Can You Come Out to Play?

(June 5, 2017)

4. Sometimes You Just Need to Talk

While Mabel was seeing to it that Pacifica and her ponies got home safely—and it has to be said that Molly, the pony Mabel rode, was both exceptionally docile and agile, because she went along at an easy gait, matching Desperado, who took the lead, not once spooking or balking, and every time Mabel came close to slipping off to the left or the right, Molly compensated. Someone once counseled beginning horse riders, "Remember, you're not driving the horse. It's a partnership." In this case, Molly was clearly the senior partner.

Dipper paced them for a few minutes in Helen Wheels, then waved and drove on ahead. He had been to the farm once or twice, but he drove slowly for fear of missing it. He needn't have worried—it lay on a sloping but even sweep of land off to the right, and its size made it unmistakable. As he turned in at the drive, he saw the pickup and horse trailer parked near the barn, to the left of the house, so he pulled into the barnyard and parked. He heard Wendy's laugh spilling from behind the barn and followed it. "Oh, hi, Dipper," she said as he came around the corner. "I was just talking to Mr. Griffin here. He takes care of the ponies."

"Thirty years, come September," the man said proudly. He was shorter than Wendy, heavyset but not fat, about fifty, with a wreath of gray hair around a bald pate, a round nose that looked like a ripe strawberry, and he wore mud-caked boots, baggy khakis held on by rainbow suspenders, a rumpled blue work shirt, and an open brown vest. He had also tied a red bandana around his neck. "How are you, boyo?"

Dipper heard the echo of Ireland in his voice. "Fine, thanks. Pacifica and Mabel should be here in about an hour."

"Well, praise be for that," Mr. Griffin said. "I was just telling your young lady here, time was when the Northwests had as fine a string of polo ponies as any west of the Rockies. When Mr. Preston was your age, he was a champion polo player. You can see the trophies up in the sitting room on the second floor. His pony was Dancer, the neatest animal you ever saw on a polo field. He had it all, the speed, the spark, the wit." Griffin sighed. "Then Mr. Preston was off to business college, and when he got back, he had no time for polo. Pity. But we kept eight ponies here all the time, up until he had his troubles. Wait a bit, though. You and your sister Mabel, a few years back—you were the ones who bought Molly back from the thief who'd stolen her, am I right?"

"Well, really, it was more our great-uncle's doing," "Dipper said. "I thought the man bought her, though—why's he a thief, Mr. Griffin?"

"None of that, none of that! I'm 'mister' to nobody, boyo, it's Jimmy, and don't you forget it, lad! Jimmy Griffin, man and boy. And forgive me, Miss Wendy here just told me your name, but—"

"Dipper," he said. "Dipper Pines."

"Dipper. Dipper! I'll try to remember. I can remember the name of every horse or pony I ever met, but human names, now, if they slip my mind, it's because I'm a solitary, lone old man, so I'll ask you to forgive me. Why did I call that lop-eared villain a thief? Didn't he pay poor Mr. Preston a third—third?—a measly quarter of what Molly was worth? And Mr. Preston had to take it, being so desperate to hold onto some of his money. I'll never know how he came to lose so much all at one blow."

Wendy said, "Mr. Griffin—excuse me, I meant Jimmy—wasn't in Gravity Falls that August when, you know, it happened."

Oh. Weirdmageddon, she meant. "A lot of things happened that month," he said.

"Yes, when I got back, Mrs. Priscilla told me they might have to let me go, and they'd already agreed to sell off the big house in town, I never was inside it even once, but I'm told it was grand, and they were selling off the ponies, all but Desperado. But Wellington and me, we got together and told them we'd stay, having some savings of our own, and if they'd give us somewheres to live, we'd stick, and stick we did. Well, cut it short, Jimmy, cut it short, then Mr. Preston's business picked up again the next year, and now Wellington and me are on salary again, though before God I'm ashamed to take the money for caring for just two ponies. And they moved into the summer house, so they're here all the time, so there's more company than there used to be, and that's a pleasure when you're fifty-two and feeling old and cranky."

Dipper glanced at Wendy, who just smiled. He reached for her hand. –Has he been talking like this since you got here?

Running on and on, man. I don't mind. He's a sweet guy, and I think he bottles up his words until he finds somebody's ears to pour them in.

"Now, that pony of Miss Pacifica's, that Desperado, you'd never believe the orneriness in him when first Mr. Preston bought him. Dash and spirit, spirit and dash! But I have a good eye for a pony, that I do, and I says to him, I says, 'Mr. Preston, sir, let me have a month to train him, and he'll be a fine gift for the baby.' I said that, though Miss Pacifica was no baby, she was, I suppose, about eight years old then, but ride? She could ride as if she'd been born in the saddle!"

What Griffin said wasn't always interesting, but flowing along in the lilting cadence of a soft Irish accent a little Americanized, it wasn't bad to listen to. Wendy and Dipper leaned against the barn next to him and listened and watched his blunt fingers gesture and point out the spot where Pacifica, nine years old, jumped Desperado over a fence, wheeled, and jumped him back again, and the place where once she'd taken a bad spill, but got up with a bloody leg and didn't cry or even stanch the wound, just let it bleed, while she checked out the pony first—it was uninjured—and only then did she calmly ask, "Jimmy, do you have a handkerchief? I think I may need stitches." Griffin wound up the anecdote with, "That's the kind of girl Miss Pacifica was at ten years old. Now, that's how you tell a thoroughbred!"

After an hour Griffin had just started to slow down a bit when he cocked his head. "Listen to the music! That's Desperado and Molly coming right behind him, or I'm deaf as a post!"

It was. Pacifica dismounted, Griffin lifted Mabel bodily down—though she probably weighed three-quarters of what he did—and she said, "That was fun! And I think I'll have saddle sores."

When he had the reins of both ponies, Griffin said, "I'll see these animals in and give them a good rub-down, Miss Pacifica. It's grand to see you home again."

"Thanks, Jimmy." Pacifica said. "Wait—oh, Jimmy!" She hugged him, the ponies looking on interestedly. Her voice muffled against his bandana, Pacifica said, "I've missed you so much!"

"There, there, child," Griffin said. He let go of Molly's reins—probably knowing she would not be the lass to act up—and patted Pacifica's back. "It's not home without you, and that's the truth of it."

Pacifica was still weeping as he led the ponies into the barn. "Don't look at me," she mumbled. "I'm such a mess."

Wendy hugged her. "Paz, that doesn't matter. Look over at the house."

Wellington stood in the doorway, holding it open patiently. "Welcome home, Miss," he said as they came near.

Pacifica hesitated, but then hugged him, too. "I'm so sorry," she said.

"Don't be," Wellington said. "We're delighted to see you. Shall I have Parsons run your bath?"

"Please," Pacifica said. "Come on in. Uh—where's Mom?"

"Napping at the moment," Wellington said. "We'll be quiet."

He put Wendy, Dipper, and Mabel in the downstairs front parlor while Pacifica went upstairs. In a few moments he came back with a pitcher of lemonade, a tray of elegant finger sandwiches—cucumber, watercress, and Brie-and-apple—and said, "Thank you all. Mrs. Priscilla will sleep for perhaps an hour, and then I will see to it that she and Miss Pacifica have privacy. You are welcome to stay."

"No, we won't hang around 'cause it's going to be a family thing. But we'll say goodbye to Paz first, Welly," Mabel said. "Now, this is lemonade, right?"

"Just lemonade, Miss," Wellington said. "No tequila."

"This is great!" she said around a mouthful of sandwich. "What's in this?"

"Watercress, parsley, butter, and cream cheese, Miss," Wellington said.

"Dip, remember that!" Mabel said, reaching for four more.

Pacifica came downstairs in half an hour. "Do I look OK?" she asked. She was wearing her favorite colors—lavender sleeve dress, purple knit blazer, a white belt, blackout tights—but instead of the boots, she wore black flats. She had also brushed her hair and had put on make-up.

"You look fine," Wendy said.

"Beautiful, like always," Dipper assured her. He didn't add that she also looked thin and anxious. She must have known that herself.

"Why did you dye your hair, though?" Mabel asked.

"Kind of a disguise," Pacifica said, sitting down. She leaned forward, huddling. "Nobody looks twice at a waitress. She gave them a sad kind of smile. "I'm probably the only girl around with mousy brown hair and blonde roots!"

"You don't need to do that," Mabel told her. "Look, Paz, I don't know what you're going to work out here. I hope it goes OK. Lazy Susan says you can take off a couple days at the diner and not lose your job or anything, so stay here at least until Wednesday, all right? Sleep in your own bed. Ride your ponies. They miss you. Look, if you just have to get away, you don't have to work at the diner. Soos is gonna need people at the Shack, and he'd hire you like that, and there's even a room that you could have rent-free."

"I'd be ashamed to ask," Pacifica said. "I'm no good at jobs and things. It'd be taking charity."

"Paz," Dipper said, "know what charity is? It's love in action, that's all. Everybody needs it sometimes, but it never wears out. When the time comes around, you can give it to somebody else."

"That's some mature junk," Wendy said. "You know, everybody in the Falls went through a lot in Weirdmageddon. If you didn't notice, it created kind of a bond among everybody. You're not gonna impose on anyone. And nobody's gonna look down on you or laugh at you. That old guy out there in the stables—you should hear him talk about the Northwests."

Pacifica nodded and mumbled, "Thanks."

"Want us to hang around?" Mabel asked. "In case you need a ride?"

"No," Pacifica said slowly. "Mom's—kinda on my side. We ought to talk without anybody around."

"She needs your help," Mabel said. "Trust me on this. After you've had your talk, ask Welly how you can help your mom."

Pacifica nodded. "Thanks, guys."

"Hey," Mabel said, "Tomorrow I'll bring your car over. How's that? Let me have the keys, and Dipper can drive his car over so you can see it, and then he'll take me back home later."

"That would be great," Pacifica said. "I'll get the keys. Do you know where the Ballard House is on Lake Street?"

"I do," Wendy said. "It's easy to find, Mabes."

"It's in the lot back of the house," Pacifica said. "I'll call Mrs. Ballard so she won't sic Blubs on you for auto theft."

A few minutes later, Wellington came to the doorway. "Your mother is awake, Miss Pacifica. Speak quietly. She has a headache."

"I know what kind of headache she has," Pacifica said. "Thanks, guys. This may be a great big mistake—but I guess we have to take chances sometimes, huh? Go on and let me—let me go see my Mom."

Mabel got behind the steering wheel of her car and asked, "Did my brother treat you good, Helen?"

"Cars can't talk, girl," Wendy said. She was in shotgun position, Dipper relegated to the back seat.

"They speak to the heart," Mabel said, starting the engine. "I hope Paz will be OK."

"We all do," Dipper said. "And I hope Stan's having some luck on his end."

"Eh!" Mabel said as they started down the drive. "Of course he'll have luck! He's Stanley Pines!"

"Stanley Pines," Stan said loudly into the telephone. "Calling Vlad Raventree!"

"Just a minute, please."

It took about that much time, but then a querulous, elderly voice came on the line. "Hello, hello, who is this and what's so important you gotta call me away from my weekly poker game?"

"Vlad!" Stan said. "Stan Pines here. How you keepin'?"

"Stanley Pines!" the vampire's voice said, sounding pleased. "You shoulda said, I would've been here quick like a fox, but the hand I was holding, you coulda plotzed! But I bluffed the table and took the pot, thirty chips I got on a lousy pair of tens!"

"Man, you and me gotta hit a casino together some time," Stan said. "We'd clean up! I know places just ripe for some fleecin', full of suckers, pardon the expression."

"Heh!" Vlad said. "Pardon the expression, he says. Listen, first, vampires never suck. Never! That's propaganda spread by hack writers who just stoke the fires of prejudice! Phooey on the stokers! We lap, Stan, we lap. Licka-licka-licka-lick, like so. First the little bite, hardly hurts, then you get a nice flow going, then with the tongue. Now, suckers in a casino, these I like! You take a wise guy, thinks he knows cards—"

"Yeah, yeah," Stan agreed, chuckling. "Beige jacket, cream-colored shirt, open collar, gold chains, rings on the fingers, that kinda guy—"

"Exact! So smug, so hoo-hoo, I'm better than you, the schmuck is askin' for it, am I right?"

"You are so right! And then you baby him along, like a twelve-pound trout on an eight-pound test line—"

"From fishing I don't know, but I get the drift. And then he lays down his hand, boom! Flush in hearts, deuce, trey, four, five, and six—"

"And he reaches for the pot—"

"Ha! And then you lay down your nice royal flush—"

"In spades, Vlad! In spades!"

"Spades, perfect, and he goes all green and flattens out like one of them, what you call it, Macy's day balloons deflating—"

"And you take the money—"

"And run!"

The two poker aficionados shared a laugh. Vlad then said in a more serious voice, "Listen, Stan, I heard what Danny did to that nice little mortal girl. What can I say? You try to raise a kid right, you think he's made a good mature decision, then something like this. Oy, such tsuris! But whattaya gonna do, right? Everybody's gotta live his own life, or in the present case, unlife. But I am sorry. That Carmilla, she had no right. You know she's a hundred years old? I mean, human terms, she's eighteen, but real years a hundred, so much older than Danny. She should know better! But women, am I right?"

"Vlad, you are so right. Look, that's why I'm calling. You busy?"

"Eh, busy, I sign papers, I look at the stock market, I get indigestion, I go play poker. Busy, schmizzy. Seriously, what can I do for you, Stan?"

"OK," Stan said. "Here's the deal. Danny's girl, Pacifica—"

"Sweet kid. Real mixed up in the head, somebody should take a stick to that poppa of hers, but she's a doll, what Danny did to her, she did not deserve."

Stan nodded, finding himself in complete agreement. "Well, she took the breakup hard. You know how kids are, and top of that, she ain't had good luck in the romance department. But then, and I got no details on this, something happened between her and her dad that really sent her into a tailspin. She barely finished high school, but either he kicked her outa the house or she moved out, and now she's living hand to mouth."

"I happen to know from our discussion with Mr. Preston Northwest," Vlad said thoughtfully, "that the girl has a trust fund. She reject that?"

"Naw, but she don't get control of it until she's 21. Until then, Daddy holds the purse strings."

"Which he uses to tie his little girl down, I get it, I get it. Stan, why do kids have to be so meshuga?"

"They all are, ain't they?"

"You're telling me? Even the nice ones, am I right?"

"You are right."

Vlad said, "In this case, the nice girl is meshuga by heredity. This she gets from her poppa."

"Yeah, and you scared him straight that one time. Vlad, I know it's a lot to ask, but could you come out for another little talk with him?"

A long moment of silence, and Stan thought, he's not gonna do it. But then Vlad said, "Yes. Two things. First, Danny's my nephew, I love him like a son, but he should've thought twice about going back to the life and to Carmilla, who take it from me is gonna bring him nothing but trouble for the next few centuries, so yes, because it is a way of apologizing for what my own blood and flesh did to Pacifica. Second, yes, because I want to see you again. Even if you're what we used to call a puny mortal, you are a mensch, and confidentially I had a blast hangin' around somebody who knows what it's like to be in our generation. Here, the guys my age, nothing but putzes! A man could get sick. But I ain't flown that far in a few years—"

"Would ya mind flying commercial?" Stan asked.

"Commercial? You mean like an airliner?"

"Right."

Deep breath. "Truth to tell, Stan, I got a fear of them things. I mean, turn into a bat, rely on your own wings, sure it rains, you get wet, it hails you freeze your tail off, but you're in control, you know?"

"Vlad, I'm with ya. I hate flying, but I've done a hell of a lot of it—excuse the French—"

"Ha! Excuse the French? Stan, you should hear my old man talk for five minutes. Five minutes, twenty F bombs! So OK, yes, for you, yes, I will fly commercial."

"I'll cover your ticket."

"No, no, let me pay, I'd be imposing—"

"Vlad, I'm holding a quarter. I'm gonna flip it, you call. Ready?" Stan actually flipped a quarter. "Call!"

"Heads!"

"Sorry, Vlad, tails."

"For true?"

"Hand to God, Vlad, I'm lookin' at an eagle."

"OK, OK, it was an honest bet. So where'm I flying to?"

"When can you leave?"

"When can I leave, he says. Already, I'm out the door, my hat on my head. Seriously, give me fifteen minutes to pack and—uh, wait, which airport? I'm closest to O'Hare."

"O'Hare, fine. Mind flying at night?"

"Stan, this is a vampire you're talking to. Night is my favorite time."

"Tell ya what—I'll call the airlines and get you a flight leaving there at say six or later, and it'll come into Portland. I'll call back with the details, then you just gotta pick up your ticket at the airline counter. Or—you got a computer?"

"Of course I got a computer. Who these days doesn't have a computer? You want my email?"

"Please."

"It is grampavlad, all one word, at vurdalac dot com. Let me spell that for you, everybody gets it wrong, always the k they want to end it with, a k is no good, has to be a c."

In the end Stan carefully wrote down the information. Then he had Sheila help him shop for airline tickets online. And twenty minutes later, he called Vlad again with the flight number and forwarded the electronic ticket to the old vampire's email. "It's somethin' called business class, more legroom and all that. Hey, I forgot to ask," he said. "I put you down as Vladimir Raventree, is that the name on your ID?"

"Hah! My friend, that is no worry. My ID shows civilians whatever name I want them to see. It's like, what's his name in the old space movie, Opie John Kennopy, 'Droids? What droids? These, these are not droids. We can go on our way.' So I show my ID, if I say, 'This proves I am Benjamin Disraeli,' they see that name. The old mind cloud trick. Like a charm it works. I got it covered."

"Great. So you're flyin' out of O'Hare at six, you'll land in Portland about ten-thirty your time, I'll be there to meet you. I look forward to seein' you, and when this mess gets cleaned up, tell you what: you and me, we go hit Vegas, at least one night."

"Stan, for the air ticket and the hospitality I thank you, and you shouldn't tell my wife, but—" he lowered his voice to a whisper—"I'll take you up on the Vegas trip! See you tonight."

Stan hung up the phone, reached for the quarter—which really did show tails, and he wouldn't have lied about a thing like that, probably—and wondered how the kids were doing.