by G M Eppers
“Well, remember, I’m not getting any younger, and I want great-grandchildren. None of my friends have great-grandchildren. I would be the first one in all my social groups. Do you have any idea what kind of status that is?” Wonderful. They were only engaged and Mom had them producing children already. For my part, I was definitely not ready to be a grandmother, even though the gray hair was clearly on the way. I was still working on getting comfortable with mother-in-law. “There’s no time to waste. Emily Lingendorf’s granddaughter got married last year, but so far not a nibble. Of course they both work and Marvin only has one, but the doctor said that wouldn’t be a problem.” A small part of me wanted to ask what happened to Marvin’s other one, but I pushed it down. I felt it was important to respect Marvin’s privacy since Mom clearly wasn’t.
“It’s not a race, Mom. But I’ll pass on your concerns to Billings.” After promising to provide photographic evidence of the wedding progress, I disconnected with Mom and tucked my phone in my pocket.
The twins came stumbling out of the dressing room a few moments later. To help the viewing, Agnes had been given a simple black dress to wear, since a wedding dress next to jeans and a tee didn’t have the same effect as a wedding dress next to even a simple gown. Because Avis had requested no train, instead Saffron had tried an uneven skirt, already open to Avis’ right, showing her leg to above the knee. The skirt still didn’t hang quite right, but it was close. The split was formed with large ruffles that helped hide their connecting band. Her waist was cinched smaller than I’d ever seen it, and the bodice ballooned outward making her chest look three times its actual size. The problem was the collar. It seemed Saffron was partial to the Queen Anne style and the rear fan was much too large. Agnes had to keep ducking out of the way. The head gear did resemble a crown, but the veil looked more like shredded linen than anything else, as if the Queen Mummy were getting married.
“Oh, oh,” I said, trying to be diplomatic. I couldn’t help but wince. “I don’t think that’s quite right. Saffron, the skirt is great, but the rest, um . . . “
“I tend to agree,” said Agnes, leaning away to avoid the collar as Avis turned her head trying to see their reflection in the mirror.
Saffron had one hand on her chin, obviously disappointed in our reaction. “Okay, okay. I think I see what you mean. Back to the fitting room!” She towed the girls after her like a child’s pull toy and they disappeared again.
Seeing Avis in the wedding dress had given me a jolt. It made the wedding plans more real, and an uneasy feeling settled in my stomach. It brought to mind the first time I had ever confronted Miss Chiff, our Director, on an issue. She oversaw the three CURDS teams, assigning missions and vetting personnel. I had totally forgotten about the interview until just now.
Billings was 17 and a half years old and about to graduate the CURDS Academy. About a year previously, I’d been promoted to Coordinator of Team A and I very much wanted to handle Billings’ field training. While at the Academy, months would go by when I didn’t see him, barely spoke to him. The idea of seeing him every day was exciting. I decided to see Miss Chiff personally and plead my case, even though the very thought let loose butterflies in my stomach to compete with the Patagonian migration of the monarch. Her office at the time was on the fourth floor of the Pentagon, so multiply the intimidation factor by infinity and you might be close. After waiting in her anteroom for twenty minutes, I was ushered into her office, where her desk stood seven large paces from the doorway. Her floor-to-ceiling windows looked out on the central plaza and the opposite side of the building was distant enough to disappear in a light fog.
“Have a seat, Ms. Montana,” said Miss Chiff. Her hair was not quite all gray at that time, but streaked with jet black. Yet the omnipresent tight bun and half-spectacles perched low on her nose were already trademarks.
At five foot two, I sank into the thickly padded maroon leather chair. I did not lean back, but sat up straight, keeping my feet firmly on the floor. On her desk sat an open laptop, a multiline phone, a brass lamp, a desk blotter, and some scattered files. Giving me her full attention, she closed the laptop, folded her hands, and waited for me to speak.
“Thank you for seeing me, Miss Chiff.” She responded with a curt nod. “As you know, my son Billings will be graduating from CURDS Academy later this month.” I licked my dry lips. “He’ll need to be assigned to a field team for command training. I respectfully request he be assigned to Team A.” I’d practiced the request on the Metro all the way to the Pentagon. It seemed perfectly reasonable to me.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Montana. That would be against policy. Family members are not to serve on the same team.”
“I know that. Yes. But he wouldn’t really be serving. He would be training. He’s still considered a miner, you know, until November.”
“He’s seventeen?”
“And a half,” I said. Fractions of years are very important. When you have kids, certain milestones can be difficult. It’s hard to give up measuring one’s children. Measuring time. You don’t want to leap forward a whole year all at once. Between fourteen and fifteen is one thing. Between seventeen and eighteen is another. Eighteen isn’t just another number. It’s a milestone. He would stop being my little boy, officially. I couldn’t handle it. It’s just too much, sometimes. I was going to have to use seventeen and three quarters, too. I’d give up on fractions later, maybe after thirty.
Miss Chiff was measuring me. I tried to keep my expression business-like, but it was hard not to appear pleading. I knew the policy, and she knew I knew the policy. “He finished the program early?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” I said, feeling undue pride. It wasn’t as much of an accomplishment as it sounds. Field personnel in CURDS was still sparse, especially on the command track. People who chose it didn’t have a lot of special barriers to overcome. The specialties were much more competitive. “Fourth in his class, if his standing holds.”
“Perhaps I could recommend it until he comes of age in November,” she said, making my butterflies explode in joy. “I can’t make promises, you understand.”
“Oh, I understand completely, Miss Chiff. Thank you so much.”
She leaned back in her chair, relaxing a bit. “If only you didn’t remind me of my daughter,” she muttered. I wasn’t sure I was meant to hear it, or if she had meant to say it aloud.
“Was she also five foot two?” I asked.
“Heaven’s no. She was five nine, like a normal person,” Miss Chiff responded quickly. Then she pointed lazily at me, tracing my face in the air, “around the eyes. And the hairstyle. Almost exact.” Style? I didn’t want to burst her bubble, but my hair has no style. I wash it, brush it, and let it dry. I don’t own a curling iron or a blow dryer. I occasionally put it up in a ponytail. “Her hair was brighter yellow, though. Like corn silk.” Mine was closer to brown mustard.
“Pardon me for saying, but you used the past tense.”
Miss Chiff looked like she’d been caught with a smoking gun in her hand. She could have dismissed my comment entirely. She could have made me feel intrusive and rude. Instead, she said simply, “she’s no longer with us.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She was a Navy SEAL. At Mogadishu.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. SEAL team four had been nearly annihilated in an ambush in Mogadishu, Somalia nearly fifteen years previously, before the OOPS, before Uber was ever created. Five of the six platoons had been wiped out, and only four of the last platoon escaped alive, all suffering life-changing injuries. The operation was about as successful as the Bay of Pigs. The SEAL team had invaded from the Indian Ocean, but land troop support failed to arrive from Ethiopia and air support was more than a day late. Even though it hadn’t been her operation, President Glenarrow had made peace in Somalia a goal of her administration. The failure was a black mark on our government that every president since had taken personally.
“I’m so sorry, Ma’am. You must be so proud
of her.”
“Her father was.” I couldn’t imagine why Miss Chiff was sharing so much with me. A resemblance to her daughter didn’t seem like enough grounds.
“So there was a Mr. Chiff?” I asked, then regretted it. It was too personal. I shouldn’t have said anything of the sort.
Miss Chiff didn’t seem offended, though. “No, there was a Mr. Carruthers. But he’s neither here nor there.” She seemed to wake up suddenly, realizing that she had told me very deep secrets. “Don’t tell anyone about any of this or I’ll have you flogged.” Before I could respond she continued, “You have to understand something about policy, Mrs. Montana. Often, what is written on paper and what happens are two different things. I have some latitude here, despite what is published in the policy handbook. However, I will be monitoring you closely. If you can handle the oversight, your son may train with you.”
Deep inside me, there was a huge smile bursting to get out. I would never betray her confidence, and I think we both knew that. I felt truly honored. “You’ll see about Billings getting on Team A, then?”
“Yes, yes. Until November.” She waved me into dismissal and I got up and left. November had come and gone and I said nothing to remind Miss Chiff of the deadline and no word came from above. Then another November, and by then I wasn’t thinking about it at all and it seemed neither were they.
But seeing Avis in the wedding dress brought it all back. If they got married, that would make the twins family, too. It was quite likely to not escape notice. Maybe Miss Chiff’s silence indicated a change in policy. It’s not like I’d made a point of keeping up on such things. Policy updates went into the same file I’d been building for eight years. Seemed to me this was a clear case of no news is good news. I wouldn’t say anything about it. All of a sudden, I wanted to cry, but I bit it back. I would not spoil their happiness. Maybe it wouldn’t happen. Maybe it would all work out. I heard them coming out of the fitting room and glued a smile on my face.
An hour and a half later, we had narrowed down the features that worked best and Saffron promised to create the perfect dress. Finally, the twins appeared in their street clothes, their hair disheveled, a small Band-Aid on Agnes’ cheek and another on Avis’ wrist. “Pins,” they said simply, each trying to control her hair by hand.
Chapter Four
The next day, shortly after breakfast, I was lounging on one of the three living room couches reading the latest edition of CURDS Monthly, which featured an article on the comeback of Teviotdale cheese on the Scotland and England border. It hadn’t been produced for many years even before the OOPS, until a local Jersey dairy farmer got the idea to market it on a Jurassic Park model, claiming the starter bacteria had been found frozen in amber in a cavern near the Tweed River. Sir Haughty was on the opposite couch reading a book to prepare him for the citizenship test, a suggestion given to him by my mother on a recent visit. I finished reading the article and looked up. “How’s the citizenship thing going, Sir Haughty?” Behind him, the front window was open a crack, and I could feel cool, mid-January air seeping in. It didn’t seem to bother him in the least.
“Oh, smashingly,” he replied. “My N-400 form has been sent and I’m waiting for a biometrics appointment. I’m to be fingerprinted and my background thoroughly checked because clearly they know nothing about me.” He’d been working for the U.S. Government for about six years now. He looked at his watch. “They’ve given me plenty of time to configure a proper background, if you ask me. I could have arranged to be anyone by now.”
“Now, now,” I said, hoping to calm him down. “Be patient, Sir Haughty. U.S. citizenship is in high demand. No doubt the USCIS is backlogged. You won’t be able to vote in the midterms this fall, but you’ll get there in time for the presidential, I’m sure.”
He flopped the book down on the couch beside him. “Well I won’t have to worry about the test. I was given to understand that it was quite difficult even for Americans, but the sample questions I’ve seen have all been very easy.”
“Most people haven’t been working for the government before taking the test. Besides, the difficult part is usually the language barrier. You don’t have that problem.”
“Oh don’t I?” He said. His tone started off somewhat offended, but then softened. “Then why do I have an English-British dictionary in my room? How the blazes is anyone supposed to know what Hundo P means? Sounds like the name of a rapper and a numpty one at that. You know, I’m always worried I’m misunderstanding things. I’m jammy the test appears to be written in Queen’s English or this whole thing would make me chunder.”
Having almost no idea what he was talking about, I acquiesced, “I stand corrected. You don’t need me to quiz you, then?”
“Is that a new one? Quiz me? Is that more slang? Is it good or bad? You see? I’m not sure if I should be offended or not.”
“It’s not a new one, Sir Haughty. Relax. You are really wound up.” I tossed him the CURDS Monthly. “Here. You’ll enjoy the article on Teviotdale.”
That perked him up. “Teviotdale?” He knew all about cheeses. I didn’t have to explain what it was or why the article was a big deal. He gladly traded his test booklet for the magazine, its cover showing anthropomorphic rolling green hills wearing a jaunty Scottish cap.
“Sounds like someone is trying to bring it back,” I told him. “Just what we need, hey? A thousand kinds of cheese isn’t enough for the world, they have to bring back the extinct ones.”
“Variety is the spice of life, you know,” said Sir Haughty, leafing through to find the article. Using a finger to hold the place, he let the magazine fall limp for a moment. “I ate Teviotdale once. I was fourteen. No idea where my parents got it.” His taste buds led him back in time and he smacked his lips. “Salty, but smooth. Mmmm.”
At that moment, there was the sound of thundering footsteps coming down the stairs. “Helena! Helena! Are you down here?” It was Badger, terribly excited about something.
“Yes, I am, Badger. What’s up?”
Too excited to triangulate the sound of my voice, he started to head toward the kitchen, then turned around and found Sir Haughty and me in the living room. He was wearing black jeans, a pocketed T-shirt with microscopic yellow and blue stripes, and white, aged New Balance sneakers. He stopped to push his round eyeglasses up on his nose. “Roger called. They have findings at the Crime Lab.”
I jumped up from the couch. “Great! Let’s get everyone—“
He cut me off. “No, we can’t take everyone. You, me, and Nitro.” As he spoke, he diverted his route again toward Nitro’s room which is located down a hallway off the kitchen.
I heard him knock as I went up the stairs to get my purse. I grabbed my cell phone off the charger and tucked it inside a pants pocket. When I got back down, he and Nitro were waiting for me near the front door. Sir Haughty was still on the couch, one hand on the magazine, watching our activity. “Sir Haughty,” I said, shrugging into my coat, “we’ll fill the rest of you in when we get back. I’ll text you when we’re on the way and I want you to assemble in the conference room.”
“Will do, Helena,” responded Sir Haughty.
Badger, Nitro and I went out the door and headed for the Metro station. Knobby had a car, but the rest of us traveled by either cab or subway. With D.C. traffic, it was actually faster. We arrived at the Crime Lab about twenty minutes later, but it took another ten to get through three levels of building security. Dr. Zumperfeld and Roger greeted us after the final checkpoint, where we were sitting on a bench tying our shoes The air smelled heavily of antiseptic. There were the usual greetings, some handshakes, and Roger gave Badger a brief hug. Both Roger and Dr. Zumperfeld had on their white lab coats. Roger wore common blue jeans and a camp shirt under his, but Dr. Zumperfeld wore a gray suit underneath. “Nitro,” said Roger, “you may go with Dr. Zumperfeld to view the remains. Ms. Montana, you and Jerry will accompany me to the LEL’s office. We’ll be able to observe the proceedings from there.”
The LEL, or Law Enforcement Liaison, was Captain Eric Weatherby of the DCPD. His spacious office featured dark wood furnishings, a low-pile gray carpet, and a small window with linen Venetian blinds. The walls were papered with multi-colored swirls printed lightly on a pale yellow background. On the wall opposite the window was mounted an array of four TV screens, each showing an area of the lab. They were all dimly lit at the moment. The antiseptic smell gave way to lemon scented Pine-Sol. Captain Weatherby appeared to be about my age and voluntarily bald. The top and sides of his scalp showed a very slight regrowth. Sitting behind his cherry wood desk, he rose just enough to reach across the top to shake our hands. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Montana. I understand you were at the White House yesterday morning when the body was discovered.” His voice was a low rumbling baritone.
“Yes, I was.”
He sat back down, letting his chair swivel comfortably, facing the wall of screens. “I’ve interviewed Camille, the server, but she was still pretty shaken up.” In front of his desk were two leather chairs. I draped my jacket over the back of one chair and Badger and I took our seats, turning them slightly to view the TVs. Badger unzipped his jacket all the way, but kept it on. Roger stood next to Badger’s chair and rested one hand on the high back.
“There wasn’t much to tell,” I added. “There was a partially exposed finger. I couldn’t even tell you which one.” I shrugged and looked at the screens. “But I don’t blame Camille for being shaken up. She’s very young.”
“Yes,” Captain Weatherby agreed. “She is.” The Captain, probably in his early fifties, sighed in regret.
We saw Nitro and Dr. Zumperfeld enter from the bottom left screen and go through a simple anteroom. Bright light came on as they entered, though no one touched a switch. Some kind of airlock, I was guessing, with motion-activated lighting. The door on the other side, which was on the screen above, didn’t open until the other door had been closed for several seconds. The ME snapped on the room light to show a bright white room. White desk, white chair, white walls, computer screen with a white housing, turned away from the camera. It was small office and the two men approached what looked like a bare wall. Dr. Zumperfeld flipped a short series of switches and a sequence of large lightboxes illuminated several X-rays hanging there on metal clips. They were arranged unequally in order to line up the image of the body, which curled up in a large C shape, arms outstretched above the head. “As you can see,” said Dr. Zumperfeld, “your inspections completely missed all areas of the body. It took several exposures to verify the position of the body within the wheel of cheese. This is not a position that a body would take had he fallen into the cheese press. It had to have been lain there deliberately, in this attitude, to evade detection by someone who knew inspection procedures.”
