Curds and Whey Box Set

by G M Eppers

  Together we find our worth

  I couldn’t imagine why Butte would choose to sing that song. Last I heard, he hated that song. But sing it he did, and better than I’d ever heard it. When he finished, he held the last note so long I was unconsciously reminding him to breathe. I had teared up, just when I thought my ducts had gone dry, and I saw other patrons wiping their eyes as well. The crowd cheered with full luster now and asked for more, but Butte politely took his bows, declined and passed the mic back to Mr. Suit. I wiped my eyes, trying to act unimpressed. I was supposed to be upset and emotionally fragile, so wrapped up in my own problems that a performance like that wouldn’t affect me. He came down off the stage and right up to me at the bar, smiling. “Did you like it?”

  “It was good,” I admitted begrudgingly. “I thought you didn’t like that song.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t.” His delivery wasn’t convincing. “But I know you do.”

  “Thanks.” It seemed like more trouble than the Butte I knew would go to. “Does that mean there is hope of you switching sides?”

  “Does singing Thriller make you a zombie?”

  Message received, I thought, but I didn’t want to get sarcastic and put a damper on things.

  “Just a second. I’ll get us a table,” Butte said.

  “Butte, I –“ I was going to object, but he was already across the floor, moving toward one of the booths. I really didn’t want him chasing people out of the seats, but they seemed happy to oblige, very appreciative of his rendition of the Anthem. They’d been leaving shortly, anyway, judging from the empty glasses and dishware on the table. He waved me over and I grabbed my drink. I tossed my go bag in first, then sat down.

  We sat across from each other and I was feeling genuinely awkward as a waitress hurried over to bus the table. She removed all the dirty dishes, put the tip in a pocket of her uniform, and used a moist rag to wipe the table. Butte and I thanked her as she left. She smiled, “Enjoy your evening!” Her accent was very slight, but I still got the impression that it was the limit of her English.

  There were menus slid behind the napkin dispenser and Butte pulled out two, handing one to me, which gave me something to do, and said, “Order anything you like. Want a steak? They don’t have prime rib here, but I’ve had the porterhouse and it’s fantastic.”

  I found it on the menu and noticed that it was quite literally the most expensive item there, outside of imported wine. “It’s kind of pricey,” I said. I was torn. I suspected he could afford it easily, but I didn’t want to take advantage. On the other hand, he had said my father was full of shit. I hadn’t forgotten about the tape Billings had played for us. And on the third hand, I was supposed to be emotionally needy and fragile, a state of mind where you really don’t pay attention to things like price when someone else is buying.

  “I’m treating you, remember?”

  Enabler, I thought. “You don’t have to. I’m not exactly destitute.”

  “I want to. You’ve had a bad day.”

  Where had THAT come from? What happened to Captain Apathy? “Maybe that’s the song you should have sung. Daniel Powter’s Bad Day.”

  “You want me to? I could go back up.” He half rose out of his seat. “Turns out they love me in Prague.”

  “Thanks, but no.”

  He sat back down just as the waitress returned and Butte ordered a porterhouse for himself, so I ordered the same except that his was well done and mine was medium rare. He also ordered a bottle of champagne that just said MKT next to it. I wondered who exactly was taking advantage, me or him.

  While we waited for our food, I nursed my second Rum and Coke. A man on stage was singing Billie Jean and he wasn’t half bad, but I think the estate of Michael Jackson would have sued anyway. He wasn’t getting the familiar Jackson embellishments at all, which, though nonsense, somehow really changed the impression of the song. “I’m sorry about your job,” Butte said.

  “Thank you.”

  “If you want revenge on CURDS –“ he hinted.

  “No!” I said quickly. “There were budget cuts,” I explained. “Miss Chiff had to let someone go and I volunteered. I don’t blame them. I blame Washington and Congress and the budget hawks who demand more money for another aircraft carrier but can’t scrape up a few hundred thousand to keep Americans safe from Uber.”

  “Let’s not get into politics. It’s never pretty.”

  “Yeah, I know. Sorry. But I don’t blame CURDS. I still support them. So don’t get the idea that I’m changing sides or anything.” You know how to infiltrate the life of another person? Assure them that that’s not at all what you are doing.

  “What do you want to talk about?” He leaned back in the booth and spread his arms across the back. In body language, that meant he was open and trusting. But I was pretty sure he knew body language and did that on purpose.

  I shrugged. “I suppose what we usually talk about. Billings.”

  He nodded, leaving his arms where they were. “Yes. Twenty-one. Where did the years go?” I shrugged again. “You still look fantastic, by the way,” he added.

  “You’re lying, but kind,” I said. I was still in the clothes I’d worn yesterday and I’d done nothing but the bare minimum in ablutions for the past three days. “You look good, too. You know, you don’t have to worry about the gray,” I told him, pointing at his temples. “It’s all about the abs. You still crunching?”

  “Two hundred every day,” he confirmed. With him spread back against the booth seat, I could tell his abs were still tight. He wasn’t lying. Suddenly he brought his arms down and leaned over to extract his wallet from his back pants pocket. “Listen, it looks like I won’t make whatever party you have planned, and there’s something I want you to give Billings for me.” He slipped something folded out of his wallet and passed it across the table to me.

  As I took it, the waitress came with the bottle of champagne and two glasses. She opened the bottle and poured a little into Butte’s glass, allowing him to taste it. I opened the folded paper and saw it was a check for a thousand dollars. I stared at it, and waited while Butte approved the champagne and the waitress left. Then I said, “I can’t take this,” and slid the check back to him.

  “It’s for his college fund. Take it,” he said, sliding it back again, and poured some champagne into my glass. “It’s actually not enough. I owe him for about nine birthdays. Call it a down payment.”

  I pushed it back. “I call it unnecessary. Billings already has a sizable college fund, and he’s probably going to stay in CURDS anyway.” Billings knew that even though he’d chosen the CURDS Academy right out of high school, college was still an option for him. The check sat, looking forlorn in the middle of the table. “Besides, it’s dirty money. It’s Krochedy money.”

  “It’s not Krochedy, it’s mine.”

  “But they pay you.”

  “Not directly. They contribute to WHEY and WHEY pays me, technically speaking. But lots of people contribute to WHEY. The Krochedy Brother’s aren’t even half of the funds. Take it. Call it an apology. Call it anything you want. Just take it.” He leaned forward, pushing it toward me yet again.

  I sipped champagne, not even tasting it, and left the check where it was. “Does this mean you’ve changed your mind about Uber?”

  He straightened in offense. “No. Where would you get that idea?”

  I stood and pushed the check back to him and then sat down again, not saying a word. I wasn’t being dramatic. Standing was the only way I could push the check all the way back to him.

  “Fine,” he said finally, picking up the check, folding it again, and slipping it back into his wallet. Round one to me, I thought, then wondered when this had become a contest. Maybe I should have taken the check, at least for now, with no plans to cash it. Why couldn’t I accept it? Why did it feel so wrong that I couldn’t even fake take it?

  “I don’t need your money,” I said. “I want your support, but I don’t need that eit
her.”

  My phone rang, and I pulled it out of my go bag and checked the readout. This time it was Avis. I got a little irritated. I had just told Billings he wasn’t to call me. I know, specifically I didn’t eliminate anyone else, but he knew what I meant. My irritation showed on my face as I ignored the call and put the phone back in my bag.

  “You’re not answering?” Butte asked.

  “No. It’s not important.”

  There was a moment of silence. “Your friends are worried about you.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Probably.” I sipped my champagne.

  “Look, if you want privacy, I can go visit the little boy’s room,” Butte offered.

  “No, thanks. They aren’t supposed to talk to me. Against regulations.”

  “Regulations Shmegulations,” he said, or tried to. His tongue tripped a little on it. “They just want to know you’re okay.”

  “They think I’m on a plane for D.C.”

  He seemed shocked. “Miss Chiff doesn’t know you’re still here?”

  I shook my head. “I’m incommunicado. And I don’t care. What are they going to do, fire me again?”

  We sat in silence for a bit, during which the waitress served our meals. The porterhouse looked delicious, and I was extremely hungry by then. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. But I was determined not to finish it. It came with a big helping of mashed potatoes and a pile of mixed vegetables. I’m not a fan of vegetables, but I ate them anyway, slowly, in small bites, cutting only a few pieces out of the steak as I went. “I’ll tell you what I’d like, Butte.”

  He was ignoring his vegetables and hacking into the meat as if it would disintegrate the plate. “Ketchup?” He offered the bottle.

  I waved it away. “No, thanks. I would like an apology, but not in money. I want it in words. Heartfelt words.”

  “For what?” He pounded the bottom of the ketchup bottle and spread red goo over everything on his plate. Then he did the same with mustard. Mr. Condiment strikes again. I checked the table for tabasco sauce or horseradish or Worchester sauce but there were no other choices. If the waitress had asked, he would have requested all of them.

  “You’re really asking that?”

  “Yes. There’s a long list, isn’t there? I mean, I was an asshole through most of our marriage. I’ll admit I neglected you and Billings. I left you to pursue my own interests which conflicted with yours without a second thought. I pushed you both out of my life. I am sorry about that. I do regret a lot of it. But it doesn’t change my opinion of Uber. Dangerous or not, Americans are adults. They can and should be expected to take care of themselves. That’s what freedom means to me. In fact, freedom even means that you can disagree and try to block Uber, too. The way we are now,” he waved his fork in the air, “going our separate ways. This is the way it should be.”

  “And now that I’m out of the biz?” I asked.

  He hadn’t even realized what he’d been saying. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go off on the job you just lost. That was rude.”

  My jaw dropped for the third time that day. Butte was apologizing to me. It was hard to believe this was the same guy I’d kicked out for criminal apathy. I put a piece of steak in my mouth and undropped my jaw. “Actually, I agree with your last point. I don’t agree with WHEY, but I do agree that you have the right to follow them. The right to protest is in the First Amendment.” I specifically said protest, as opposed to terrorist activity, hoping we could get the conversation closer to the bombings without being too straightforward. If he or WHEY was involved and I got too nosy, this could end very badly. I sighed. “Life is complicated.”

  He laughed a little. “Yes, it is.”

  “But what I meant when I said I wanted an apology was what you said at Dad’s funeral.”

  Butte sipped some champagne. “What I said?”

  He didn’t know I’d heard about it. “Billings played back a recording of your conversation at Starbucks. Where he said he overheard you saying my Dad died as he had lived. Full of –“

  He interrupted me, so I didn’t have to use the profanity. “Oh, that. He didn’t let me explain it. He just scalded me and left.” Scalded? I thought, feeling that conflicting regret and satisfaction again. “He really needs to work on his people skills,” Butte continued.

  “It’s not everyone, Butte,” I explained. “Just you. And it was a very hurtful comment.” I put a piece of cooked carrot in my mouth, reveling in the vile taste to go with my current opinion of myself.

  Butte put down his fork. “I suppose it was, but it wasn’t about your father.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He didn’t hear what he thought he heard. He was 10 and it was more than 10 years ago. I came to the funeral to pay my respects –“

  “You didn’t have any,” I interrupted under my breath.

  “Now, that’s unfair.”

  His plate was a veritable rainbow of colors that I found very disturbing. I focused on his face and tried to ignore the slop he was eating. If he didn’t have it so well done, he could probably eat it without all that glop, but I didn’t say that out loud. Why do I even keep thinking things like that? If I can control my tongue regarding the state of his steak, why can’t I control it on other topics? Even now, I was fully prepared to not believe whatever explanation he came up with just so I could continue distrusting him. After all this time, distrust is simply more comfortable. “I’m sorry. Go ahead.”

  He continued his story. “After our fight the day he was admitted to the hospital, I didn’t want to intrude. I wasn’t going to stay long. You see, your Dad wasn’t the only one who died in the OOPS, you know. I was talking to Ethan. Remember? The guy I used to work with at the bowling alley a hundred years ago?”

  “I remember.” Ethan had been nice. We’d had him to dinner a few times. He was dark skinned, but I’d never asked about his ethnicity. He could have been African American, or Jamaican (although there was no accent or interest in Reggae), or Middle Eastern, or Samoan for that matter. Most likely, whatever country his family hailed from it was so many generations back that it was meaningless. He was simply American. He talked mostly about soccer and zombie movies. I liked the zombie movies. The three of us had gone to see some zombie movie once. I think it was called ‘Look What Came to Dinner.’

  “Well, turns out he’s married to your cousin’s niece thrice removed or something like that, so he’d come to the funeral with her and bumped into me. He told me that our ex-boss had also died. Remember Mr. Terkberry?” He picked up his fork and resumed eating, dipping a piece of steak into the orange pile that was mixed ketchup and mustard.

  “Sure,” I said. “You called him Turdberry.” The bowling alley had not been Butte’s favorite job. It was actually a very low period in his life, when Billings was an infant and Butte was trying to support us on almost nothing. He had worked very hard for very unpleasant people, I’ll give him that.

  “Or Twig ‘N Berries when we were feeling generous,” he admitted. I don’t think he’d ever told me that one. I had to cut a drink of champagne short and swallow quickly to avoid spitting all over him.

  “You remember how he used to treat us, right?”

  “I remember him changing your hours with almost no notice and ruining our dinner a lot,” I said. This was not an enjoyable trip down Memory Lane, and I was wishing he’d get to the point.

  “That wasn’t the half of it. He restricted our bathroom breaks, counted toilet paper squares, and used an egg timer to make sure we got back to work. He didn’t care whether or not we washed our hands, as long as we were back on the alley inside of four minutes or he’d dock us fifteen. And he wouldn’t let us eat anywhere but the break room, even though we had to clean up his BLT leavings at every seating circle. And he’d do it that way. Stop and take a few bites at every station then watch to make sure we found every strand of lettuce and every crumb of bread. And while we were cleaning, he’d either unlace the bowling shoes or tie
different sizes together. Stuff like that, all the time. Ethan and I were plotting his death by the time they went out of business and saved us the trouble. Well, Mr. Turkberry died the day before your Dad did. Ethan told me about it and it made us so happy I’m afraid we were a bit unseemly. THAT’S who I was talking about. I didn’t see Billings behind me. I had no idea he was listening.”

  I was more or less speechless, and the nostalgia had made me forget where I was and why. Oh, right. Prague. Infiltrate. Commiserate. Find out if he’s the Meatball Bomber. Perfect. “You have a lot of anger,” I said and stuffed a large bite of steak into my mouth..

  “Doesn’t everyone these days?”

  I swirled the dregs of my champagne as I continued to chew the steak and wondered about the wisdom of mixing the champagne with rum and Coke. I was feeling a bit light-headed. Maybe some more protein would help, I thought, and cut up more of the porterhouse into bite-sized pieces. “Do you ever feel like you want to hit someone? Or destroy something?” Too subtle?

  “Of course I do. Don’t you? But then, it’s usually me you want to hit and destroy . . . “

  “I suppose so. I mean –“

  “How very committal of you.”

  “I mean not really,” I admitted. “That’s all talk.”

  Again, my phone rang. I got irritated as I pulled it out, noticed four missed calls and a couple of texts, but this time it was Miss Chiff calling. “Excuse me, Butte. I have to take this.” I got up and moved into the aisle that led to the bathroom, trying to stand out of everyone’s way. I had to hold one hand over my ear while I listened with the other. “Yes, Miss Chiff?”

  “Miss Montana, you were told to leave your phone behind, were you not?”

  “Yes, I was,” I admitted. “But with all due respect, you can’t expect me to travel without any phone at all, can you? What if there was an emergency? How would you get in touch with me?”

  “I can, and I do. And I have ways,” she said, answering all of my questions with great efficiency. “You don’t understand the seriousness of this breach. With that phone you can be traced, and not just by your team. You’ve already been pinged by an unknown source.”