by MYERS, TAMAR
“Ya mean like an orphanage?”
“No. I happen to know a family—the Kreiders—who’ve been approved as foster parents, and they’re the kindest people I know. They’ve also raised seven children of their own. Why don’t I ask them how to go about this? They can tell me who else to call.”
“Ya mean it? Ya’d do this for Lindsey, even though ya don’t know her?”
“But I know you, and I love you.”
Although I am not Alison’s biological mother, thanks to the genetic web that the Amish, and those Mennonites descended from them, inherit, the child and I are fifth cousins six different ways, and only once removed. Math has never been my forte; nonetheless, by my reckoning, if you divide the five into the six, you get the number one, plus a remainder. Drop the remainder to make up for the once removed, and Alison and I are, in effect, first cousins. Thus what happened next was practically off the charts in its remarkableness.
Simultaneously Alison and I threw ourselves into each other’s arms. Whereas we should have repelled each other like black-and-white Scottie magnets, we maintained a loving hug position for almost thirty seconds, without so much as a back slap. Of course it was emotionally exhausting, and we were both panting by the time we mutually agreed to disengage.
“Just so ya know,” my teenager said, “I don’t usually go in for all this mushy stuff, on account of its too weird and all.”
“Yeah, like, really,” I said.
“Mom! That was weird too.”
“Sorry.” I yawned. “Well, dear, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to push this little feller ’s crib back into my room and topple into bed. It’ll be time to get up and get you off to the bus before you know it.”
“Ya know, I think I could get myself ready for school; I am capable of fixing my own cold cereal.”
“Yes, but on mornings when Freni’s not here, I make you cinnamon toast as well.”
My beautiful pseudo- but almost-daughter rolled her eyes. “Ya toast the bread, ya butter it, and then ya sprinkle cinnamon and sugar on it. Duh. How hard is that? It ain’t like ya gotta follow a recipe.”
The promise of more than two hours of sleep was too tempting to pass up. “Thanks, dear.” And despite Alison’s loud protests, I kissed her on the top of her head.
I didn’t get to sleep in as late as my body would have liked. After just one hour Little Jacob woke up and demanded to be fed. I was able to coax him back to sleep, but approximately three hours later my telephone rang a thousand and one times. I didn’t exactly count the rings, but they were woven into the fabric of my dreams.
“Scheherazade speaking,” I said when I at last picked up. “I’m fresh out of stories.”
“Miss Yoder, I’m sorry to disturb you so early, but I need your woman’s intuition.”
“Which is worth two facts from a man.”
“Miss Yoder, are you listening?”
“I don’t have the energy to do anything else, dear.”
“The sheriff just called. He said that a small steamroller—suitable for home landscaping—was checked out from Rent-a-Dent. That’s the home supply store all the way over by Somerset. The individual renting it paid cash in advance for two days’ use of the roller, but supplied their own flatbed truck on which to haul it. Although that too may have been rented—but from somewhere else.”
My heart sank as a lightbulb went off in my sleep-deprived brain. “Does the clerk remember this individual?”
“Unfortunately that clerk started vacation today. He’s on a flight to Cancún, Mexico, as we speak; his flight left Pittsburgh at two thirty this morning. Apparently it was a last-minute deal. Tell me, Miss Yoder, what are the odds?”
“I believe it’s called synchronicity—it’s not compatible with my belief system, and ergo does not really exist, but I must say it does seem to happen with astonishing frequency.”
“You’re truly a puzzle, Miss Yoder.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, dear. So tell me, what exactly is it you need from me?”
“To be honest, just about everything at the moment: a warm shoulder, a tender heart, a sympathetic ear—oh, catfish, that didn’t come out right.”
“Then give it another shot. I am, if anything, the epitome of patience.”
To his credit, he barely snickered. “No argument there, Miss Yoder. And just so you know, the longer I live here, the deeper my understanding is of what an invaluable resource you are—a veritable font of information, as they say.”
“No one your age says that, Chief. And while you may certainly continue to butter me up, perhaps we should defer that most pleasant of activities to another time. What say we cut to the chase now and tell me what this huge favor is, before I decide to book a flight to Cancún. I have no interest in the beaches, mind you, but I’ve always been fascinated by the Mayan civilization.”
“Uh—ahm—uh—”
“Spit it out, dear. I probably have less than fifty Christmases left.”
“Well, remember how we originally discussed that once I moved to Pennsylvania my personal life would remain just that?”
“And so it has. If I wanted to dredge up dirt on someone’s sex life, there are plenty of heterosexuals hereabout I could go after. For instance, there is Miss I-Can’t-Be-Bothered-with-Drapes even though she plays the organ for the Baptist church, and then there’s our local representative, Congressman Narrow-Stance Buckley—”
“Miss Yoder! I’ve been arrested!”
29
“You’ve what?”
“It was in order to keep our agreement, you see. Last night, after I wrapped up my part of the crime scene investigation, I felt so revved up that I drove into Pittsburgh and—Shoot, there’s no way to say it other than to just say it, I guess.”
“Then say it, for crying out loud. What did you do? Rob a bank? Because that’s what I’d do if I was really revved up and I thought I wouldn’t—Oops, I didn’t just say that, did I?”
“Being funny is not going to help me. I was arrested for trying to pick up an undercover officer outside a gay bar.”
“Oh, my stars! You mean to say that there really are such places as gay bars? Good heavens, what won’t they think of next!”
“I hate to break the news to you, Miss Yoder, but gay bars are hardly a new phenomenon.”
Ever the practical sort, my mind had skipped ahead a step or two. “Chief, do you need a good lawyer? And is bail going to be an issue?”
“No. Kevin—that’s this guy whom I met in the clinker, and that’s his term for it, not mine—has a roommate who’s a civil rights attorney. But if you’ll recall, my contract with the municipality of Hernia has a morals contract, which I signed, stating that my employment would be terminated immediately if I was ever arrested. For anything.”
“Surely it reads conviction.”
“No. Besides, I’ve been giving this some thought, and I really do want to quit police work. Let’s face it, Miss Yoder. You’re a far better policeman than I’ve ever been.”
“I’ll choose to take that as a compliment, dear. What will you do instead? Where will you go?”
“I have a cousin in San Francisco who owns a designer pet store. She’s been working for years on breeding a strain of guppy so small that a dozen of them can swim comfortably inside a water-filled bra. One’s own body heat would supply the warmth that these tropical fish need, and every time the wearer raises and lowers her arms—presumably the market is women—a miniature pump delivers oxygen into the twin chambers of this wearable tank. True, it’s a gimmick, but some gimmicks have a way of really catching on, you know? Doris plans to market this as the Flaunt Your Fins Bra, and if she can get even just one member of the Chinese Olympic swim team to endorse it, we’ll have it made in the shade.”
“Hmm. Well I hope she has better luck than Cousin Horatio did with the Chihuahua-size lap horses he bred in the 1970s. Everyone thought that his Hold Your Horses marketing scheme was brilliant too, but there was just one cav
eat.”
“What was that, Miss Yoder?”
“Have you ever seen a male horse, Chief?”
“Of course I have. I’ve been living in Hernia, remember?”
“Well, not all the new owners thought that holding an aroused horse, no matter how tiny, was to their liking.”
“Oh.”
“Chief, what happens now to your Minerva J. Jay case?”
“I have no more case—and neither do you. Do you hear me, Miss Yoder?”
“We do seem to have a bad connection.”
“I’m serious, Magdalena.”
“So now, finally, you call me by my first name? What if I object?”
“You could try firing me.”
“Touché.”
“Well, good luck with the case, even though it seems hopeless. But if anyone can solve it, it’s you. That key switch was nothing short of brilliant.”
“It was rather clever of me, wasn’t it?”
“You’re just a bag of tricks, Miss Yoder. You sure you’re not a gay man in drag?”
“Pretty sure. Why? Is that a compliment?”
“Only of the highest caliber. Listen, if it’s all right with you, I’ll be spending the next couple of days in Pittsburgh, and then I’ll be back to clear out my office and pack up my house—unless you want me out of the office sooner.”
“Take your time, dear. Cheerio, tut-tut, and all that sort of rot.” I paused long enough to swallow a lump the size of one of Freni’s dumplings. “Oh, by the way, some of us are going to miss you.”
“Ditto, Magdalena.”
Then I did what comes naturally and hung up the phone.
Clad only in his black silk pajama bottoms, the Babester opened the door languidly. My, what a devilishly handsome creature he was. Had I not just recently passed a watermelon on the floor of Sam Yoder’s Corner Market, I might have jumped his bones, thereby initiating the reproductive process all over again. Speaking only on my own behalf, the most effective birth control in the world is birth.
“Hi, hon, come on in.”
“Just like that? No preamble? No preconditions?”
“Mi casa es su casa.”
“Chili con carne is about all the Spanish I can muster at this hour of the morning—well, or anytime, for that matter. Will I have to have Little Jacob deprogrammed at a later date?”
Gabe laughed and reached for his son. “My house is your house. And it’s his house too. I think he can live with that.”
“Okay, who took my husband’s crabby mechanism and replaced it with this disgustingly cheerful mood? Is there a chickadee hiding behind the couch?”
“A what?”
“I know, strictly speaking a chickadee is a species of bird, but isn’t bird cockney slang for woman?”
“No chickadee, or chick, or bird of any kind; I’m just happy to see you.”
I tried desperately to maintain eye contact. “So you are. Listen, I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”
“Anything. You know that.”
“I do?”
“If I can.”
“Could you please watch my—our—son for the morning?”
“That’s a favor? Come on, hon, that’s not a favor; that’s Heaven.”
I handed him the bag at my feet. “Here’s all the diapers you’ll need, and several onesies, and I’ve expressed two bottles—that device really isn’t too bad in a pinch, ha-ha—but since I just fed him, I should be back in plenty of time to see that he doesn’t starve—even though he may sound that way.”
“Looks like you’ve covered all the bases—Hey, wait just one Yoder minute. This means that you’re about to do something crazy, doesn’t it?”
“I’m always doing crazy things. Ask anyone in town.”
“Hon, look, I know you well enough to realize that there’s no stopping you. So please be careful!”
“Aren’t I always?”
“No, you’re not; but you are very, very lucky. This time be careful, as well as lucky.”
Little Jacob gurgled and burbled similar sentiments.
“There, you see? Do you think I’d take any unnecessary risks with this little guy to come home to?”
“You’ve got me.”
“Sure, it’s probably just gas, but mark my words—What did you say?”
“Darling, I’ve been a donkey’s patooty—as you’d so quaintly put it. I’ve been acting like a spoiled mama’s boy, not the man that I know myself to be. Can you forgive me?”
“Well, I—”
“You don’t have to give me an answer now. Please just don’t write me off entirely until you’ve given me a chance to prove that I can step up to the plate.”
I sighed. “Don’t take this as a compliment, but you look like you’re already about to swing—maybe even hit a home run—not that I would notice such a thing at a time like this.”
“Does that mean what I think it does?”
“It means that I’m in a hurry and that we’ll talk later. Toodleoo.” I started to flee.
“Mags—”
“I don’t even have a minute, and the doctor says I shouldn’t even think about it for another month.”
“I just got off the phone with Ma.”
“And now let’s add another month.”
“She says she’s never been happier. That makes me very happy too, so I can’t thank you enough for what you did.”
“What did I do?”
“You know, making her so miserable that she ran off and became Sister Disgusting—or whatever her name is.”
“Excuse me?”
“Ma says that the rally in Cleveland was a bust because nobody cared enough to show up, so Susannah booked them all into a motel—two to a room. Ma’s roommate was this woman who had to spend more time shaving than Ma, which really made her feel good.”
“Your mother shaves?”
“Sixty percent of American women are unhappy with the amount of their facial or body hair; she is not in the minority.”
“In that case I am glad to have been of assistance.”
“Oh, she said to give you her love and to tell you that she is praying that you achieve a blasé state of mind.”
“I would say how sweet, but I lack the motivation to do even that.”
As I leaned forward to give Little Jacob a parting kiss, I smelled the Babester’s manly scent. My knees went weak, and my heart began to pound, but worst of all, I thought I might throw myself into his arms and crush Little Jacob—so powerful were those pheromones wafting to me on that gentle late April breeze. Gabriel Rosen was a Greek god (albeit a Hebrew man) in a body of steel, and I was a Mennonite magnet, completely powerless over my corpuscles of clay, if you’ll pardon the mixed metaphor of a hormonally challenged woman.
There was only one thing in the world that could have prevented me from abandoning my mission right then and there. Unfortunately for Minerva J. Jay’s killer—and Elias Whitmore’s, I might add—my cell phone rang.
Is it possible that when the Rapture comes, half the folks will not hear the trumpets of glory because their ears will be glued to their cell phones? Far be it from me to speak on behalf of the Lord, but I don’t think there will be cell phones in Heaven, in which case a good many folks may well ask for a transfer down to the St. Louis Airport, Concourse A. And yet as critical as I am of others being addicted to this horrible Pavlovian device, I am all but powerless to resist when its ringtone beckons me to answer.
“Hello?”
“Magdalena, where are you? I need you right away.” More was said, but I didn’t catch it all. The speaker was quite possibly a woman, but she, or he, was whispering so softly that even a rabbit would have had trouble hearing all that was said.
“I was about to throw myself into my husband’s arms,” I said, “and possibly even do unseemly things in front of our firstborn. To whom am I speaking, by the way?”
Gabe reached for me, but I stepped adroitly away. “It’s not too late, hon,” he said.
<
br /> “We’ll talk later,” I said to him, and mashed my cell phone hard against my ear. “If you don’t tell me who this is, I’m hanging up.”
“This is Agnes Mishler, for crying out loud! I’m your best friend.”
“Oh. So you are. Look, Agnes, dear, this is not a good time to give you the recipe for chicken walnut salad—”
“This isn’t about a recipe, Magdalena; it’s about Wanda Hemphopple.”
“Just consider the source, dear, and let her remarks—whatever they were—slide off you like rain from a greased duck.”
“Oh no, she didn’t say anything bad about me. But she’s here, and she says that she knows who killed Elias Whitmore. Is he really dead, Magdalena?”
I grew up with the knowledge that the Hernia grapevine was somehow quicker than the telephone, but even I was stunned. “That’s impossible. He was killed just last night. Late last night.”
“Squashed to death with a steamroller, right?”
“Slap me up side of the head and call me Debbie Sue!”
“What?”
“Never mind; I just always wanted to say that. What else did Wanda tell you?”
“That’s it, except that she needed to use the little girls’ room.”
“Agnes, I keep telling you that you’re not a little girl, so using that expression is demeaning. Do you think that the president of the United States visits the ‘little boys’ room’?”
“You’re digressing, Magdalena. You’re fiddling on your soapbox while Rome burns.”
“Touché for the mixed cliché. What is Wanda doing now?”
“I offered her some coffee and a store-bought cinnamon roll, but she’s very agitated. She keeps pacing the kitchen. And every now and then she looks this way—into the living room. That’s why I’m having to whisper.”
“I’ll be right over,” I said. “Have your uncles entertain her, if you must, but whatever you do, keep her there.”
Although Agnes lives in the country, and on the opposite side of Hernia, thanks to some creative driving, I was there much quicker than one might think, if one were to go by the posted speed limits.
