Cranberry juice
Ah, yes. The making of her Scarlett O’Haras. Snowbound with a family who attracted disaster like road kill attracted buzzards. I thought a lot of liquor sounded about right.
“Just double it,” I told my friend.
“Nice guy,” said Aunt Nozzie with that knowing tone in her voice when he left.
I gave her a look.
“I’m just saying. You don’t seem to have anything else going for you, and you’re not getting any younger.”
“I’m barely thirty.”
“Start early. Finish early. Men don’t last forever in this family,” she said.
“I tried. I was married.”
“And now you aren’t. You can’t seem to keep a man for any length of time,” Aunt Nozzie said.
“Well, honey,” interjected Grandma Papa, “your aunt is right. All us gals seem to choose men who don’t hang around long.”
It was my belief that the problem was not in the men they chose, but with men in general. The male sex was just not up to the challenge of living with women in my family. The issue is that the Y chromosome is virtually empty of genetic materials, with the exception of that determining hairy ears. Since none of the males in my family had hairy ears, you would have thought there was room on the chromosome for some staying power when it came to life expectancy, but none of them outlived any of their wives. Given the weirdness of the women, perhaps that should come as no surprise. I think the men died of exhaustion. I’m pretty sure undertakers had a hard time wiping the relief off my male relatives’ faces as they were laid to rest. They’d done their work—sired a few children—then left this vale of fears, uh, tears.
We were just plain hard on our men and, knowing this, I worried what would happen to any man I loved. Could I justify marrying again to see the man wither and die when he could have married someone with a family background less caustic than mine?
I decided it was best to change the topic. “What are we going to do with all that applesauce?”
Aunt Nozzie smiled. “I’ve been reading your local newspaper, and I see where your college will be hosting a craft bazaar this coming week. We can sell it there.”
I considered. The event wasn’t scheduled for Thanksgiving Day. There would be no cooking. The applesauce would be gone. That sounded about right. I nodded.
Aunt Nozzie tossed the newspaper aside. “Great. I see the snowplows have come through, and the snow has finally stopped. Let’s hit the slopes.”
Suddenly I felt a migraine coming on.
I was forced to drive them to the ski center despite my warning that downhill skiing was no activity for older women. I hadn’t found it the kind of sport I liked after my one ski lesson where I fell on the bunny slope’s rope tow and was skied over by a group of fourth graders. And there was the problem of ski wear. I supplied my grandmothers with some of my winter pants, sweater, and jackets, as well as some pins and paper clips to snug in and snug up the clothing for Grandma Papa—she seemed to like the fat mummy look. Maybe it would catch on in the fashion world. Aunt Nozzie insisted she could wear her usual caftan with a sweater and pair of slacks underneath.
“You’ll never be able to maneuver with the caftan blowing all around,” I said. “Wear your sweater and slacks over some of my long underwear. It’s stretchy enough to fit you.”
“I want to look good. You never can tell who I’ll meet on the slopes.”
It looked as if Aunt Nozzie was once again on the prowl for a mate. I wondered if I should call the ski resort and warn them to post a warning sign on the slopes:
Caution—predators have moved into the area. Be on the lookout for one dressed in a purple silk caftan. Be advised she is armed with six feet of attitude.
So I gave up being the voice of reason. “I’ll be in the ski lodge,” I said, dropping Nozzie and my grandmothers at the ski rental center.
I settled into one of the comfortable chairs positioned in front of the window overlooking the end of the trails and ordered a cup of tea and a pastry while I watched the skiers shush down the mountain. I spied my grandmothers on the bunny slope taking a lesson from a ski instructor. As nearly as I could see, they were doing surprisingly well. Down the slope with a few spills, then up again on the rope tow. I stepped closer to the window, but couldn’t see Aunt Nozzie. Did she chicken out and decide not to take a lesson? I decided to check at the rental center to see if they’d seen her.
“You mean the woman who was wearing that unusual red and purple silk scarf?”
Scarf? Oh, I got it. Aunt Nozzie had wrapped her caftan around her neck like a scarf. Smart. That got it out of her way. Maybe I had misjudged her.
“She didn’t sign up for lessons. She perused the map of our trails and took the lift for Suicide Drop.” The clerk pointed up the mountain to the highest point.
I groaned. At that moment, the loud speaker crackled and an announcement of a skier needing help was announced. I groaned again, and made my way to the lift area where I waited for a snow mobile to deliver a colorfully wrapped skier to the waiting ambulance.
*
At the hospital, my grandmothers and I waited while Aunt Nozzie was seen by the attending physician and the hospital’s orthopedic surgeon. The diagnosis? Aunt Nozzie had a broken leg, which demanded surgery to repair it properly. The surgeon joined us in the waiting room after the surgery. He introduced himself as Dr. Blake Rogers.
“She’s doing just fine, but she broke her tibia in two places,” he said. “Before she went under, she told me she’d never broken a bone before and was surprised she did today. I gather she’s a very experienced skier.”
“She’s never skied a day in her life,” I told him, introducing myself as her niece.
“You look familiar,” he said. “Weren’t you in here visiting a patient just recently?”
“Yes. The president of my college.”
“Right. Now I remember. You were the one responsible for shooting him.”
“It was an accident. I don’t usually shoot college presidents, but he was at my Halloween party….” I stopped talking. “It’s a long story, and the woman you just operated on was involved.”
“I’d love to hear it sometime,” he said, smiling down on me from his six foot height. His blue eyes twinkled with curiosity. Suddenly, I felt two bodies pushing into mine.
“My grandmothers. The shorter one is my aunt’s mother.”
“You’re a close family, I see,” said Dr. Rogers.
“You have no idea,” I said.
“Are you married?” asked Grandma Papa.
“No, I’m not.”
“Do you want to be?” asked Grandma Mama.
The twinkle in his eyes faded and was replaced with a look of apprehension. “I’d better…,” he began.
“Yes, you had,” I finished for him.
*
The next day I picked up Aunt Nozzie at the hospital. There was no sign of Dr. Rogers, just as I feared. A single, professional, handsome man chased off by two pushy relatives. But I was wrong. I settled Aunt Nozzie into the passenger’s seat and buckled her seat belt. She gave me one of her knowing smiles.
“I heard you met my doctor. Isn’t he a cutie?” she said.
Oh, no. My grandmothers had summoned reinforcements in the battle to get Darcie a man. Aunt Nozzie was the final assault, one that had won the war, but not in the way she intended. Dr. Rogers had probably left for a position in South America among the head hunters there, thinking it was safer than taking a chance he might run into my family again.
“He’s coming for dinner tonight,” Aunt Nozzie announced. “Better stop at the supermarket.”
Hmmm. This was either the bravest man I’d ever met or the dumbest.
“Darcie?”
“Hmmm?” I said.
“Let’s go. Time’s a wastin’”
“Can we invite Mr. Smith for dinner, too?” asked Grandma Papa.
No, no, and no.
*
Mr. Smith remai
ned at home (so smart of him), so I was stuck at a table with my three relatives looking as if they were lions about to take down a very handsome, well-groomed, and highly intelligent zebra. Aside from their probing questions about Dr. Zebra’s personal life and intrusive interest in his financial future, Aunt Nozzie and the grandmothers were almost well-behaved.
After dessert in the living room, Aunt Nozzie announced it was time for her and my grandmothers to go to bed. Our guest looked at his watch as did I. It was only eight o’clock.
“Maybe I’d better be going then,” he said.
“Don’t be silly,” said Aunt Nozzie. “We older gals just need our beauty sleep.” They said goodnight and made their way up the stairs. Aunt Nozzie refused any help despite her injury, and butt-stepped her way up each stair, my grandmothers carrying her crutches.
Dr. Rogers and I talked for a few minutes before he got up and said he’d help me clean up the dishes.
“I guess your family wanted us to have some alone time,” he said, washing the cups.
“Not really.” I nodded my head toward the stairway where we could hear giggles. “They only wanted us to think that. We could have shortened the evening if you had simply brought a résumé and passed copies around.”
He smiled. “I admire you,” he said. “You’ve taken on the tough stuff.”
“They’re not so tough,” I said, “just nosey.”
“No, I mean, you’re a psychologist. I considered a residency in psychiatry, but I wanted to study something simpler.”
“Simpler?’
“Yeah, not so complicated as human behavior. Bones, tendons, and muscles are a cinch. People are an enigma.”
Well, wasn’t he nice? But he was wrong if he thought I understood my family.
“Your aunt and grandmothers don’t live with you, do they?”
“I’m not that interested in dysfunctional families,” I replied.
“So, do you have plans for Thanksgiving?” he asked. “I’m going to Boston to be with my parents and sister and brother and their families.”
“I think my family will be here for the day. What with my aunt’s broken leg and all. But thanks for the invitation.”
“So maybe we can get together after the holiday then?” he said on his way out the door.
That depended on whether my house was still standing and no one in the family was in jail. I didn’t tell him that. I did ask him how long the men in his family lived; he said his grandfather died at ninety-six. I heard a quiet but enthusiastic hoorah from the stairway.
*
There was only one argument over the holiday bazaar: what label we should put on our applesauce jars. Would it be “Grandma’s Genuine Swedish Applesauce,” which Grandma Mama insisted should be written in Swedish on the jars, i.e, “Gerplunken Fodishe.” Or was it “Drakke Blog”? We finally decided on “Interstate Applesauce,” and an artistic friend of mine made the labels, which I used the department’s copier to run off. The department secretary caught me at it, but agreed to keep quiet when I offered her five jars. Would she keep quiet when she tasted the concoction? There was no guarantee Grandma Mama had not slipped some of her Muscatel wine into a few jars when no one was looking.
“I’ve got another great idea,” said Aunt Nozzie, reading the local paper the evening before the bazaar.
That’s never a good lead in to anything in my family.
“There’s this church in town offering Thanksgiving dinner to the poor and homeless. We should volunteer to help serve.”
My grandmothers clapped their hands together and began to dance around the room. I thought about a Thanksgiving where we weren’t cooking or dining out, ways of celebrating that often had led to turkey trouble. This seemed like a wonderful idea, yet later that night while lying in bed, I had an attack of indigestion, and I was sure it wasn’t from too many of Aunt Nozzie’s Scarlett O’Haras, because you just can’t have too many Scarlet O’Haras. Did I have the right to unleash my aunt and grandmothers on the hungry in our community?
*
The day of the bazaar was cold but sunny. We sold all the jars of applesauce and my family did not maim, kill, or overly insult any customers. Everything went so well I began to think any holiday curse had bypassed us this year.
And then it was Thanksgiving Day.
Turducking
I should have searched all of them before I let them out of the house on Thanksgiving morning, but it was another one of those glorious chill-in-the-air, crisp, sunny days in Upstate New York, a day that promised everything would go well, a day I was certain would not be like other Thanksgivings. Great Turkey in the Sky, I prayed, make it so.
At the church, we were separated by tasks. Aunt Nozzie was to give out tickets to those attending the dinner. Turning in the ticket after dinner gave the diner the right to leftovers and two bologna sandwiches to take home. Aunt Nozzie seated herself at a table just inside the entry into the church’s basement where tables had been set up for the dinner. She shoved the crutches underneath the table.
“Are you certain those are out of the way?” I asked.
“They’re fine. Don’t’ be so worried, Darcie. I’m not going to hurt anyone.”
“Promise?” I asked.
Grandma Papa was assigned the task of cutting the pies into serving wedges. I was on the serving line, and Grandma Mama was in the kitchen with the cooks helping do final prep.
“The apple pie is special. It has cranberries and walnuts in it, and we also have pumpkin, with whipped cream for both,” said the organizer of the program, looking around the room to see that everything was ready for the influx of diners. “Be cheerful and welcoming. This is their holiday.”
We were to open at noon, but a half-hour early I heard a loud rap on the door. I opened the door to a short, raggedy dressed man.
“I know I’m early, but it’s so cold out here, and I need to use the bathroom. Can I use your restroom?” he said.
I gave him a welcoming smile. “What’s the harm?” Before I could hold the door open for him, he shoved through and held a gun to my head.
“Okay, girlie. This is a stick-up. Let’s head toward the kitchen.” He grabbed me around the neck and gestured with his weapon to Aunt Nozzie to get up. “Lock that door.”
She struggled to her feet, indicating her casted foot and her need for her crutches.
“Okay, Big Red, but no funny moves or this gal here won’t be around to enjoy what’s left of Thanksgiving.”
“I don’t think there’s any money here,” I said.
“We’re not after money. We’re after food.”
“We?” asked Aunt Nozzie.
“Me and my pals. Now walk.”
We slowly worked our way back to the kitchen, Aunt Nozzie struggling with her crutches. Inside we found all the volunteers loading food into a van parked in the alley behind the back entrance.
“You’re stealing the food intended for the poor? What kind of people are you?” I asked, my voice quavering with both fear and outrage.
Two unshaven men in dirty jeans and jackets were directing the loading of turkey, dressing, potatoes, cranberry sauce, and pies. One of them leaned against the door jamb spooning globs of whipped cream into his mouth. “Sweet tooth,” he said, smiling through a mustache of white foam on his lips.
“What kind of pies are these?” asked the other man, directing the volunteers’ work.
Grandma Papa picked up an apple pie and yelled, “They’re a special apple pie, ya freeloader.” She tossed it at him, hitting him square in the mouth. Apples, walnuts, and cranberries streamed down his face. With his free hand, he began to pick it off and shove it into his mouth.
“Yummy,” he said.
“Let’s get out of here. You can eat later,” the guy with the gun to my head shouted at the other two. Because he was distracted by his companions and their gorging on pie and whipped cream, he didn’t notice Aunt Nozzie raise one of her crutches until she slammed it into his leg. It connec
ted with a loud whack. He yelled, but turned the gun on Aunt Nozzie. Before he could fire, I grabbed the last whole turkey being carried out the door and smashed it into his face. Aunt Nozzie then pounded him over the head with her other crutch. The gun skittered across the floor. He went down with a moan and lay still.
The other two men bolted for the door. Mr. Whipped Cream jumped into the driver’s seat of the van while the other man continued to pick pie off his face and eat it. He leaped into the passenger’s seat, and the van sped off around the corner.
“There goes dinner for all those folks out front,” said Aunt Nozzie.
She was wrong about that.
The organizer of the dinner called the police department who located the van and dragged the men back to the church for us to identify, then arrested their ringleader, who still remained on the floor, Aunt Nozzie standing over him brandishing her crutch.
“The driver appears to be drunk,” said the officer. “He lost control of the van and ran into the tree out front.”
“Why is the other one’s face so swollen?” I pointed to the guy’s head, which was the size of a pumpkin and his breathing was labored.
“I think he was allergic to something he ate. I’ve seen this before. Did you feed him something containing nuts?” said the officer.
“It must have been the walnuts in the apple pie I tossed at him,” said Grandma Papa. “I can grab another one out of the van and finish him off if you like.”
“Thanks, but I think they all need to go to the hospital. I am puzzled, however. Was the driver drinking when he was here?”
Nozzie, the grandmothers, and I shrugged our shoulders in unison. As soon as he left, I turned to Grandma Mama. “Okay. Where did you hide it?”
She pulled a bottle from under her sweater. It was her Muscatel wine, the bottle almost empty.
“You dumped all of that in the whipped cream? What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking it would taste good. He liked it.”
I grabbed a spoon and took a taste of what was left in the bowl.
“Gads. There’s enough booze in here to get this whole city lit. We’d better dump it before anyone finds out you were trying to get these folks drunk.” I grabbed the bowl and ran water into it.
The Killer Wore Cranberry: A Fifth Course of Chaos Page 11
