedy.”

Mrs. Thompson eyed the woman. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” The woman released Celia from her vise-like grip.

“Forgive me. The death of my dear friends has so distressed me that I forgot to introduce myself.” The black veil trembled, presumably due to the distress emanating into it. “I am Miss Iris Hempler.”

It’s hard to tell what kind of person someone is when you can’t see a face, and Miss Iris Hempler gave no indication that she intended to lift her veil. However, Celia was sure that even if she could see this woman’s face, it wouldn’t change her initial impression, which was not favorable. She did not like being clutched by a bony-bosomed total stranger, and she did not like being called a Pitiful Pumpkin.

“How did you know the Pipers?” Mrs. Thompson asked. “I don’t recall Ethan or Abigail ever mentioning you.”

“Ethan, Abigail and I are old friends. In fact, we went to high school together.” Miss Hempler reached under her veil with a black-gloved hand and dabbed her eyes with a black hanky. “Of course, they wouldn’t have mentioned me. We were involved in top secret government business that required concealing my identity.”

This sounded suspicious to Celia. “Your identity isn’t concealed now—you just told us your name.”

“You are a chip off the old block, aren’t you?” Miss Hempler grasped Celia’s chin  and turned her head first one way and then the other, giving Celia fish lips because she was squeezing so hard. “You’re as smart as your parents said you were, and you look so much like your mother, even though, regrettably, you do have your father’s nose.”

“But about the secret business?” Celia asked, once her chin had been released. She had the feeling that Miss Hempler was trying to change the subject.

“The secret business is no longer secret. The government has completely canceled the  secret business, making it nonexistent. Since nonexistent things are neither secret nor non-secret, it is no longer necessary to conceal my identity. Hence, here I am, eager to offer comfort to the charming child of my dear, departed friends.” The hanky went under the veil again to dab discreetly. 

“Well, thank you for coming,” Mrs. Thompson said in a voice that Celia recognized as the one she used when she did not particularly care for someone. It was a voice that was not rude, but it was not friendly, either. She put her arm around Celia and was steering her towards the door when Miss Hempler stepped in front of them, and blocked the way.

“I must ask, as a close friend of the family, what are the plans for this poor child? I am certain that Abigail and Ethan would have expected me to assist in some capacity. In fact, they had often mentioned that they considered me to be—what is your name again, precious?” 

“Her name is Celia,” Mrs. Thompson said, stiffly. 

“Yes, of course, it slipped my mind in all this upset. As I was saying, Abigail and Ethan often said that they considered me to be Celia’s godmother, even though our secret missions prevented formalizing the relationship.” She leaned closer and Celia smelled mothballs and dirty pennies. “I am certain they would have wanted me to have custody.”

“Good heavens, Miss Hempler! This is hardly the time. If you’ll excuse us.” Mrs. Thompson stepped around the veiled woman, pulling Celia with her.

Mrs. Thompson and Celia stood outside the church door and as the guests exited, Mrs. Thompson thanked them for coming. As they waited in line to file out, the crowd murmured to one another. It was a large crowd because Mr. and Mrs. Piper may not have had brothers or sisters or cousins, aunts and uncles, but they did have many friends. The minister who had led the funeral service stood next to Celia and Mrs. Thompson and spoke to the departing guests as well. “Please join us next door at the community center for funeral refreshments,” the minister said to the guests as they walked past. He gestured toward a brick building next to the church. 

After the last guest was gone and the church was empty, except for the two caskets, also empty, Mrs. Thompson told the minister that she and Celia would not be attending the funeral reception. “The girl has had enough for one day. I’m taking her home.”   

“Yes, yes,” the minister said. “Quite understandable. Although it’s a shame you’ll miss the funeral sandwiches. My wife made them herself. Liverwurst on rye with pickled beets. Quite lovely, and served with a side salad of eggs and grapes.” The minister smiled at them as though hoping they might change their minds.

Mrs. Thompson did not smile back. “Please thank your wife on our behalf. And now, we’ll be on our way.” 

As if Celia did not have enough problems, more kept coming. People began to treat her differently, as if she weren’t the same person she had been before the tragedy. They weren’t exactly mean, but they seemed afraid of her, as if she might have a contagious disease. In the hallways at school, the other students swerved around her and avoided eye contact. Classmates stopped inviting her to birthday parties and when Celia invited them to her house, everyone had an excuse as to why they were unable to come. Celia’s teacher, Mrs. Duffy, became teary every time she looked at Celia, and called her Poor Little Thing. Celia blamed Mrs. Duffy for the fact that nobody except Amber would sit with her at lunch. Mrs. Thompson said that people didn’t intend to be unkind, they just didn’t know how to behave.

But the very worst thing of all, much worse than fickle friends or a paucity of party invitations, was the discovery that she would be forced to move to Finland. Mrs. Thompson said the move was necessary because Celia’s only remaining relative lived in Finland. Her parents had left instructions in their will, but Celia did not want to go. She looked for a Silver Lining but couldn’t find one. It wasn’t that she didn’t like to travel. She had been to Turkey and France and Italy, and that is more than the average nine-year-old girl can say. Even though she enjoyed seeing new places, Celia liked where she lived, which was a small town in the mountains of North Carolina. She liked the fried chicken at Lulu’s Restaurant, and the frozen custard shop on Sweet Street. She liked her best friend Amber, and she liked going to the Lazy K Ranch where she had horseback riding lessons every Thursday after school. She liked the mockingbird who sang outside her window and occasionally dive-bombed Jumpy. She liked going to the beach in the summer, where her family always rented the same little blue cottage by the sea. She did not want to say goodbye to these things even though Mrs. Thompson told her that Finland was a lovely country.

“It’s very clean. The lakes are crystal clear and you can drink straight out of them.”

“There’s plenty of water here,” Celia said. “I don’t need to go to Finland for clean water. Why can’t you adopt me?”

Mrs. Thompson explained that although she would love nothing more than to adopt Celia, the family attorney had said that according to her parents’ last will and testament she must go to Finland. A distant Finnish cousin of sorts would be her guardian. “Both your parents were only children, and your grandparents are deceased, leaving you with no living relatives except for this Finnish fellow. I’m sure your parents felt that ‘Blood Is Thicker Than Water.’ This means that a relative, even one who is so distant that he can barely be called a relative at all, will take better care of you than a non-relative.”

“But my parents never met him,” Celia pointed out. “He could be an evil person who doesn’t like children.”

“Apparently, they spoke by telephone,” Mrs. Thompson said, “and I’m sure he’s not evil.” Her voice quavered in a way that was not reassuring. 

Since Mrs. Thompson was in charge of Celia for the time being, she was required to meet with the family attorney to sign several documents. “Why don’t you come with me,” she suggested.

The attorney, Rob Chiseler, Esq., was a big-bellied man in a cowboy hat and plaid shirt who smelled of stale cigarette smoke and whiskey. He had a red face and an annoying habit of rubbing his palms together. Celia disliked him immediately.

“I do thank you for paying me this visit,” he said with a fake-looking smile. “Let’s get your John Hancock on this, and this, and this.” With each ‘this’, he slapped a paper onto his desk. “These documents acknowledge that Mrs. Alma Thompson will be relinquishing the care of Miss Celia Piper to her distant cousin, Mr. Paavo Paananen.”

Mrs. Thompson looked at the papers doubtfully. “Have you discussed the situation with this Paananen person?”

“I most surely have,” the attorney said, rubbing his palms together with a sandpapery sound. “He says he can hardly wait to meet the little lady.”

“And he knows I’m bringing my cat, Jumpy?” asked Celia. She wasn’t going anywhere without Jumpy.    

“Oh, about the cat. Seems your relative is allergic to fur—makes him break out in  spots. Taking anything furry to Finland will be Out Of The Question, I am sorry to say.” 

“Surely you can’t expect the child to leave her cat!” Mrs. Thompson was indignant.

“Well, now, I suppose she can get herself a different pet,” the attorney said. “A little old turtle might be nice.”

Celia knew that Drastic Measures were now required. “If I can’t take Jumpy, I’ll run away and you’ll never find me. I have secret places I can go.” She could hide in Amber’s closet. Or maybe the grocery checkout lady at the Hog and Hominy market would adopt her— the one with the sparkly blue eyeshadow and the snake tattoo on her left arm. She had once said that she’d like to take Celia home with her, and sounded as if she meant it. Celia had other ideas, too, if the sparkly checkout lady had changed her mind, or if Amber’s mother discovered her in the closet.

“You sure are a funny one,” the attorney laughed. “Now, let’s get this done.” He pushed a pen across his desk toward Mrs. Thompson.

“You smell like whiskey,” Celia said. She knew this was a rude thing to say, but her mother had always told her that a Good Offense was the Best Defense. 

The attorney frowned. “That’s downright impertinent, young lady.”

“If I can’t take Jumpy, I’ll stop eating,” Celia said. “Grown-ups already tell me I’m too skinny. If I die, it will be your fault.”

“It’s not reasonable to expect a child in these circumstances to leave her home without the security of a pet,” Mrs. Thompson said. “The cat could stay in her bedroom.” 

The attorney’s secretary, who was busy filing papers and had two children of her own, spoke up. “Would you like me to write a letter to the distant cousin?” She smiled kindly at Celia. “I can explain the urgency of the situation. Maybe we can find a doctor who will say that the cat is necessary for the child’s well being.”

“I suppose so,” the attorney grumbled. “Write the letter, and I’ll see what I can fix up. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m a busy man.” He strode off in the manner that busy men stride, but he was only going to the restroom for a nip of the whiskey that he kept hidden under the sink.