Curds and Whey Box Set

by G M Eppers

  I was glad these questions were getting asked, but I started to wonder if this particular topic was going to go too far. What next? Was he going to ask what positions they would use? “Nitro, I think they can work that out between themselves. Agnes, Avis, I think your parents did a great job raising you. Be sure and tell me if Billings is ever . . . less than a gentleman.”

  “Yes, Ma’am”

  “Yes, Ma’am what?” This came from Knobby, the caretaker, who had just come up from the basement after preparing the furnace for the coming winter. He took care of our building and the two others for the other two teams which headquartered nearby. He didn’t go into the field due to an injury during training in which he shattered both of his kneecaps.

  I considered him a member of the team anyway, though I wasn’t sure the rest of the team agreed with me. “Any objections to Knobby joining us?” I asked just to be fair.

  “What am I joining?”

  “Confessions,” replied Billings. “I just told the group that Avis and I are dating and they are busy trying to figure out the logistics.”

  “Oooo,” said Knobby. There had been no objections, and Billings had more or less confirmed it. There was no seating available, so we waited while Knobby got a straight chair from the kitchen. He spun it around and straddled it, crossing his arms across the back. This position was easier on his knees since he could place his feet a little back and support his weight on his arms. “Wish I had something to confess, but ya’ll know about my kneecaps. Oh, hey, want to see them?” Without waiting for a reply, he started rolling up his pant legs. He wore very loose, wide legged pants to avoid pressure on his knee joints. They easily rolled up above his knees.

  Nitro leaned over to get a closer look at the knee closest to him, Knobby’s right. Because he didn’t pull field duty, Knobby was exempt from our annual physical requirement so Nitro had not had a chance to examine him. “Interesting,” he said, watching Knobby flex the joint for the crowd to reveal the clear impression of the ball and socket joint under the skin. A network of pale lines showed where doctors had opened the knee to remove the shattered caps. “Do you have pain?”

  “Not anymore. Hurt like hell at first, of course, but most of the nerves got damaged, too. Now both knees are mostly numb. But they dislocate pretty easy, which is why I can’t go running around like you folks. Kind of amazing, though, the human kneecap. Sounds simple, don’t it? Just a hunk of bone, really, but medical science hasn’t been able to make an artificial one. When folks get a knee replacement, it’s the joint here,” and he pointed to his knee, “that’s getting replaced, under the cap, not the cap itself. Goes to show, you don’t appreciate something until you don’t got it no more.” He rolled his pant legs back down. “When you run and jump and crawl and whatnot, thank your kneecaps.”

  “Thank you, Knobby,” I said.

  “I’m inspired,” said Sir Haughty. “I’ll go next. I’m not actually a knight.” Now, the rest of us already knew this. His friend in England, who went by the name of Sticky, had told us the truth on a recent mission while Sir Haughty was away from the group. For the past month or so, he had no idea that we knew. In fact, we didn’t even know that Sir Haughty knew, since his friend was under the impression that Sir Haughty was convinced he had been knighted.

  I played along. “Sir Haughty, what are you saying?”

  “I was never really knighted. Sticky pretended to be the Queen during an evening of mutual, shall we say, excessive inebriation, of which I am deeply ashamed, and pronounced me a knight. He called me ‘Sir’ after that, and I liked it, so I let it continue. It restored the dignity I’d lost that night. The dignity I’d shredded that night. I apologize for the deception. As a compromise, I insisted on Sir Haughty rather than the usual Sir Francis, just in case we ever meet the Queen. I’m sure she would recognize instantly that she had never knighted me.”

  “This is America,” said Roxy. “You can call yourself anything you want.” Roxy should know. She’s our legal counsel. If there’d been any problem with Sir Haughty using the honorific amongst ourselves, she would have said so.

  “I suppose I’m safe as long as I don’t visit Buckingham Palace.”

  “Exactly,” Roxy confirmed.

  “I’m gay,” said Badger out of the blue.

  “We know,” said Sir Haughty, Roxy, Nitro, Billings and the twins all at once. I wasn’t going to admit it, but I hadn’t known. I just never really considered the sexual lives of my team members, but I could see how it made sense.

  Badger seemed almost offended. “Well, okay, then. I have a boyfriend. His name is Roger.”

  “We’d love to meet him,” I said, speaking for everyone. “Don’t worry, Badger. It still counts as a confession. Anyone else?” They were more relaxed already. There were whispers of individual conversations now instead of utter silence.

  Nitro put his head in his hands, the picture of utter despair. “I can’t say it!”

  “Say what?” I asked.

  “Don’t tell us,” said Agnes.

  “You’re not a real doctor!” suggested Avis.

  Nitro shook his head, still keeping it down. “No, no, no….”

  I grew concerned. “You’re NOT a real doctor?” I’d just been physically examined, inside and out, by this man and he darn well better be a real doctor.

  “Oh, I’m definitely a doctor,” he raised his head half way. “But I used to be a . . . a . . .” he lowered his head again, virtually in tears.

  “A woman?” guessed Billings. I gave him a sharp look, but he just shrugged at me.

  “No!”

  “A Nazi?” I guessed. “Or neo-Nazi, or some form of Nazi?” It occurred to me that the math wouldn’t work out at all for Nitro to even think he was a WWII style Nazi.

  “No!” He objected, raising his head. I think he was more offended by my suggestion than he was at Billings’. Finally, he forced himself to say it. “I used to be a . . . carnivore! I’ve eaten MEAT! Oh, God, I’m so ashamed! I can’t bear it!” Again, he hid his head.

  “You mean omnivore,” corrected Badger.

  Still hiding, Nitro waved his hand for the group to move on. Only Roxy and Sylvia remained. I wanted Sylvia to be last. Since her physical was next, and her revelation was bound to be much more traumatic, giving her the chance to escape more or less public scrutiny for the privacy of the exam room was my goal. “Roxy, do you have anything to say? Are you not a real lawyer?” I kid.

  “Of course, I’m a lawyer. Would someone who is not a lawyer be able to put together an extradition overnight?” She referred to our recent mission in England during which we apprehended an Uber dealer named Rennet Butler. The truth was she had orchestrated all the documentation to extradite him to the U.S. very quickly, not quite overnight, but still very quickly.

  “I apologize,” I said with a grin on my face. “Do you have a confession for the group? There must be something.”

  Her eyes scanned the faces in the room, all of whom had given her their undivided attention. Even Nitro seemed to have recovered from his distress. They waited patiently. “Well,” Roxy began. “I suppose you might as well know. If anything, you know, happens to me, it could be important.” She paused, and we all waited with baited breath. “Roxy Dubois is not my real name.”

  “Okay,” I said. I had suspected as much. “What is it?”

  “Promise you won’t laugh.”

  “We won’t laugh.” I spoke for the group, not sure if everyone would back me up or not. Agnes and Avis both ran two fingers across their lips, and Sir Haughty made a boy scout salute. Nitro crossed his heart.

  Roxy still hesitated, but finally said, “My real name is Minerva Dunblatt.”

  A sound similar to flatulence spewed from both Agnes and Avis, and Sylvia planted a hand over her mouth.

  “Well, that’s a fine name,” said Badger gallantly. “Minerva was the Roman goddess of wisdom, and you’re very smart.”

  “Thank you, Badger,” said Roxy gratef
ully.

  “Can we call you Nervy?” He asked.

  “Can we call you Gerrold?” Roxy countered.

  I decided to nip this in the bud. “We’ll continue using the names we’re used to, I think. Thank you for sharing, Roxy.”

  Finally, it was up to Sylvia. I gave her a supportive nod, noticing that they were looking at her expectantly. The room got quiet, and I think they knew this was going to be unlike any of the other confessions. Sylvia licked her lips, then bit the bottom one, and wordlessly removed her eye patch.

  There was a collective gasp. “Oh my God, Sylvia,” said Roxy, who sat next to her on the couch. Roxy rose and knelt in front of Sylvia, putting a hand on her knee. “That’s . . . that’s recent!”

  “Last month,” said Sylvia quietly. “In Paris.” Nitro nodded to himself, and moved forward to give the eye a clinical look. Roxy returned to her seat to give him room, but kept one hand on Sylvia’s knee. While Nitro gently touched the side of her face, Sylvia told the story of how she had accidentally run over a cat’s tail while biking in Paris, and while searching for a vet had crossed into Chinatown and run into a man from a laundry there. We found out later he had a sister in the restaurant business, and cat was common on their menu. He tried to take the cat from Sylvia, and a colleague threw some cleanser into Sylvia’s face. She’d had the patch over her right eye at the time, but the exposed left eye was ruined from the chemicals. She did rescue the cat, which now lived with two other cats on the CURDS private airplane. The cats were T.B., short for Toilet Bowl, Backwash, and the rescued cat had been named Harelip for the scar she had acquired in the cleanser attack.

  “You could have told us,” Billings said. “Mom, did you know?” I think he noticed that I hadn’t gasped along with the others. I nodded. “She could have told us,” he repeated, then added to Sylvia directly, “it doesn’t change a thing, you know.”

  “I know. I just . . . “ She couldn’t finish.

  She was starting to cry and fighting it, so I decided this would be a good time to rescue her. “Sylvia, you’re up for the physical now. We’ve chatted long enough. Why don’t you go with Nitro?”

  Nitro offered her his hand, going all European and chivalrous on us, and led Sylvia from the room.

  Chapter Two

  The physicals proceeded smoothly after that. When Sylvia came back, she was greeted like a returning war hero. Sir Haughty was next, and he went through the back door reluctantly, after Badger promised to fill him in when he returned. Those waiting their turn continued to chat like old friends. I don’t know why things had gotten so secretive, but I was glad to see the team socializing again. They had even begun plans for a Plus One Get Together. They were all dying to meet Roger, it seemed. I let them make their plans, but I knew the odds were against them. Personal plans and CURDS just didn’t mix well. Knobby stayed for a while, but then had to go tend to the furnaces in the other HQs. We told him to break a leg and he stuck out his tongue as he left via the front door. Someone turned on a radio and they began singing along to Wax Poetic by Corduroy Peanuts. It wasn’t very coherent, except when it got to the title phrase. If my phone hadn’t been on vibrate I never would have known it was ringing.

  I ducked out the front door to answer it in time to give Knobby a good-bye wave as he drove away. “Hello.” I was expecting it to be Miss Chiff. My phone was practically a hotline to her office. Still, I would have been surprised because we were in the midst of physicals and out of bounds for missions. Or, it could have been my mother, trying to find out if I was ready to settle down in a much safer job. It was neither.

  “Hey, Helena,” I heard. The voice worked on me in levels, activating something deep inside that was close enough to my last nerve to make it sing like a soprano on speed.

  “Butte,” I said. “What do you want?”

  “What, I have to want something? I can’t just call you for no reason?”

  It had been approximately six years and four months since he’d talked to me on the phone. Our conversations had been strictly bumping into each other since then, while I raised Billings solo through his teenage years. Until recently, I’d been safe from him whenever I traveled abroad, which I considered a fringe benefit of CURDS. We were often abroad. But that had also ended a month ago in Paris. We had bumped into him there, picketing with other WHEY activists, a group that, for some unfathomable reason, supported everyone’s right to buy, sell, and / or eat Uber. They’d gotten funding, and I do mean serious funding, from the billionaire Krochedy Brothers, owners of Krochedy Brothers Department Stores. The ultra rich are funny. They have more money than they know what to do with, so they spend it making everyone else miserable. Go figure. “That’s right, Butte,” I said. “Speak now or forever hold your –“ I cut myself off, letting him finish the sentence in his own head.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “No, I mean, in person. Can you meet me?”

  My eyes rolled so far I could hear the muscles stretch. I let him hang for a while. Wait for it . . . I said to myself. Okay, now. “Where and when. And why?”

  “Noon. At the National Mall, by the hot dog stand. I’ll buy. Can you be there?”

  I looked at my watch. In the center of the dial was a wedge of cheese with a red circle around it and a slash going through it. I did some quick math and determined that I could get there. My physical was over. I was a free woman. “Okay, what about the why?”

  “I’ll explain it when I see you. Come alone.”

  “I kind of have to.” At most, I could have brought Sylvia with me. Everyone else was confined to the house. And it looked like taking Sylvia away from the group would be a hanging offense right now. She was more popular than the last joint at a frat party.

  I hung up the phone and went back in the house. The station was doing double dips and had moved on to The Long Arm of the Law. The sing-along had solidified with the more recognized song, but the harmony was still abysmal. I turned it down to a whisper and received some groans and complaints. “I have to go out. I’m assuming I can trust you guys to behave yourselves?”

  “What’s up, Mom?” asked Billings, concern evident in his voice. “C’mon. No more secrets, remember?”

  Darn. Hoisted by own petard. “Your father wants me to meet him. He didn’t say why. He did say come alone.”

  “Seriously? Come alone?” That was Sylvia. “That sounds suspicious.”

  “Do you want me to shadow you?” asked Billings.

  I decided to dismiss all the suspicions ASAP. “Shadow? Billings, it’s your father, not Don Corleone. Besides, you have to stay here until your physical is done. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

  Billings grumped at me. “Okay. But be careful. Remember, you said you still had feelings for him.”

  I patted his shoulder reassuringly. “Yes, I do. And most of them are negative.”

  I grabbed a light jacket and my purse and left, confident that CURDS regulations would be observed. I hopped on the Metro Blue Line, after stopping briefly to credit my card with another $20, and took it to Metro Central, then walked the few blocks to the National Mall. I love the National Mall. It’s not just a pocket of green, because D.C. is filled with parks and landscaping, but it still feels more like a separate place, an escape, even though there is also gravel and asphalt. The buildings of the Smithsonian line each side, but they are so hidden by trees it was easy to pretend they weren’t there. And even though it was nearly October and elsewhere in the country leaves were turning and else elsewhere the first winter snows were falling, here in D.C. things were still green and the weather was warm. The light jacket was simply a convenient place to hide my pepper spray. The Washington Monument towered over us on one side and the Capitol Building tried to tower over us from a further distance on the other. Knots of tourists, some with local guides, wandered back and forth between the buildings.

  I saw Butte standing by the Nathan’s hot dog stand, virtually the only food availab
le aside from the occasional hot pretzel cart. He saw me, waved and pointed to a bench, and moved into the line to order. I went and sat on the bench he indicated, my back to the red brick building known as The Castle. A few minutes later, Butte strolled up carrying two wrapped hot dogs and a large soda. The soda had no lid or straws, since they weren’t allowed on the Mall. Every effort is made to keep the Mall tidy. He carefully set the soda on the ground near my feet and handed me a hot dog before sitting down next to me. “Thanks for coming.”

  I unwrapped my hot dog. “You remembered,” I said. The dog was plain, except for a huge pile of relish. I love relish, be it either sweet or dill. This turned out to be dill and I licked my lips to get stray morsels of it from the edge of my mouth.

  “How could I forget the patented Helena Montana NBR hot dog? It’s you.” NBR, of course, was Nothing But Relish. He was also wearing a light jacket over jeans and a Washington Redskins t-shirt. As we settled in, he pulled a bottled water out of his jacket pocket and wrestled it open. His hot dog had everything on it. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find crumbled potato chips and chocolate sauce, but for sure there was ketchup, mustard, lettuce, sauerkraut, onions, a strip of bacon, a couple pickle slices, diced tomatoes, green peppers, red peppers, and chili. He felt entitled to some of every condiment that was available, whether it was meant for the hot dog or not. Once, I’d seen him use tartar sauce.

  “Thank you,” I said, bending down to get a drink of soda and then putting the cup back on the ground. There were tables, but they were clumped together and mostly taken, and I got the sense that Butte didn’t want a crowd buzzing around. “So, to what do I owe this gourmet meal?”

  “Billings’ birthday.” Butte said simply.

  “What about it?”

  “I want to be there.” He took a bite of, well, there may have been hot dog in the bite, I’m not sure. Somehow, he didn’t get anything smeared on his face and no particles fell into his lap or on the bench. I already had relish down the front of my shirt. How did he do that?