by Cathy Lamb
As my cousin, Anya, is germophobic, this is high praise.
Charlie plays the piano for the restaurant unless he is in a state. He can be triggered by a half moon, bare trees, or barking dogs. Charlie likes Mozart and Tchaikovsky; they calm him down, so my father bought him an iPod and filled it with both composers.
Charlie writes his own piano concertos in addition to playing the classical masters. My parents bought a piano for the restaurant and he’ll come down and play it, no sheet music, all memorized, for hours, then abruptly he’ll go upstairs and that’s that. My parents give Ralph and Charlie leftovers and some cash.
“What?” my father said. “They need help. Ralph and Charlie, they can’t work no normal job. We can help, so we do. We give a blessing to them.”
“God tell me to do it, so I do,” my mother said. “That could have been us. Poor in Moscow. Poor in Germany. Poor in America, but we healthy. Minds clear, only a little messed up.” She tapped her head. “But them? No. Cannot fix. So we take care of Ralph and Charlie, praise God.”
That night my mother was talking to customers, table to table. We never get to order what we want when we come to our parents’ restaurant. My mother orders for us based on what she wants us to eat. We’d had salads, and the dinner was coming.
Mama was wearing a blue velvet dress and matching shoes. My father was working hard in the back, the waiters and waitresses rushing to and fro, almost all of them stopping to chat with my sisters and me. Most of them have been with my parents for years, and five have been with them twenty years. My parents provide health insurance and retirement packages.
“We have to talk about something besides my . . . my . . . wedding or I’m going to lose it in this bar,” Ellie said, then said to herself, in a whispery voice, “Be serene. Be quiet within your soul. Breathe in calmly, like a calm meadow.” She turned to Valerie and spoke through her paper bag. “Tell us about the Tyler Barton serial murder case; it will help me to relax.”
“I’m going to trial soon against a murderer. Multiple victims. I have a bad feeling about it.”
“Why?” I asked. “You’ve done this before. What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think you’ll lose?” Ellie asked, the paper bag expanding as she blew into it.
“No. I’ll win, but there’s something . . .”
“Something?” I felt cold inside, an instant hit, sensing Valerie’s fear. Fear, as in my hairs were standing on end all over my body and getting ready to run.
“I can’t figure it out yet. But it feels different. He’s a scary guy, his family is scary. They’re unpredictable. Unhinged.”
“Now I’m scared. We’re a trio of problems. Valerie’s prosecuting demons, Ellie can’t breathe because she’s engaged, and I am actively trying to avoid a nervous breakdown and it isn’t working.” My phone went off. I glanced at the quick alert I received by e-mail. My e-mail, and the police scanner, were always a source of current mayhem, murder, and chaos. “I have to go. Another shooting.”
“Have a splendid time,” Valerie drawled as she stood up and gave me a long, long hug and kissed my cheek. My father hurried over, his kind face wreathed in concern. “What wrong, what wrong?” His face, his dear face, so worried.
“What is this? Why is my Antonia leaving already?” my mother said. She cupped my face. “You no eat dinner yet, it up in two minutes, you need to eat dessert, too. I make ptichye moloko cake. You too thin. Not enough skins on the bones.”
“I’m off to a crime scene.”
“That crime scene,” my mother said, shaking her head, which somehow seemed to shake her whole body. “I don’t know why you must write about the criminals. We come here to America, get rid of crime. You can work here in the restaurant, I tell you, many times, your father tell you, many times. Come. Work with us. You be the boss of the desserts. You are happy girl with desserts when you younger, you bake like Mary, mother of Christ—”
“Yes, like mother of Christ,” my father agreed.
“There’s no mention of Mary, mother of Christ, baking in the Bible,” I said.
My mother ignored that comment. “You go to school and become lady who write about shootings and murder and the bad mens.” She threw her hands up. “What I do wrong make you do this? What? Curse on me.”
“No childrens working the restaurant. Bad for us.” My father shook his head. Even his slanted nose seemed sad.
“Bad for us,” my mother echoed.
“I burn food,” I reminded them.
“Tsk,” my mother said. “We fix that.”
“Tsk,” my father said. “I teach you.”
“I have to run.” I hugged my parents and my sisters; waved at Ralph, who saluted me; and at Charlie, who was playing Mozart, who smiled back dizzily, not everything clicking on all cylinders in there.
I told myself this was my last murder.
I knew it wasn’t.
* * *
The scene was busy, loud, ugly, as always. The police were there, more coming, lights flashing, sirens on, yellow crime tape surrounding the sight. Men and women in suits, detectives, one taking photos of the crime scene, passersby with their cell phones out, also taking photos. I parked, half up on a curb and started run/walking to the scene. I had a peek at the dead people, gang members, lying on the ground.
Looked like teenagers. No more than eighteen. Skinny. They got up and got dressed this morning, ate breakfast, and this is where their lives stopped. They were about three feet apart from each other. From where the guns dropped, it looked to me like they probably took their last breaths staring into each other’s eyes, their hatred gone, their lives fading.
They had mothers. Fathers. Siblings. Friends. Those people would never recover.
Captain Martin Belbee gently moved me out of the way. Martin and I went to high school together. “Sorry, Toni, gotta back you up there. How ya doing? How’s your sister, Ellie? The wife bought one of her pillows the other day. Red with a lion on it. The lion was blue and green. The wife said it made her feel like roaring. We’re going to your parents’ restaurant tomorrow. Hey, do you think your mother is going to make that special called ‘Menopause Nightmare’? Lamb and beef. It was delicious when I had it before. The wife loved it. She’s having hot flashes.”
I backed up with Martin, answered on automatic, told him I’d check with my mother and let him know. I asked Martin questions about the crime, and he answered with what he could. I knew he’d call me later with more info. I mentally started writing my story that would go up on the Oregon Standard Web site immediately. I would add to it as more details came in. That was my job.
Yes, I write about crime.
It’s not for sissies.
Neither is it for people like me. I wanted out.
* * *
My mother would make “Menopause Nightmare” for Martin and his wife. I e-mailed him. Martin e-mailed back, “I cannot wait. Thanks, Toni. Thank your mama for me. Is she still mad at Ellie for her bad choice? And why do you and your siblings make your mama worry? I saw that on the Tonight’s Specials board the other night, too. You shouldn’t do that to her. She’s a good woman.”
* * *
Hours later, at two in the morning, I climbed in my bathtub with a box of chocolates. I ate them while I soaked. Not the whole box. Half of one tray. I like to eat treats in the bath. Makes for a tasty time, and it sucks away my stress.
CATHY LAMB lives in Oregon. She is married with three children. She writes late at night when it’s just her and the moon and a few shooting stars. Readers can visit her website at: www.cathylamb.org.
%); -ms-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share
