by Tamar Myers
“Melvin, have I ever told you that you’re as dumb as a post?” the teensy Tiny said.
Melvin stopped pushing me and grunted. “Hunh?”
“Miss Yoder wants you to put her down in that root cellar. She’s playing you.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Charlene. Magdalena never plays.”
Charlene? Who would have thought that such a petite young thing would have such a long, old- fashioned name? She was obviously named after her father—Charles. That was heartening in this day and age when so many don’t even know who their fathers are.
“Yoder, I asked you a question,” Melvin snarled. I’m sure it’s very hard to imagine a chameleon snarling, but one must keep in mind a very big one, the size of a runty man.
“What question would that be, dear?”
“You see? You always tune me out. I asked you where you stashed the kid.”
“You mean your nephew?”
“Says you; how do I know you weren’t sleeping around?”
“Charlene, dearest,” I purred in a conspiratorial tone, “Melvin and I are biologically siblings—albeit of different species. Wouldn’t my son be his nephew, no matter who the father was?”
Tiny Timms tossed her golden ponytail. “Beats me. I failed biology in high school—twice. They finally let me graduate using double credits from health class because I was the captain of the cheerleading team and sleeping with Mr. Gawronski, the principal.” She giggled.
“You see?” Melvin said. “Now tell me where he is!”
“Not even if you throw me into a den of spiders—of which I’m terribly afraid. Of course, after a few hours in there, I’m sure I’d tell you everything. Maybe even give up my PIN number.”
“Then that’s where you’re going.” He grabbed me by the elbows and began to manhandle me toward the cellar door. “Keep your gun on her, Charlene.”
“Melvin, wait,” Charlene said, sounding suddenly focused. “She wants to go into the cellar, I can tell.”
“I do not!” Oops, I’d responded way too soon and with too much force.
“You see: she does. She’s just pretending she doesn’t. Let’s take her with us.”
“But she’ll slow us down. Besides, she stinks.”
“I most certainly do not!”
“Shut up, Yoder with the odor.”
“That was in junior high, for crying out loud, and I couldn’t help it. Mama thought that real Christians shouldn’t wear deodorant on account of we shouldn’t be ashamed of the way God made us smell. I can assure you that I use a good deodorant now—an antiperspirant in fact.”
“Yeah, well, I still don’t want to drag you along. You always think you’re so much better than I am.”
“Then I say we kill her,” Tiny said.
“What?” Melvin and I chorused.
“Throw me in the hold,” I wailed. “Toss me in the dungeon filled with spiders; I beseech thee, dear brother.”
“I’ll shoot her if you want,” Tiny said.
“And then what will Susannah think of you,” I said, playing my trump card. “My baby sister and I are all you have now that our mother is gone. And, of course, Little Jacob.”
“She wasn’t your mother; she was mine!”
“Nonetheless—which ever universe you choose to inhabit—my sister will hate you if you kill me or her beloved nephew. Do you want that, Melvin? Do you want the love of your life to hate you?”
“She’s playing you,” Tiny said.
Despite being a good Christian, and a pacifist to boot, I could have kicked the miniature woman down the cellar stairs; that was how mad she made me. But instead of acting out, I prayed that Melvin would listen to reason for once in his life and do the right thing.
“But it’s too late,” Melvin wailed, proving once and for all that we were indeed blood kin. “You know too much, and Little Johnny can ID me.”
“He can?”
“Do you know how much that wig cost? And these breast forms?” He tugged at his matronly bosom. “I’m telling you, Yoder, that kid had me pegged as a dude the minute he saw Olivia Zambezi.”
“He did? Where was I?”
“Somewhere off in your parallel universe, Yoder.”
“Good one,” Tiny said. “By the way, kids that age are notoriously good at seeing through disguises. It’s because they still take the time to read all the information available to them, and not jump to conclusions based on a few obvious cues.”
“Thank you for the psychology lecture, Dr. Timms,” I said. “By the way, Melvin, the kid in question is named Little Jacob, not Little Johnny.”
“Whatever,” Melvin said.
Tiny must have consulted her watch. “We gotta get going, Melvin. If you don’t want to kill her, then I will. Just go on ahead and get the car started. I’ll catch up in a minute.”
I could hear the chameleon cogitate; that is to say, he sucked in noisily, like he was slurping hot coffee. “Oh heck, all right. But do it quick and easy. Here, like this.” My brother—my very own flesh and blood—had the chutzpah to take Tiny’s hand and guide it so that the end of her pistol nestled in the soft spot behind my right ear.
“Say your last prayers,” Tiny said mercilessly.
“See you in Heaven, Yoder,” Melvin said, and then slipped around on my left and loped across the lawn.
30
Lavender Sugar Cookie
Ingredients
1 tablespoon fresh or dried lavender flowers5
⅔ cup granulated sugar
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
1½ teaspoons pure vanilla extract
2 cups all-purpose flour
⅛ teaspoon salt
Sanding sugar (natural, white or colored) for decorating
Cooking Directions
In a small food processor (or with a mortar and pestle), grind lavender flowers with the granulated sugar.
Combine the butter and lavender-sugar in a medium bowl. Using an electric mixer or wooden spoon, cream together until light and fluffy. Beat in the vanilla. Add flour and salt and blend until combined taking care not to overmix (dough should be soft but not sticky). Separate dough into two balls and wrap in plastic, flattening each into a flat disc and refrigerate until firm, about 2 hours or overnight. (The dough can also be frozen for months and baked in batches by bringing it to temperature in the refrigerator overnight.)
Preheat oven to 325°F and line baking sheets with parchment paper or leave them ungreased.
Remove only one disc at a time from the refrigerator, and roll dough on a lightly floured surface with a floured rolling pin to approximately ¼ inch thick. Cut into desired shapes with cookie cutters and place on prepared baking sheets. Decorate with sanding sugar and/or lightly press a lavender sprig or leaf into the cookie and top. (To keep intricate shapes intact, refrigerate baking sheet with shaped cookies for 10 minutes before baking).
Bake 12 to 14 minutes or until cookies are just beginning to lightly brown around the edges. Carefully remove and cool on wire racks. Repeat with remaining dough.
Courtesy http://www.eatwisconsincheese.com/
31
“Don’t I get a last meal?” I said. “I want Swiss steak, mashed potatoes, baby peas with onions—frozen, not canned—pickled beet salad, hot yeast rolls with real butter and strawberry jam—Hey, aren’t you going to tell me to shut up?” My plan wasn’t going to work without getting her temper up to its boiling point.
“I want to hear what you’d have for dessert—if I were to feed you your last meal.”
“That depends; are you a good cook?”
“This is theoretical, Miss Yoder. Now tell me.”
“No can do, dear. For something as important as the last part of my last meal, I need to deal in facts. Can you cook?”
“No! But I can get something from the bakery, ding dang it!”
“I’ll thank you not to swear in front of me, Tiny—although in this case, it is behind me. Which is exactly where I tell the
Devil to go stand whenever he tries to tempt me. Tell me, Tiny, do you see the Prince of Darkness back there?”
“Hunh?”
“Don’t worry; you will soon enough. Would it be a Mennonite bakery, or one owned by someone from another denomination?”
“What difference does that make?”
“In all modesty, Mennonites excel when it comes to cooking. Eating too. If you want the very best, go to a Mennonite bakery—but you probably won’t find a devil’s food cake there. Ha-ha.”
“Very funny—not! And now you’re babbling. Just shut up, Miss Yoder, or I’ll shoot. I swear that I will.”
“Well, that is your intention, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she hissed. Good, she was getting up a proper head of steam, of the kind that made her less likely to see straight, much less shoot straight.
“Say, Tiny, I’ve been thinking: if you shoot me at this close range, it’s going to be really, really messy. Brains and blood everywhere.”
“That’s okay; I’m washable.”
“No doubt that you are, but did Melvin tell you that bleached blond hair absorbs blood like a sponge, and that unless you do something to protect those beautiful locks of yours, you’ll be carting my scarlet DNA around in your ponytail until you snip it off, or it grows out. In fact, you’re going to have to shave your head starting in about five minutes if you don’t want my murder to be traced back to you. You see, the hypoglucimides in the hemoglobin travel right up the bleach- stripped hair shafts and into the facaelumgaefolicum of the aqualuminatorus resulting in the condition known as Pincus scalptorium. In layman’s terms it’s called pink scalp.”
“Why, that rat,” she said, hissing again, despite the dearth of “S”s.
“Indeedymouse.” I think it’s important to point out that lying to save one’s life is a whole lot different from lying just for the sake of lying; it certainly isn’t as much fun. Besides, I really can’t be faulted for the fact that Tiny was so gullible.
Or was she? “Where did you learn all that medical terminology, Miss Yoder?”
“I’ve donated extensively to the Bedford County Memorial Hospital,” I said. At least that part was true.
She thought a moment, and all the while the gun barrel never left its soft nest behind my ear. “Well, if you think—even for an instant—that I’m going to go after Melvin now, instead of you, you’ve got another think coming.”
What was it about that man that gave him so much power over women? Allow me to amend that: some women?
“Very well,” I said. “Suit yourself. I’m sure, what with your moderately good looks, you’ll have no trouble making friends in prison.”
“Well, I’m not going to prison, so there! You’re going to help me protect my hair.”
“And then you’ll kill me? That hardly seems fair!”
“You do a lot of whining, Miss Yoder. It’s no wonder your cousin doesn’t like you.”
“Why, that is an absolutely true, but unnecessary, thing for you to say! But, since I’m at your mercy, what choice do I have, but to protect those bleached blond locks of yours?”
“Miss Yoder! That’s the second time you’ve referred to my hair as ‘bleached blond.’ How dare you be so presumptuous?”
“Hey, if it looks like a dead woodchuck—I mean, what are the chances it’s not, right?”
“Grrr!”
I reckoned that was the precise moment that Tiny was at the zenith of her tizzy. Keeping my hands straight down to my sides, I leaned back, slowly and stiffly, a veritable sinking tower of Yoder—and I mean sinking, not stinking. The farther back I went, the more I felt the tip of the pistol barrel move in relation to my ear. First it seemed to be caught in the soft spot, and then it slid over the hump to graze along my temple.
There are only so many degrees a body can lean without falling altogether, but it wasn’t until I came close to reaching the critical point that Tiny seemed to notice what was going on. “Hey,” she yelled. “What the—”
“Timber!” I cried, and took her down with me as I plummeted backward.
As for what happened next, I owe it all to my parents, who were dairy farmers. You see, what most folks don’t realize is that the milk you buy in the supermarket is taken from a cow that has given birth in the not too distant past, and that is being kept in a perpetual state of nursing. We refer to these cows as “freshened.” At any rate, in order for there to be milk available to sell, the calves must be removed from their mothers and weaned early. It was my job, after school, to care for these unhappy “orphans,” and more often than not, this job required a good deal of wrangling.
Papa had an uncanny ability to communicate with his cows. Most of this communication was unspoken, although he used a few grunts and hand signals. Occasionally, he had to deal with a wayward calf by throwing it to the ground and dragging it to where he wanted it—all by just using his bare hands. (Papa eschewed ropes.) I, on the other hand, had to get a headlock on my charges just to turn them around in their stalls so that they faced the feed bucket.
But Papa never had to manhandle a bank robberess from New Jersey. Particularly one like Tiny.
“If you’ve broken my implants, I’ll sue,” she screamed from beneath me.
I could see the gun glinting in the grass about a dozen feet away, so I was no longer in any physical danger, but I still gave her tit for tat. “Well, I can sue you; I expected a softer landing.”
“Get off me, you big oaf! You Mennonite country bumpkin.”
I sat up on her sternum, just south of the Rockies, with my legs splayed outward to hold her arms down. “Why, Tiny Timms, how you talk! And I always thought you were the sweetest of the bunch.”
“You were a fool! Melvin said that you once married a bigamist, and I read in the National Revealer that you had a love affair with a real-life Bigfoot.”
“It was inadvertent adultery,” I wailed, and this was my very last wail—I promise! “And as for Bigfoot, what they say about men with big feet is absolutely true, so how could I resist?”
“Huh? You don’t deny it?”
“ ‘If you read it in black- and-white, it must be right.’ Stories written in colored ink are not to be trusted.”
“Yeah, I guess. Hey, what you doing?”
I’d done a complete about-face so that I could hold both her tiny hands in one of mine, while the other performed a necessary function. “I’m removing my over-the-shoulder boulder holder,” I said, exhibiting far more patience than she would have, had the tables been turned.
“What? You’re taking off your bra?”
“Don’t worry; I’m just going to tie you up with it.”
“But you can’t! I’ll absolutely freak out. In fact, I’m freaking out now with you holding my hands.”
“Well, dear, you should have thought about that before you embarked on a life of crime.” I emitted a long, drawn-out sigh. “And if I can’t even hold your hand, what chance do we have?”
“What? Miss Yoder, are you—”
“I suppose we could move to Iowa; gay marriage is legal there now. Plus which, I hear that folks are more taciturn there—especially out on the farms. We could get ourselves a nineteenth-century farmhouse with a working windmill—I’ve always wanted one of those—and raise pigs and corn. Do you know how to call pigs, Tiny?”
“Miss Yoder, you’re crazy! I mean like really crazy—over-the-top nuts. Are you supposed to be on some kind of medication?”
“Oh phooey on pills. All I need is clean Midwestern air and—ding, dang, St. Louis International Airport, Concourse A!”
I wasn’t getting very far in removing my flopper stopper. Not without letting go of Tiny’s hands for a second or two. Not all of the petroleum by- products Tiny owned had been affixed internally. Attached to her tiny fingers were the longest fake nails I’d ever seen in all my born days. Ruby red garden rakes—that was what they were! If I let go of Tiny’s hands, those claws could grate my flesh like a head of cabbage.
/> “Miss Yoder, you just swore!”
“Indeed, I did. Please remind me later to apologize.”
“But you have such a foul mouth! I’ve been to Terminal A. On a Sunday evening. I had three hours to wait before my next flight. I’m not religious, but I prayed that God would take me—that’s how boring I found the place.”
“You too?”
She nodded vigorously. “So maybe we can make a truce?”
“A truce?” I said. “Like what?”
“I’ll promise not to struggle, and you can take me somewhere and lock me up—but just don’t tie me up, because that will really freak me out.”
Sometimes one has to go with one’s gut. (Judging by what I saw at the shore last summer, there sure are a lot of people going very far in life.) Call me silly and ship me off to boarding school, but I had a feeling—in my large intestine—that Tiny was so terrified of bondage that she would indeed cooperate. Of course I would have to hold the gun on her. However, she did not have to know that, as a practicing Mennonite, I would never, ever use it.
I got a death grip on one of her frail wrists and we both stood up. After a couple of steps, and a quick bob to get the gun, I dragged her straight into my laundry. I swung her up in front of the dryer and pried open the door with the end of the gun barrel.
“Climb in, dear,” I whispered. The laundry room is an add-on behind the kitchen and has its own rear door so that one can head directly out to the clothesline if a genuinely fresh scent is desired. (I particularly love the faint smell of nearby cow patties.) You can be sure that I immediately shoved a chair under the doorknob that led to the kitchen.
“What?”
“It’s a jumbo-size, commercial machine; there’s plenty of room.”
“But I’ll suffocate!”
“No, you won’t. I just cleaned the lint trap; stick your nose up against it. By the way, I clean all my lint traps before and after using my dryers, don’t you? A lot of people are lazy about cleaning them, which is a good way to get your house burned down.”
