Butter Safe Than Sorry

by Tamar Myers

  “Yes. As far as I know, I’m the only one who knows the whole story: I’ve connected all the dots, and I know who all the players are. Little Jacob doesn’t know that—he doesn’t even remember your name.”

  “He doesn’t?” Heavens to Betsy, I almost felt sorry for the Murdering Mantis; that was how sad this bit of misinformation seemed to make him.

  “Of course, he doesn’t. Why should he? You’ve been on the lam his entire life. And you’ve been staying at the inn; did you see any pictures of you around?”

  Would that the little munchkin had never seen a likeness of his evil uncle, but, alas and alack, he had a Granny Stoltzfus who insisted on showing him snapshots of his “flesh and blood.” Truthfully, I’ve considered raiding her assisted- living apartment and confiscating this album in the name of human decency, but two things hold me back: the love of my son (prison would keep us apart) and the fact that I look hideous in stripes.

  “Shoot, Yoder,” Melvin said, a tremble in his voice, “it isn’t right; a boy growing up and not knowing about his uncle.”

  “That’s why you don’t want to compound any possible charges. Look, I’ve got an idea.”

  34

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t listen to her,” Carl said.

  I clenched my teeth but, other than a short-lived growl of my own, said nothing offensive. “Melvin, what you do is release Ida—just dump her along the road, anywhere here is fine—and the three of us immediately head for the West Virginia border. You know I’ve got enough money to qualify for a government bailout. You get me to a bank in West Virginia, and I’ll make a series of withdrawals that will set you up for life.”

  “Yeah? And then what?”

  “Then you kill me, of course,” I said. “Two’s company. Three’s a crowd—isn’t that what they say? Of course this is all predicated on you swearing—on your mama’s life—that you’ll leave Little Jacob out of this.”

  “Why West Virginia?” Carl said. “You have to get provisions if you’re going there, and all we have is half a roll of tropical-flavored Life Savers and a warm can of Diet Coke.”

  “Because, dear,” I said, not even making an attempt to mind my spittle, “West Virginia is a wild and woolly place. It’s got all those hills and forests and who knows what stretching as far as the eye can see. The long white arm of the law will never find you there.”

  “Yeah, but it’s the ‘who knows what’ that’s got me worried, Yoder,” Melvin said. “Remember that girl in ninth grade whose father had to have a hole cut in the back of his pants so that his tail could hang out? Wauneta somebody. She was from West Virginia.”

  Melvin forgot that I was eleven years older than he, but yes, I remembered Wauneta Beecher. How could anyone forget a girl with a father like hers? I read somewhere that, briefly, in utero we all possess tails at some stage of our development, and that this is a legacy of us having evolved from lower creatures. This article went on to state that in a certain percentage of the population this tail gene does not get switched off, and that’s why certain individuals are born this way. But since evolution is pure fiction, and the Devil is not—Well, what other conclusion can a reasonable person draw from this?

  “Melvin, dearest,” I said, “if lasses who look like Lassies have you worried, then simply keep right on driving. Before you know it, you’ll be in North Carolina, a state that has the highest mountains east of the Mississippi, hundreds of miles of beautiful coastline, and inexplicably still finds itself in the clutches of the tobacco companies.”

  “So what are you saying, Yoder? You want me to die of cancer?”

  “No, no! I want you to live happily in a beautiful place.”

  “Can Susannah join me?”

  “She’s got a lot better chance of doing that if I stay alive,” I said, “and work it from this end—but I meant what I said before. You can kill me, if that means that you spare Ida’s hoary head.”

  “Vhat? You hear how dis von talks about me?”

  Melvin also gasped. “And you had the nerve to criticize my mouth! Ha, what a hypocrite you are.”

  “It means ‘gray,’ ” Carl said. “Like from old age.”

  “Yeah? That’s a good one, Yoder. I’ll have to remember it.” My would-be killer with the seventh-grade sense of humor turned his attention to his partner in crime. Mind you, this was while we were hurtling down a winding road at a speed so fast that the shadow cast by the SUV we rode in was now several car lengths behind. “Carl,” Melvin said, just as coolly as if he’d been discussing whether to hang up flypaper on the screen porch, “what do you think? Shall we kill her outright by throwing her down a sinkhole? Or tie her up in the woods somewhere and let her starve to death? Then again, maybe we should try to hold her for ransom.”

  “Vhat about me?” Ida bleated like a little lost lamb.

  “You keep your mouth shut,” Melvin said. “That’s if you want any mercy.”

  “This could be a movie,” Carl said. The bizarre change of subject, coupled with his burst of energy, belied his etched features and heretofore- mature demeanor. “I see Drew Barrymore playing the part of Miss Yoder.”

  “Much too young,” Melvin said. “It’s got to be Meryl Streep.”

  “Und vhat about me?”

  “Oy vey,” I said.

  “I say we kill them now,” Carl said. “Just pull over on the first little side road, park off in the trees, and blow her brains out. Ka-boom. What a rush that would be. And then, like she said, we collect money from her the rest of our lives.”

  “That’s not how it would work, dummkopf,” I said, exercising extreme restraint. “I have to set up an automatic- payment system first. Otherwise you’ll get zilch, nada, nothing, zero. Capisce, compadre?”

  “I don’t like her,” Carl whined. “Has she always been such a smart mouth?”

  “Always,” Melvin and Ida answered in unison.

  “Let me see that gun,” Carl said, and just like that, he grabbed it from the waistband of the mantis’s trousers.

  “What the heck?” said Melvin, and nearly ran off the road again.

  “Pull over and stop,” Carl said. When the mantis refused, Carl brought the gun up level to Melvin’s oversize head. “Do it, or it will be your brains scattered from here to uh—uh—”

  “Eternity,” Melvin said.

  “The correct answer is ‘Kingdom come,’ ” I said. “Honestly, guys—”

  “Shut up, Miss Yoder,” Carl said.

  Then much to my disappointment, my little, little-loved brother pulled over, first onto a dirt fire lane, and then into a small clearing in the pine trees. Waving the gun around like it was a conductor ’s baton, Carl Zambezi made us line up with our backs to him. Ida was in the middle.

  “Well, well,” Carl said, walking back and forth, “now I have my choice of who to kill, don’t I?”

  “Don’t be an idiot, Carl,” Melvin said. “I’m the brains of this outfit. I’m the one who brought you out of retirement.”

  “Retirement?” I said. “Whereabouts? Florida?”

  I’d read somewhere—as I don’t watch TV on principle; I do a lot of reading—that one should always attempt to make small talk with one’s kidnappers. To do so humanizes the victims, and thus the criminal has a more difficult time dispatching them to their final destinations, wherever that may be.

  “He retired in New Jersey,” Melvin said. “But it wasn’t where that I meant; he retired from being a pickpocket in Atlantic City, on the boardwalk.”

  “Down by da sea?” Ida rasped. “I vas picked der vonce!”

  “I thought you looked familiar,” Carl said. He continued to pace behind us. “Okay, Melvin,” he said at last, “we can go back to bank jobs, but we have to get rid of these two first.”

  “Maybe the short one,” Melvin said, “but I’m not so sure about my sister.”

  “The short one is the hen who will lay the golden eggs,” I said quickly.

  “Oy, the insults,” Ida said.<
br />
  “Explain,” Carl barked.

  “Well, speaking of retirement, not only does my husband have access to my money, but he is a rich, retired doctor. You keep the short one alive—put her on the phone now and then—you’ll be able to milk him for a huge fortune.”

  “It might work,” Melvin said with far too much enthusiasm.

  “All right then, it’s settled,” Carl said. Suddenly the barrel of the gun pressed against the back of my skull. It was getting to be quite a familiar feeling.

  “On your mark,” Carl said. “Get set. . . .”

  Get set for what? To meet my Maker? I was set; that didn’t mean, however, that I wanted to go now. I still had a little boy to raise, for Heaven’s sake.

  The events that happened next transpired so quickly that in retrospect they seemed to happen simultaneously. First, I heard a loud grunt come from Carl, followed by a bellow of pain.

  “Dat is vhat you git for trying to keel my Magdalena,” Ida roared.

  “Ouch, ouch, ouch! Oh please, Mommy, Mommy, help me! Ouch, ouch, dang it!”

  By then I’d turned to witness Carl hopping about like a crazed wallaby, his hands cupped over his privates, his face screwed into an expression of intense pain.

  Ida stood several feet from where we’d lined up, with her hands on her hips. Her large, broad face wore a small, satisfied smile.

  Melvin too was watching. He was still decked out in a size fourteen dress and size twelve shoes—not that there is anything wrong with those measurements—but without Olivia’s wig, I appreciated for the very first time what a truly unconvincing woman he made. Why hadn’t I noticed that before? For one thing, he had absolutely no waist (although many insects do!). It was his stance, however, that should have tipped me off.

  Most women carry themselves forward with their hips, for that would appear to be their center of gravity. For men, I have noticed, it is the chest that leads the way. That is why they stride; they are essentially trying to catch up with runaway rib cages.

  Melvin saw me watching the curious scene unfold. “Yoder, that woman is crazy; you need to do something.”

  I saw that the gun was lying in the leaves, practically at my feet. “Indeed, I do need to do something,” I said, as I stooped and picked up the pistol. “Ida, thank you for saving my life.”

  “You’re velcome,” my dear, sweet mother-in-law said.

  “That’s it, Yoder?”

  “Of course not, Mrs. Zambezi. Now it’s time for you and your hippity-hoppity husband to climb back into the car and we’ll take it from there.” I waved the gun at each man in turn.

  The man who as yet went by the name Carl Zambezi, whilst still clutching his family jewels—if I may be so crude—moved obediently toward the SUV. But just as he was about to climb in, a sleek black car came flying around the curve, screeching to a stop inches behind the SUV’s back bumper.

  As I said, it all happened so fast that the details remain fuzzy in my mind. The more I try to sort them out, the more convoluted the situation becomes, and more absurd in its telling. But the truth is the truth, and it deserves to be told. And anyway, even someone who has been known to embellish the truth a tad—such as myself, for example—will find that there are enough bizarre happenings in life to supply good stories even when all is stripped to the bone.

  I do remember that Carl Zambezi had tremendously quick reflexes. He took advantage of the sudden distraction by darting into the woods, and even if I had been inclined to shoot him, he was soon too far away to make that a possibility.

  As for Mrs. Zambezi—aka Melvin Stoltzfus—he too tried to bolt, but running in pumps down a hill covered with thick leaf litter was not his forte. He twisted his left ankle not three yards from where he started, although he continued to hobble for another ten. But it was the fetching blue frock in the tiny flowered print that hung him up. Literally. When I caught up with Melvin, he was swinging by his jeweled neckline over a small gulley. The man was perfectly fine, something that could not be said for the young sycamore from whose broken branches he swung.

  Having satisfied myself that there was nothing else that needed to be done vis-à-vis the bank robbers at that moment, I turned my entire attention to the cause of their great distress: the occupant of the sleek black car.

  35

  Sour Cream Pound Cake

  Ingredients

  1 cup butter, softened

  2¾ cups sugar

  2 teaspoons vanilla

  6 eggs

  3 cups flour

  ½ teaspoon salt

  ¼ teaspoon baking soda

  1 cup sour cream

  Cooking Directions

  Cream butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add vanilla and eggs, one at a time, beating thoroughly after each addition. Sift flour, salt and soda together 3 times. Add dry ingredients to creamed mixture alternately with sour cream, beating well after each addition. Stir in pecans. Pour into buttered 9-inch tube pan or two 9x5-inch loaf pans. Bake at 350°F for 60 to 80 minutes. Cool 5 minutes in pan. Remove and cool thoroughly.

  Courtesy http://www.eatwisconsincheese.com/

  Epilogue

  “Do you remember that beautiful long coat that the Russian woman had?” Agnes said. “You know, the one who was spying on us from the hill opposite my house?”

  This was, incidentally, four years after the Melfia paid a visit to the PennDutch Inn. They say that time flies by when you’re having fun. I’d like to add that it can also seem to pass by quickly—especially in retrospect—even when you’re alone and miserable. Not that I ever am; I can usually manage to drag at least one person down in the dumps with me.

  “She wasn’t Russian,” I said calmly, as I refilled the cookie plate for the third time. “She was an FBI agent and as American as you or I, or these butter cookies. I thank the Good Lord she was spying on me the day I climbed into the SUV containing Mr. and Mrs. Zambezi and the not so helpless Ida. She was doing a good job of following us that afternoon until she ran out of gas. Fortunately she kept a jerrican in her trunk. Better late than never, they say.”

  “Yes, but do you remember her coat?”

  “I remember that she dressed beautifully—and that she was beautiful. You know, the Bureau had been on the trail of this gang of six for almost a year with no results, and then they assigned her, and within a week she not only had proof of their culpability—she had everyone in custody except for Carl Zambezi.”

  Agnes is a portly woman who doesn’t gain weight by osmosis. For every two cookies I’d been putting on the plate, she’d been putting one in her mouth. She is, however, my very best friend in the entire world, and I would never say a word against her.

  “But, Magdalena, it wasn’t Suri—Sura—whoever—”

  “Surimanda.”

  “Yeah. It wasn’t her who apprehended all those gang members; it was you. You even stuffed one in the clothes dryer. You know, Magdalena, you’re my hero.”

  “Hero, shmero,” I mumbled, feeling my face turn red. “Agnes, dear, I am going to miss you.”

  “Nah, you won’t. Not on the trip you’re going on. A three-month cruise through the South Pacific; I can’t imagine how wonderful that would be.”

  “Let’s not forget the extended land portions in New Zealand and Australia. Little Jacob will be staying with his father and grandmother in Manhattan, so I know he’ll be well taken care of.”

  I paused to blink back some tears. It had been two years since the divorce was final, but there was still a part of me that wished Gabe could share this great experience. At least we were still friends.

  Our marriage, which had always been rocky, never recovered from the Melfia’s invasion into our lives and my husband’s inability to protect us. Once again it was Magdalena to the rescue, and that was once too many for him. Soon after Little Jacob’s safe return to the PennDutch, Gabe moved across the road to the kooky convent, and six months later he was back in his native Manhattan. But enough of those thoughts.

 
; “Anyway,” I said, “I decided to hike the Southern Alps and see Milford Sound. And I’ve always had a thing for Ayers Rock. Isn’t that odd?”

  “Forgive me, Magdalena, but nothing’s odd when it comes to you.”

  “Hmm, I think I’ll choose to take that as a compliment.”

  “As well you should.” Agnes found room for three butter cookies simultaneously in her mouth.

  “And you, dear,” I said, “you utterly gobsmacked us with your performance on America’s Most Talented. Who knew you had the pipes? Is that the word?”

  “Yeth.”

  “I mean, I knew you sang in your church choir, but not like that! Agnes, I’m not just flattering you when I say that you sang “Memory” better than Babs, and I heard her sing it in person. Right here at the inn. And then you kept winning every week—all of Hernia was agog. Oh, and the final performance, when you sang “Time to Say Goodbye”—I don’t mind telling you, dear, that I wept.”

  “You did not,” Agnes protested, spraying me with cookie crumbs.

  “I most certainly did; I wept that it wasn’t me winning the million-dollar prize.”

  “Now that I believe. But what I still can’t believe is that humongous flat-screen TV in your bedroom.”

  I sighed. “As you know, I never used to watch TV until Gabe made me watch your first performance on YouTube on his computer. That’s when the Devil got into me.”

  “It’s not a sin to watch TV, Magdalena. There are even special channels devoted exclusively to religion.”

  I glanced around the kitchen. We were alone, except for our consciences.

  “Monday night,” I whispered, “I watched a rerun of Two and a Half Men. What a potty mouth Charlie Sheen’s character has!”