Elf Available
It wasn’t even Christmas time, but there was a card on the notice board in Red Owl. “Elf Available” it read. That’s it. Just two words and strips with a phone number hanging from the card. I stood there staring at the small rectangle with its tidy printing and mysterious message. Before I could tear off a phone number strip, I got nudged aside by the cart guy coming through with a string of carts. I took the end cart when he stepped away, pulled out my list, and went down the first aisle.
I couldn’t get those enigmatic words out of my head. Elf Available. What kind of elf?
There were a lot of things around my house that could use the attention of an elf who was good with tools, so as I walked through Produce, I hoped it was a Santa’s elf. My husband was a pretty good husband and father, but he wasn’t a handyman. All the minor jobs, like fixing the squeaky hinge on the basement door or stopping the bathroom tap from dripping, accumulated until I couldn’t stand it and called someone to come fix everything. I suppose I could have watched a video online to learn how to do the more basic home repairs, but since I did the cooking, cleaning, laundry, and most of the childcare, I didn’t have time. In my mind, that elf was a retired guy with too much time on his hands and a wooden tool caddy who’d come in and fix all the minor annoyances in a jiffy. And he wouldn’t be too expensive.
As I rounded the aisle into the Meat department, I thought maybe an elegant Tolkien elf would be good. Someone to have a conversation about art, literature, and music with. Years of motherhood and housework had eroded my confidence. All I listened to were kids’ songs. All I watched were kids’ shows or one of my husband’s sports games. One of these days I’d join a book club or a women’s group where we’d talk about anything but our children, husbands, and houses. Would I even know how to act in a group of adults anymore? My husband and I talked about his work and what the children had done that day. Not about ideas. I needed to dig out my collection of early jazz CDs and play them while I cleaned and cooked. Anything to rejuvenate my brain and stave off atrophy.
In the Dairy department, I dropped a quart of milk that splattered across the floor. That clinched it. I would call the number and hope a Harry Potter house-elf would answer and help this muggle get her house in order. That would be a true luxury. Having someone chase the dust bunnies that lived under the beds and scrub away the film of grease on the stove’s vent hood would be amazing. Visions of furniture polished until it gleamed and rugs with vacuum marks in them danced in my head. Right now, I was trying to convince myself that dust was Mother Nature’s way of protecting wood furniture and floors. It was a challenge to keep the kitchen floor clean enough so that our feet didn’t stick to it. Memories of Mom talking about “Old Cesspool” living behind the toilet tank, waiting to grab unsuspecting ankles if I didn’t scrub the floor on my hands and knees, made me smile. I mopped it. That would have to do until my house-elf showed up.
The thought of calling that phone number entertained me all up and down the aisles of the food store. The possibilities made me smile and lightened my steps even with a cranky toddler in the boodle basket, which is what my great-grandpa called the place in the cart where kids could ride. Once I’d checked out, I went back to the notice board to get the phone number. I was shocked to see that the card was gone. The American flag pushpin was there, but it was no longer holding the card advertising an elf’s availability. Had enough people taken the number strips that the store manager removed the empty card? Had the card been there for the maximum of ten days, so it was taken away?
My eyes filled with tears as I stared at the blank space on the notice board. I heard a voice behind me say, “Excuse me. You look like you might need this number more than I do.” The speaker was an elderly woman. She extended her hand, holding the card with the last phone number strip still attached.
“Oh,” I said, taking the paper from her. “How did you know I needed it?”
Her eyes twinkled elfishly. “Intuition.” She winked, turned away, and pushed her cart out the door.
I stared at the card and the phone number in my hand. Then I followed her out the door to thank her. I looked right, then left, then scanned the parking lot, but she was nowhere to be seen.
You’ll never guess who answered the phone when I called the number. It was the woman who gave me the card and the phone number. I didn’t know it, but it turned out what I really needed was an extra grandmother. Her name’s Anita. Her son is a handyman. She reassures me that a little dirt never hurt anybody. And she and I talk about music, art, and literature nearly every day. I can’t believe I found all my fantasy elves in one small woman with gray hair and sparkling blue eyes. But I did.
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