Hell Hath No Curry

by Tamar Myers

  “The heck we didn’t! Who’s gotten to you, Magdalena? Has that minister from Maryland been turning you against me?”

  “No.”

  “Then who? What’s this all about?”

  “Gabe, we’re not on the same page—we’re not even in the same Bible. I mean we are, but you only subscribe to half of it.”

  “I don’t subscribe to any of it—not literally. You’ve known that about me from almost the beginning.”

  “Yes, but I thought I could change you. That if I was a proper witness to the Lord, you would eventually see the light and be saved.”

  “And I told you that as much as I hated you thinking I was wrong—doomed to Hell, or whatever your religion teaches—it was worth putting up with in order to spend the rest of my life with you. Just as long as you kept the sermons short and to the point.”

  “Are you saying now that you don’t even believe in Hell?”

  “Judaism is not about Heaven or Hell. It’s about performing acts of loving kindness in this life. Darn it, Magdalena, now you’ve got me defending a faith to which I no longer subscribe. The kind acts, yes, but—shoot, I can’t believe I’m even having this conversation.”

  I could feel my chin quiver. I hate it when my body betrays me. Pretty soon the tears would well up, and then my face would turn blotchy, and unless I did something drastic, a whimper might even escape my trembling lips.

  “I love you, Gabriel Rosen.” The force of my words surprised even me. “I have never loved anyone as much as I love you, and I never will! But it’s over between us. It has to be; we are just too different. It never would have worked. But I thank God for the time we had together, and I pray that He will bless you, and keep you safe, and that someday—”

  “I’ll see the light and beg to be converted?”

  “That’s not fair! I’m pouring out my heart, and you—you—” Truth be told, I was grateful that he’d made me angry again. Anger can be a very destructive emotion, but I’d pick it over pain any day.

  “Just go, Magdalena, and take your self-righteousness with you. Maybe someday you’ll come to your senses and realize that when you start applying a literal interpretation to one collection of ancient tribal legends, you may as well do it to all of the others. So go, Magdalena, go with Zeus!”

  I turned on a narrow heel to flee from the room, but it was not going to be a graceful exit. In the doorway, standing as still as a garden gnome, and almost as pretty, was Gabe’s mother, Ida.

  “So,” she hissed, springing to life, “you tink my son is not good enough for you?”

  “Of course not! I mean, he is good enough, but—Mrs. Rosen, with all due respect, this really isn’t your business.”

  “My son is my business.”

  I looked at Gabe, who looked like a deer caught in the headlights. It was then that I realized that, matters of faith set aside, our breakup would have been inevitable. Matthew 19:5 states that a man shall leave his mother and cleave unto his wife. But as long as Ida Rosen was in the picture, there wasn’t going to be any cleavage.

  “Tell me something, Ida,” I said, trying mightily to control my voice. “Deep down inside—maybe even not so deep—you’re happy that Gabriel and I are breaking up. Isn’t that right?”

  Ida rolled her eyes. “Oy, this one talks like a blintz.”

  “Ma, answer her question.”

  “Nu, vhat’s to answer? Of course I’m not happy. How could I be happy? Gabeleh, is it too much to vant that you should marry a nice Jewish girl? New York vas full of them, but here? Nothing but shikses.”

  “Ma,” Gabe moaned.

  “No, it’s okay,” I said. “She has a right to her opinion. Everyone in Hernia is saying the same thing, but in reverse. But you, Gabriel, for your own good, you need to cut the apron strings. You’re almost fifty years old, for crying out loud. Isn’t it time you learned to cut your own meat as well?”

  Gabe reddened. “I know how to cut meat, darn it, but if it gives Ma satisfaction, who am I to deny her?”

  “A grown man.”

  “You’re treading on thin ice, Magdalena. Who still lives in the house she was born in?”

  “That’s not a fair comparison; my parents are dead.”

  “Yet your mother still controls you. Isn’t that right, Magdalena?”

  I slipped off my engagement ring for the last time. It was a monstrous blue Ceylon sapphire surrounded by small, but exceptionally clear, diamonds. Susannah refers to it as “major bling.” It was also a soap catcher that needed constant cleaning to look its best, and that, frankly, I was embarrassed to wear when it did look that way, because of all the attention it attracted.

  “So this is really it, then,” Gabe said. Talk about quivering chins.

  “All over but the shouting,” I said, forcing my mouth into what I hoped resembled a smile. “Only there won’t be any. But I do have a favor to ask of Ida. And since I’m giving her back her son, it shouldn’t be too much to ask.”

  “So ask already,” she said. “You have my vord that I vill do it.”

  “You know Miller’s Pond?”

  “Of course. It’s right in front of this house—before the road.”

  “That’s right. It gets pretty scummy over the winter, and doesn’t clear up until early summer. I want you to go outside, get a running start, and jump in the pond.”

  “Vhat?”

  “Go soak yourself, Ida.”

  I pushed past her and ran outside.

  There is no potion in this world, prescription or otherwise, that can heal a broken heart. They say only time can heal one, but it’s an awful saying, because time stands still for broken hearts. When I got home, all I wanted to do, after taking a long soak in the tub, was to burrow under my sheets and stay there until the pain went away.

  Having already experienced the simple life, I reward myself now—but not without some guilt—by making my bed with sheets that have a thousand threads per square inch. Made from the finest Egyptian cotton, they feel every bit as soft and buttery as Gabe’s Italian leather couch. They do not, however, smell like butter. Well, not usually.

  I’d just crawled into my den of white sheets and eiderdown comforters to hibernate when I got a whiff of this incongruous, but not unpleasant, scent. I peeked out cautiously. Perhaps there was a polar bear waiting to pounce on me.

  “Freni!”

  “Yah, as big as life and twice as ugly.”

  I fought back a laugh, but it overpowered me and escaped as a snort. I dug deeper into my den.

  “Freni, please go away.”

  “Yah, I go, but first you eat.”

  “I’m not hungry!”

  “You do not have to be hungry to eat these cross aunts.” Her voice was muffled but still intelligible. Then again, maybe not. I poked my head out.

  “Just which cross aunt did you have in mind, dear?”

  “Ach, so now you make fun of me?”

  “Freni, I’m not—oh, those cross aunts!” My dear kinswoman was holding a wooden tray in her stubby hands. On the tray was a plate of freshly baked, and buttered, croissants. Next to the plate of pastries was Mama’s chipped stoneware pot, one that was reserved only for hot cocoa.

  “So now maybe you eat, yah?”

  “If you insist, but I’m still not hungry.”

  “I brought you some peach preserves for the cross aunts. The kind with the lumps.”

  “You mean ‘chunks.’”

  “Yah, that is what I said. Now, sit up, Magdalena.”

  I did as ordered. Freni set the tray on my bedside table and then almost tenderly tucked a starched white napkin into the neck of my pajama top. After pouring a cup of steaming cocoa, she handed me a dessert plate upon which she’d arranged two croissants, several pats of extra butter, and a gob of lumpy peach preserves.

  “Now, eat,” she ordered.

  “Only if you join me.”

  “Ach!”

  “I mean it. I’m not going to take a bite unless you do.”
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  “But there is only one small plate.”

  “No problemo. I’ll hold the tray in my lap; that will be my plate. You get the real plate—but we’ll divide the rolls evenly. And we can share the cup, knowing as I do that you don’t have cooties. But no backwash.”

  “Yah, but—”

  “No if, ands, or buts allowed. Take off your brogans and scootch under the covers with me. If crumbs fall on the bed, so what? That’s what washing machines are for.”

  I never could have imagined it in a million years. My seventy-six-year-old cousin kicked off her heavy shoes and hoisted her considerable keester up onto my bed. Snuggled next to each other, we drank the entire pitcher of cocoa and ate four and a half croissants each. By the time we were through, my bedclothes were covered with grease spots, jam stains, chocolate stains, and more crumbs than there are sand grains in the Sahara. The entire time we probably said no more than five words.

  When we were quite done, with our fingers licked clean, we belched in turn (age before beauty) and then shortly afterward fell asleep.

  22

  “Hey, Mom, what’s going on?”

  I awoke to find my dear, sweet pseudo-stepdaughter poking me with the corner of her book bag.

  “Alison! What time is it?”

  She glanced at my bedside clock, which was still a blur to me. “Seven thirty, I think. Ya need ta get one of them digital clocks—hey, ya don’t never sleep in the afternoon. Are ya sick?”

  “I was,” I said. “But I’m better now.” A truer statement was never spoken.

  “Yeah?” Her eyes strayed to the other side of the bed. “What’s that lump under them covers? That ain’t Gabe, is it?”

  “What?” I jerked to a sitting position. There was indeed a lump under the covers. My dear kinswoman was still dead to the world, and had apparently pulled the covers over her head at some point.

  “Y’are always yapping about how I shouldn’t have sex before marriage, Mom. If you ask me, this ain’t such a good example.” She stepped sprightly around the end of the bed and whacked the sleeping lump with her satchel.

  “Ach!” Freni squawked and popped up like Lazarus from the dead.

  “Ooh, gross,” Alison said. “I ain’t got nothing against them gays, but my own mom with my cousin? That’s sick.”

  Her words were music to my ears: my own mom. And the fact that she considered Freni to be a cousin of hers—well, it couldn’t get any more touching than that. The cousin in question, however, was not similarly moved.

  “Ach,” Freni squawked again, and like a plump hen pursued by a hungry fox, flapped her stubby arms and virtually flew from the room.

  “It’s not what you think, dear.”

  “It’s okay, Mom, I’m cool with that. I mean, I ain’t, but I want younz to be happy.”

  “Alison, for crying out loud, quit jumping to conclusions. I was having a hard time, and Freni brought me a snack, and then we both fell asleep—not that I need to explain anything.”

  The child can be as aggravating as gum on the soles of my brogans, but then a second later she is more astute than Aristotle. She digested my explanation, having apparently found it palatable.

  “What kind of hard time?”

  “Oh, nothing.” I could feel my chin quiver just remembering my parting words to Gabe.

  “Ya got that weird look on your face, Mom. The kind my other mom had when I said I didn’t love her no more.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah, but now I ain’t so sure I meant it. I was real mad at her, though, on account of she was acting all goofy toward Pop, like she loved him more than me, and he weren’t even there when I was a kid.”

  I looked at the daughter I would never have, but still did have, in a funny cosmic sort of way. True, I didn’t get a chance to carry her in my womb, but then again, I didn’t have to change a single diaper, or get up for a middle-of-the-night feeding. But it was clear she loved me enough to trust me with her feelings, so it was only fair that I be straightforward with her.

  “Alison, uh—well, Dr. Rosen and I are no longer engaged.”

  Her expression reminded me of my favorite cow, Bessie, the first time we ever hooked her up to the automatic milking machine. “But y’are still getting married, right?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “What happened, Mom? ’Cause whatever it is, I can go over there and fix it. I know I can.”

  “Not this time, dear. We’ve broken it off for good.”

  “Was it her? Was it Grandma Ida? Was it because she treats him like a baby?”

  “You were aware of that?”

  Alison plopped on the bed beside me. “I ain’t blind, Mom. I ain’t stupid neither.”

  “Nor a grammarian.”

  “Yeah. So it was Grandma Ida. Man, I knew it.”

  “It wasn’t just that, dear. Dr. Rosen and I couldn’t see eye to eye on some pretty important things.”

  “Ah, I get ya; it’s that religious stuff, ain’t it?”

  “Yes, in a nutshell.”

  “No offense, Mom, but ain’t that kinda stupid?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Ya both worship the same God, right?”

  “It’s not that simple, dear.”

  “Well, it oughta be. If ya love each other, it seems to me that’s all that should matter. Let God decide if He wants ta be pissed at ya because younz don’t agree.”

  I sighed. The Bible says that a child shall lead them, but it doesn’t say where to. Perhaps to the bathroom, where I could wash her mouth out with soap.

  “Alison, it’s not going to happen, so can we talk about something else?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” She was silent for all of three seconds. “Hey Mom, is it all right with ya if I get me a bikini wax?”

  “A what?”

  “Ya know, like a leg wax, only they don’t stop anywhere near the knees. Shelby Saylor had herself one, said it hurt something awful. Even worse than pulling a tooth. She said I oughta be glad I don’t need one, but I ain’t so sure.”

  “Shelby Saylor is right,” I cried as I clapped my hands over my ears. I wouldn’t have thought in a million years that I would ever side with Shelby Saylor. The child is every mother’s nightmare, except for her own mother, who doesn’t seem to care one whit about her daughter’s upbringing.

  My hands have never stopped my ears from hearing. “I was kinda hoping ya would say that,” Alison said nonchalantly.

  “You were?”

  “Yeah, it was kind of a dare. But I asked ya, didn’t I?”

  “You’re darn tooting,” I said, which is almost as bad as I can swear. Defying five hundred years of inbred reservation, I reached out to hug Alison, but she slipped away from my grasp.

  “Don’t ya be getting all mushy with me, Mom. I ain’t about to take a nap with ya either.”

  I smiled, despite my broken heart.

  Broken hearts, unlike broken limbs, do not require casts or crutches, so I had no excuse not to hit the sleuthing trail again. Besides, I’d heard that keeping active was a good way to keep from hurting. Then again, I’d also heard that time can heal a broken heart, and that turned out to be a load of Haufa mischt.

  Whilst lollygagging about in bed (but only briefly) after Alison’s touching visit, it occurred to me that I had been approaching the case from the wrong angle. I’d been investigating on behalf of Chief Olivia Hornsby-Anderson rather than on behalf of the town of Hernia. The five “suspects” I’d chosen to interview were all women who’d been romantically involved with the deceased, Cornelius Weaver.

  Yet not only was the chief also involved with Cornelius, but they were doing the Sealy Posturepedic polka when he passed on to meet St. Peter. From what I’ve read, bad tickers, especially those that are unused to exercise, can be adversely affected by the rapid heartbeats brought on by sexual climax. How lucky we women are; we need only lie there, planning our menus, or reviewing the day’s events, just as long as we remember to show some
response at the critical moment. With a little planning, such as purchasing a good hairnet, we need hardly look worse for the wear.

  At any rate, there were a number of factors not in Chief Hornsby-Anderson’s favor. For starters, as a police officer, she should know CPR. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not saying that CPR could necessarily have saved Cornelius’s life, but it increased his chances. The fact that he died anyway had to be taken into consideration.

  And then there was her questionable choice of me as prime investigator. Why not turn the matter over to the sheriff, or at the least, the inexperienced, albeit very handsome, Chris Ackerman? Could it be that the chief was hoping that I would make such a mess out of things that by the time she was forced to turn to professional help, it would be too late to make a coherent case against her? Well, if that was the case, she was in for a nasty surprise.

  One of the very few benefits of possessing a cracked cardium is that the intense pain involved makes one less likely to give a rodent’s rear about what other people think. Whereas just yesterday I might have been a wee bit nervous about putting the screws to the chief, now I really didn’t care whom I screwed. So to speak.

  Anyway, Chief Hornsby-Anderson (she has never invited me to call her Olivia) lives in Hernia’s only apartment building. Why it is called the Narrows, no one seems to know. There are only eight units, four up and four down, and the chief lives up, with an inspiring view of the parking lot, and the back of Miller’s Feed Store. Twice a week the chief can watch, from the privacy of her own balcony, the supply trucks unload. Amanda Tutweiler, who used to live in 2D, rented folding chairs up there for sixty cents an hour. I’m told she had a waiting list a mile long, so I never bothered to put my name on it. Who says there’s nothing to do in Hernia?

  Even though it was not a delivery day, the chief took an inordinately long time to answer. She is an attractive woman, rather well preserved given her sunny California origins, but today she appeared blotchy and bedraggled. Immediately I recognized the signs of excessive lacrimal duct secretion. That is to say, she’d been crying.