Death by Eggplant

by Susan Heyboer O'Keefe

  “For six years.”

  Six years? In all that time, she had never once taken this way home, not even the sidewalk out front, at least not that I had noticed, and I would have noticed. Maybe she had just moved. Or maybe she had changed teachers. Or maybe not, and she just wanted to see me. The thought made me scramble out of the chair. I dropped my math book and notebook, then bent to pick it up just as Indra did. We knocked heads, sending her black braid flying.

  “Ow!” we both said at once, which somehow made it funny.

  “How’s the baby?” she asked with a grin.

  “Not a peep out of her. I guess she’s sleeping in.”

  “Well, it is Saturday.”

  “Yeah, Saturday,” I agreed.

  “Nicky’s been pretty quiet the last couple of days, too.”

  Nicky? She called Dekker Nicky?

  “If he’s quiet, it just means he’s planning something,” I said.

  “He’s not as bad as all that,” she insisted. “That’s what I came to tell you—that you don’t have to worry. Besides, you can handle him, I know it.”

  I felt myself blush. “Thanks.”

  Indra smiled, waved good-bye, and walked away, around the house to the street out front.

  Nicky wasn’t that bad? I wasn’t to worry? I could handle him?

  Yeah, right. And I was going to get an A in math, too.

  Dad didn’t come home in time from his golf game, so it was just Mom and me at Dr. Zimmerman’s.

  Mom went in first, while I sat by myself, the only one in the waiting room, which was really strange. Whenever I went to my doctor, the place was wall to wall with kids, each one green and hawking up germs of something far worse than I was there for. Dr. Zimmerman’s waiting room was empty. The pale blue chairs looked as if they had never once been sat on. And there was a pile of magazines on a table, so neatly stacked I knew they had never once been opened.

  I didn’t touch the magazines, so they stayed in that super-neat pile. I didn’t open my knapsack, either. My math book was in there, but I felt too weird to figure out problems. Besides, by this point in the year, things were hopeless. That was why I was stuck with Cleo. She was in the knapsack, too, because we didn’t have a sitter.

  The door to Dr. Zimmerman’s office finally opened and Mom came out. Her eyes were red and she was sniffling. Before I could ask what was wrong, she waved me over to the doctor.

  “Please, Bertram,” he said. “I’d like to see you alone for a few minutes.” The doctor was short and thin. He had rosy cheeks, curly black hair, a small beard, and a mustache with pointy ends you could twirl. It made me think he was really an elf in a suit. But he had an accent, just like a movie shrink, and I’d never heard of an elf with an accent.

  He closed the door after us, pointed to the couch, then put a box of tissues in front of me.

  “So,” he said, when we both sat down. He smiled. I smiled. I waited for him to say something. I waited a long time. All the while, he kept smiling.

  “So what?” I finally asked.

  “Mmmm?”

  “You said ‘so’ and now I’m saying, ‘so what?’”

  “‘So what?’” he repeated. “Tell me, Bertram, why do you say that?”

  I spoke more slowly. Maybe, being a foreigner and all, he hadn’t understood me. “You said ‘so’ and now I’m saying, ‘so what?’”

  “Ahh,” he nodded. “‘So what? So what?’”

  I guess he liked the phrase, because he kept repeating it.

  “Don’t you want to know about my mom?” I asked at last.

  “Your mother? What do you think I should know about her?”

  “For one thing, is there anything I should know?”

  “Mmmm?”

  “Well, I mean, she was crying just now.”

  “Mmmm?” Dr. Zimmerman raised a single eyebrow. “I see I must be direct, though it pains me most severely to do so. Bertram, why don’t you tell me all about your baby sister.”

  “Sister? I don’t have a baby sister.”

  “Mmmm? Cleo?”

  “Cleo is not my sister.”

  “Ahhh . . . ” He steepled his fingers and peeked out from between them. “Your mother said you were having a problem. Something about your losing the baby. Something about your grades being affected. Do you see how serious the problem is, that your grades should be affected?”

  “Doctor, I don’t think you understood what my mother meant. Cleo is my grade. She’s just a school project.”

  He nodded even harder, like one of those dogs with the bouncing heads in the back window of a car. “Sometimes, it is easier to deal with difficult people by transforming them into an object,” he said. “This way, we do not see their humanity. Is this not true?”

  “Well, maybe.”

  “And so,” the doctor continued, “you turn this difficult, fussy baby into your school project.”

  “Doctor, either there’s a language barrier or my mother is getting way too wrapped up in my homework. She has only one kid—me. Cleo is a five-pound sack of flour.”

  “A sack of flour?” He wrote that down in his notebook.

  “Yeah, she’s just a future batch of cupcakes.”

  “Which you would devour, no?” Writing more furiously, he nodded so hard I thought his head would fall off.

  “No! Well maybe . . . if they were chocolate. But I’d leave some for her.”

  “Cleo?” he said, wrinkling his forehead.

  “No, my mother. She loves chocolate.”

  He sat back, stunned.

  “You would feed your sister to your mother?” He began to write even faster. “This is classic! Straight from the Greek tragedies!”

  “Actually, I came straight from home.” I slid off the couch. “Which is where I think I should be going.”

  “And leave the issue of your sister unresolved?”

  “I don’t have a sister,” I said slowly. “I have a sack of flour.”

  “You are in deep denial.” He clucked his tongue and shook his head.

  “Look,” I said, “Cleo is outside, right now, in my knapsack.”

  The thought was suddenly unnerving—my mother alone with my knapsack. Visualizing Cleo, she might decide to visualize a diaper bag and dig around in it for a diaper. I didn’t want my chef’s hat to wind up on Cleo’s bottom, with or without questions from my mother.

  “You put your baby sister in your knapsack?” Dr. Zimmerman asked.

  “She’s not—look, just let me get her and prove it to you.”

  Leaning close, he spoke very gently. “Bertram, sometimes it is not therapeutic to confront reality so quickly. If you need your sister to be a little flour baby, perhaps there is a reason why. Perhaps it would be better for you—for us, yes?—if we were to look at this reason why, rather than be shocked by looking into an empty knapsack.”

  I jumped up and yanked open the door to the waiting room.

  “I will prove it to—”

  The waiting room was empty. My mother wasn’t there. Neither was my knapsack.

  “I guess Mom went back to the car. And she took Cleo with her.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’d never leave the baby here alone, of course.”

  “What did you say?” the doctor asked excitedly.

  “I said she’d never leave—No, no, I just meant she took my knapsack with her and—”

  The doctor grabbed my hand and shook it.

  “A breakthrough!” he declared. “Didn’t you hear it? You said ‘the baby’!”

  “But I—

  “No! No! No!” He led me out. “Let this revelation work on your subconscious, and I will see you again in a few days. We must not lose this momentum!”

  Closing the door on me, he murmured his last words, “Such a breakthrough, and in only one session!”

  I would bet anything I was going to be written up for a psychiatric journal: “The Curious Case of the Boy Who Would Bake His Sister into Cupcakes.” />
  DAY FIVE

  Sunday I hung around the yard all morning, hoping Indra might walk by again. She didn’t. Then it was time for church, and I dashed inside to get my tie. Mom was already dressed, wearing the kind of outfit that made people stare, something lime green with knotted sashes, topped with a turban. It didn’t look Egyptian. But then again, I don’t know what Egyptians wore when they weren’t mummies.

  She had dressed Cleo up, too, in a lacy white bonnet. Where had that come from? The thought of Mom buying baby clothes made me shiver.

  She fussed with the hat. It was hard to tie the strings under Cleo’s chin, since Cleo didn’t exactly have a chin. Her head just ran into her feet, but no one wore a hat tied under their feet.

  “It’s much too hot for the strings anyway, don’t you think?” Mom said. “They might give her prickly heat.

  There.” With a final pat, she stopped fussing. “Are you ready, Bert?”

  She intended to take the baby to church.

  Had Cleo been christened yet? I wondered. Would Mom ask me to be godfather? Would my godchild turn into cake batter when the baptismal water hit her? Cake batter? Dr. Zimmerman had planted a terrible seed in my mind. How could a budding chef be given a flour sack and not entertain such thoughts?

  Sweat made my neck itch around the buttoned collar, and we hadn’t even left the house.

  “You know, Mom, you’re right about the heat,” I said, tugging at my tie. “It really is uncomfortable. And Pastor Werner never turns on the air-conditioning till after the Fourth of July, no matter how hot it gets. Maybe the baby should stay home.”

  “Your father can’t come with us this week, but he won’t be home, either. He has to run over to the office, so no one will be here. Cleo can’t be alone, not even for a little while, Bert.”

  “No one will ever know,” I pleaded.

  “But that would be cheating. And when you get your passing grade, you’ll know.”

  “You go, then. I’ll stay home and babysit.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “Sure, I’m sure.” I tried to make my smile both sorrowful and sincere. “Go. I know how much you like the singing.”

  About as much as I disliked it. The organist always made us sing the whole hymn. So if “Wouldst Thou Know My Wretched Name on That Final Fiery Day?” had fourteen stanzas, we would sing all fourteen stanzas, even if the final fiery day came while we were there.

  “That is so sweet of you to stay with your sister, Bert, thank you,” she said. Maybe having a flour-sack sister had some advantages after all. I was just about to rip off my white dress shirt, which was a bit too tight anyway, when my mother added, “But no, really, you should be the one to go. I’ll stay home. If you start walking now, you can just make it.”

  It was better to go without Cleo than with her, so I said okay, and walked down to Good Shepherd Lutheran on Church Street.

  Bobby Kim from class was there, and I sat with his family. There were so many little Kims between Bobby and his parents that they didn’t notice us whispering at the end of the pew. So that was good. But all the hymns were whoppers, and the heat had really inspired the pastor to rip-roaring images of hell, so that was bad.

  We were only at the second-to-last verse of the final hymn when the bells rang at First Presbyterian across the street, signaling that their service would soon start. That meant we had run a good fifteen minutes late. Desperate for fresh air, as soon as the last word was sung, I said goodbye to Bobby and the Kims and ran out the side exit.

  “What’s your hurry, Bertha?” I heard. “I didn’t know old ladies could move that fast.”

  Dekker! He went to First Prez and should have been inside by now. This was divine punishment for wishing church would end sooner.

  Head low, hands in my pocket, I walked past him, toward the main entrance of Good Shepherd, where groups stood on the sidewalk talking. If I had to have it out with Dekker, I figured I better have help around.

  All the while, part of me nagged, “He’s right. You are a big wuss. Punch him now!” I couldn’t. So what if I towered over him? Elephants squealed at the sight of mice, didn’t they?

  “What do you want from me?” I asked, when I figured I was close enough to yell for help. “It’s Sunday. Give it a rest.”

  “Why don’t you make me?” he dared. “You and your little flour-sack baby. Where is the brat anyway?”

  “An excellent question,” we heard from the side.

  Both of us turned. There stood Mrs. Menendez, her everyday uniform of navy skirt, jacket, and tie exchanged for her Sunday best: the identical outfit in gray. How could I have forgotten? Mrs. Menendez went to Our Lady Queen of Peace, up the block. There was a reason the town had named this Church Street.

  “Didn’t I say I wanted to see your baby with you at all times, both in school and out of school?”

  “It’s awfully hot out for a baby,” I said. “Prickly heat, you know?”

  “Is that inadequate excuse your idea of responsibility? I repeat, Mr. Hooks: Where is your baby? And for that matter, where is yours, Mr. Dekker?”

  A horn tooted from across the street.

  “Yoo-hoo, Bertie, yoo-hoooo!”

  It was my mother calling out the car window.

  No, please. Not Mom, not here, not with Dekker and Mrs. M. to see.

  My mother made a wide U-turn. When she pulled up, the car bumped up over the curb with a nasty grinding sound. She left the car at that weird angle, turned off the engine, and stepped out. Sunlight hit yards of lime green all at once and I had to shield my eyes. It was as if she had plugged herself into a socket and begun to glow.

  I ran the few steps to the car.

  “Hi, I’m ready, let’s go.”

  My mother didn’t budge, but waved at Mrs. M.

  “Hel-looo, Mrs. Menendez!” Just my luck. My mother, who was sometimes too distracted to remember what day it was, somehow managed to remember Mrs. M. out of all my other teachers from a single Parents Night way back in September. “Can I give you a ride?”

  Mrs. M. shook her head. “No, thank you, Mrs. Hooks, I’m just on my way to church.”

  “Bertie’s just come from there. It’s so hot I figured he could use an air-conditioned ride back. But Bertie,” she said to me, “I thought, ‘How silly! I can’t take the baby without a car seat.’” My mother laughed at her own foolishness.

  “Of course not. Let’s go, Mom. Please.”

  “There were plenty of garage sales in the paper, though, even one right down the block, so while your father was still home, I raced out and got a seat. See?” She waved us all closer and pointed in the rear window. “Isn’t she darling?”

  There, in a rearward-facing infant seat was Cleo, bonnet and all, buckled in safely. With her stuck-out tongue and crossed eyes, she seemed to be saying, “Nyah, nyah, Bertie, can’t get away from me!”

  Figuring I was already sunk, I grew reckless.

  “See, Mrs. Menendez? I was being responsible. I had an experienced babysitter.”

  “Oh, Bertie, don’t call me a babysitter.” Mom smoothed down my hair. “I’m Cleo’s mother!”

  As always, Mrs. M.’s expression was unreadable. In school, I figured it meant, “Maybe you just passed, maybe you just failed, but no matter which, I can still make life miserable for you, and I will.” What did it mean here? I didn’t know.

  Before Mrs. Menendez could speak, from up the block, electronic bells began to peal. She checked her watch.

  “I’m late,” she murmured. Without another word, she nodded her good-bye and walked up the street toward Our Lady Queen of Peace.

  “See you soon,” Mom called, waving again.

  “Mom?” I asked. “I’m ready. Please, let’s go.”

  I guess God was still mad that I hadn’t liked the hymns because, instead of getting back in the car, my mother turned to Dekker and smiled.

  “Isn’t your little friend here from school, too?” she asked. “Would you like a ride?�
� she said to him.

  Little? Did she have to use the word little? He would kill me now for sure.

  Totally oblivious, Mom said to Dekker, “You’ll have to sit in back with the baby, but I’m sure she won’t mind.”

  And then she winked.

  This meant big trouble. Grown-ups always winked before they made a joke. This was to alert you that a joke was coming, so you could be polite and laugh. And I was right. After Mom winked, she continued, “I even changed Cleo’s diaper right before driving over. We wouldn’t want to lose the air-conditioning by having to roll down all the windows, now would we?”

  While Dekker stood speechless, my mother said, “And speaking of air-conditioning, I already turned it on at home, Bertie, so when you try out your new recipe for Dolly Madison’s Lemon Lace Wedding Cake, you won’t heat up the whole house.”

  The stunned look on Dekker’s face melted into pure evil, and he smiled his snaky smile.

  “Cake? Lemon Lace Wedding Cake? Mmm, sounds delicious. I guess I’ll see you and Cleo in school tomorrow, Bertha. Don’t forget to bring me a nice big piece of cake.” He snickered. “Wuss.”

  Despite the heat, goose bumps ran up my arms and down my back. Now Dekker knew Cleo’s name. He knew about my mother. And he knew I liked to cook.

  DAY SIX

  “Mr. Hooks?”

  “Present.”

  “And your baby?”

  “Present.”

  So far.

  The unspoken threat hung in the way Dekker’s back tightened when my name was called. It was a great way to start the week, knowing I probably wouldn’t live to see the end of it.

  Mrs. Menendez finished the homeroom roll and closed the book.

  “Gentlemen, may I see your babies?”

  Dekker took his from his knapsack on the floor. Cleo was already out. I figured it was boring being inside a dark desk all the time, so I had set her on top and let her face front. This way it was Mrs. M. she was sticking out her tongue at, not me.

  Mrs. M. walked down the row and paused at Dekker’s flour sack. She nodded. Then she continued to the back of the room to my seat. She fingered a small tear at the corner of Cleo’s head. She probably hadn’t noticed it yesterday because it had been covered by the bonnet. The paper was doubled there, so no flour had spilled from it.