by Mary Hughes
Cash in hand. Ideas started percolating. “What about the show itself? Is that insured?”
“Yes, but… Junior, what are you thinking?”
“Hold off on this.” I shoved the posters back at her. “I’ve got a couple ideas.”
“But you won’t tell me what they are? They’re insane, aren’t they?”
“Of course not. Well, one isn’t. Better hurry with that cheese.”
She was shaking her head as Nikos drove off.
If Camille had been even one bit ashamed about addicting and corrupting Meiers Corners…if she’d been the least remorseful about stealing Glynn’s keepsakes…but she wasn’t. I was almost hoping my sane idea didn’t work, because the crazy one would truly piss Her Bitchiness off.
The reasonable idea was simple. Get a personal loan to pay for insurance. The crazy one? All I’m saying is that it involved angry vampires and office supplies.
So, just in case, I needed to print up a large poster or two. I ran inside our store, into the office.
I’d just started printing when my mother swept in. She glared at the page coming out of the printer. “What is this, young lady?”
“A poster.”
She squinted at it. “The show is changing venues? Why?”
I explained about the insurance problem, then made the mistake of adding, “But this is only my backup plan.”
“Your backup plan?” She transferred her suspicion to me. “I thought the PAC was the mayor’s responsibility. So if this is your backup plan, what is your primary plan?”
“Um, try to get a loan?” My lameness always seemed magnified in the face of her naked disbelief.
“With what as collateral? The only thing we possess that a bank would value is our building.” She fell back a step, hand to breast, with a theatrical gasp. “You would mortgage the business your father gave his life to, the business we Stiegs have spent generations creating?”
I recognized the start of the death spiral argument too late. “Mom, it’s not that I don’t appreciate what you’ve done for me.” Still, I tried again to make this conversation come out different. “But—”
“Why are you not grateful? You are not on the streets, starving. Or worse, doing drugs or…or a punky rocker like that Schmeling girl.”
“Nixie’s married now,” I said tiredly. She’d already scripted the next line, what else could I do? “To a Boston lawyer. Even by your definition of success, she’s made it.”
“I gave up my career for you,” she said. “A star mezzo with the Italian opera.”
The same conversation that we’d had a week ago, a year ago, forever ago it seemed. I felt like I was Neo from The Matrix, stuck in an infinite loop of simulated reality. All I needed was the blue pill of “business comes first” and I’d be trapped in the Matrix all over again.
“Always remember, Junior. Business comes first.”
God, get me off this train. Whatever I said next would be the wrong thing. She’d slap me and tell me my dad didn’t have to marry her. Defending him, even though he’d seduced her.
Wait.
I’d always assumed that he’d seduced her. That he’d ignited the lust in her, the temptation that had overwhelmed her. But what if they were like Glynn and me—both just that horny for each other?
I’d never asked her.
She waited, fire in her eyes. I wasn’t going to ask now, at least not straight out. Even deciding on the red pill of get me out of this, I wanted to avoid the whole ripping needles out of my spine.
So I stepped back. “You never told me how you and Pop met.”
She blinked. Her mouth, primed to harangue, closed slowly.
“I know it was in Germany,” I prompted. “At a shop or something?”
“Bavaria,” she said faintly.
“What?”
“We were touring.” She cleared her throat. “My opera company. We were in Bavaria, with Die Fledermaus. Your father was on a buying trip. He came to hear the opera. Your father loves music, you know.” She glared as if I would challenge that.
I sat on the desk and gave her my full attention. “I know. He loves to sing hymns at church.”
“You noticed.” Mom nodded, sank into a chair in front of the desk. “After the performance, your father came to the dressing rooms—to tell me my German stank. I didn’t understand him.” She laughed. “If I had, I would have scolded him. I certainly wouldn’t have thought he had the most beautiful eyes in the world.”
She smiled, the soft smile of memory. I saw her as my dad must have, young and loving life. “So why did Pop make you quit opera? Because of me?”
She blinked in surprise. “No. Your grandparents would have loved to care for you, happiest with a dozen children in the house. If we could have had more after you…ah well, that’s not your question. I could have left you with the Stiegs in good conscience. Your father would have said okay because he loved me and wanted the best for me. I could have—and maybe should have—chosen my career.”
She stared at her hands, strangely quiet on her lap. When she raised her eyes, I could see she had made her own tough decisions long ago, and not only lived with them, but shaped them into a life. “Junior, I had a good career, but after I met your father, I realized that for me, what I had was empty without someone to share it with. The triumphs meant more by his side, the fears and troubles less. Difficulties were easier to meet, but also they had less importance, sì? Sharing life with him has made me happy.”
“And the store? That makes you happy?”
“Not as happy as singing. But singing doesn’t make me as happy as your father.” She paused and some of the Mom I knew leaked through. “None of this changes the fact that your father and I have broken our backs for you. The Stieg family business comes first.”
I nodded soberly. But inside I was smiling. She’d married Dad, not for business or even because she’d gotten pregnant, but because she loved him.
Chapter Sixteen
Popping out of a lifetime rut was surprising enough. But then, Friday morning, Mom and Pop walked me to the Meiers Corners Sparkasse Bank (lobby open at seven) to support me. I was grateful.
Sitting in Mr. Sparkasse’s office with my parents behind me, I pasted on a trembling smile and told Mr. Sparkasse, “I need a loan.” I swallowed hard and named a figure that was ten times my entire net worth.
“I see. And for collateral?”
“I was hoping we could do a signature loan. But I have musical instruments.”
“I’m sorry.” Mr. Sparkasse’s smile became strained. “I’d need something more substantial.”
“The Wurstspeicher Haus,” my father said. “We will expand our mortgage, ja?”
I whipped around. My dad stood with legs spread, arms folded, and the mule look on his face. “Pop, no.”
“Ja.” Mom linked arms with him. “We support Junior.”
I swallowed hard again, for a different, better reason.
“I’m so sorry,” Mr. Sparkasse said. “But I can’t. Your business is already mortgaged to the limit. And there’s another issue.” He placed fingertips together. “Ours. Unfortunately, our loan reserve was seriously depleted after the hike in insurance premiums.”
“You too?” I said. “Damn CIC.”
Mr. Sparkasse shook his head. “Wrong alphabet. I’m talking FDIC.”
That made me sit up. “The Feds? Why?”
“Because of all the failed banks. Federal Deposit Insurance premiums were raised for the surviving financial institutions. Like a car accident raises your auto insurance. I’m so sorry.”
I tried a few more tacks (including my best sausage-selling smile) but Mr. Sparkasse continued to be sorry until we left. Good thing I had a backup plan. Woot. Too bad it involved two mobs of angry vampires. I’d have to work not to get caught between.
As we walked home I could see my parents exchanging worried little looks. “Junior,” my father said. “I’m sorry you are disappointed. Your mother and I want
to cheer you. How about a bratwurst cookout for lunch?”
“But what about the store?”
“For an hour?” my mother said. “We will close the store.”
I’m not sure you can understand how remarkable that was. The last time they closed the store was when I was born. Even then, Mom worked the register until her water broke and Pop opened up again as soon as the cord was cut.
“You shouldn’t.” I couldn’t quite keep the hopefulness out of my voice.
“It’s no problem,” my father said. “We want to.”
“We will invite Uncle Otto,” my mother said. “Make it a party. Why don’t you call him, Junior?”
“Well, if you’re sure.” My cell phone was already out, and seconds later I was explaining to Otto.
“What the heck?” Uncle said, in tourist mode so he pronounced it vat der heck. “I need to walk Toto anyway, ja? We will be there by noon.”
Aunt Ottowina was elbows-deep in smorgasbord, but Aunt Hattie, who lived at the B&BS with Race, was eager to join the party.
At eleven fifty Pop fired up the grill. I hung up my apron and headed for the PAC to put up my posters announcing the change in tonight’s venue. Not that I expected any audience to see them, not with the GObubbles probably being addictive. Dreams beyond the rainbow, I guess.
As I returned I saw Uncle Otto and Aunt Hattie coming the other way on the sidewalk. Auntie held Toto’s leash and Uncle spun with his ever-present broom. I waved. Toto yipped and Auntie unsnapped his lead. Smiling, I crouched to gather up doggie kisses.
And heard the hiss of a spray can.
I sprang to my feet, took a few steps toward the sound. The Cheese Dudes were just inside the mouth of the narrow walkway that separated our stores.
Dude One had a can of bright silver spray paint. He was spritzing Sistine Chapel art on our wall—not Michelangelo, but naked. The naughty bits were rather heroically sized.
I was too flabbergasted (by both Dudes and naughty bits) to move. Uncle Otto shouted, “Stop that!”
“What?” Cheese Dude Two jumped. He saw Otto, spun, and ran for the cheese store. Screeched to a stop when he saw me. “Hey. It’s business hours. What the heck are you doing outside? Darn it.” He ducked into their store.
Cheese Dude One kept spraying. He sneered at me over his taped, Hubble-lensed glasses.
Otto pushed off with his broom and spun up to Dude One. “I said stop!”
“Make me.” Dude One sprayed. Much more and he’d spray a tripod.
Otto swatted the Dude’s bony hand with the broom. The can dropped with a clatter.
“Ow! You want to fight?” The Dude whipped something out of his shirt pocket.
“What is all this racket?” My father stuck his head out the side door.
The Dude made shoving motions at Uncle. I couldn’t see what he was doing but there was a snort and a couple seconds later Uncle was falling backward. I wasn’t totally surprised, Otto being top-shaped. Without the broom or his ever-present sweeping to balance him, he probably had just tipped over.
Cheese Dude One waved a couple finger-sized sticks that looked like string cheese. ”Whoo-hoo! Snort Limburger jalapeño sticks, buddy.”
Ooh, this was bad. Not just because Otto lay on the sidewalk twitching, tears running down his face, cheese like cotton wads up his nose. But because Toto had jumped Uncle and was trying to hump his face.
“War!” my father crowed and ran back into our store.
I dashed across the sidewalk to help Otto. Cheese Dude One saw me coming, screamed “Keep away from me!” I didn’t listen, intent on Otto.
The Dude grabbed my arm. I swung like a gate, my mouth opening in surprise, which was when the Dude shoved a dynamite stick of cheese mace past my epiglottis.
Pain, shock…my throat swelled and my face was a running mass. I stumbled to my knees. Nothing worked. Everything warped like a nightmare.
Aunt Hattie shouted, Toto barked. My father shot out the front door of the store, a Wurstspeicher Haus apron girding him like armor, brandishing five pounds of summer sausage. “Rosalinda! Sales maneuver twenty!”
Yeah, my folks really had numbered these things, both the Business Truths and Sales Maneuvers—though there were so many Maneuvers I could never keep them straight. You thought I made that up, didn’t you? Sorry, no. They even had the Business Truths printed and laminated. Pop carried a pocket version in his wallet, alongside his Wurst Sellers membership card and a picture of me playing my first musical instrument, an Oscar Mayer Wiener Whistle.
Mom shot out behind Pop. They grabbed each other’s wrists and started twirling, spinning like a pair of demented skaters. Each turn swept them closer to Cheese Dude One.
Dude One hopped out into the sunlight, brandishing his last stinker cheese stick like a limp knife. He feinted as Mom and Pop neared, jumping from foot to foot, his pocketful of Nintendo DSi and pens rattling, a geeky prize fighter seeking his opening.
At the last moment, Mom let go of Pop. He sailed into Cheese Dude One, knocking the Dude into the brick of our building.
The Dude shoved Pop off, just far enough to swing his deadly cheese into position.
Pop slung his wurst like a machete and whapped the Dude’s cheese hand. Summer is a dense sausage—five pounds makes a hell of a whap.
The Dude dropped his jalapeño stick with a howl. Pop swung the wurst again, hit the Dude in the chest. The DSi popped out of his pocket and crashed to the sidewalk, but those things are built to withstand family vacations. It was fine.
“My system!” It was fine, but Dude One wasn’t. His face boiled bright red—and he leveled Pop with a good right cross. Pop went down with a small sigh.
“Gunter!” Mom dashed to him, fell to her knees and cradled his head.
Aunt Hattie shouted, “How dare you!” She snatched up Uncle Otto’s dropped broom and bashed the Dude in the head.
Dude One raised his skinny arms in a vain attempt to cover. “Cut that out!”
“You cut that out.” Aunt Hattie’s cackle was somewhat maniacal under the circumstances.
“You!”
“You!” Hattie started spinning the broomstick like a ninja, flutter-punching Dude One’s stomach. I watched through my tears, awed. What had Großmutter Stieg taught her grasshoppers with their little Christmas-present brooms?
“No, you—hey, look out!”
In the past, Hattie’s aim had never been very good. The broom had dropped to the Dude’s groinal area. She pulled it barely in time.
But she pulled too hard. The stick hit sidewalk—and rebounded straight up between the Dude’s legs.
Dude One clutched his cheese curds and went down, another victim of Hattie’s poor aim.
She cackled again. Hmm. Maybe Hattie’s aim was better than we knew.
“Gut job, Hattie.” Pop creaked to his feet, Mom assisting. Toto yipped circles around them.
Cheese Dude Two’s white face pressed against the window of his store. Pop brandished summer sausage. “Coward! Come get your own whipping!”
Dude Two disappeared.
Pop strutted, hand raised in the age-old sign for owned. Mom blew the Dudes a full ear-and-tongue raspberry. Toto barked. Aunt Hattie did a rather obscene victory dance.
I closed my eyes. It’s important for the younger generation to move out of the house. Some things make it critical.
An electronic “Cheese, Marvelous Cheese” assaulted my ears. I opened my eyes to see Dude Two emerging from his store with a tray of… “Duck,” I tried to scream, but my mouth was still swollen and burning from Limburger jalapeño and it came out “Cock!”
LLAMA cheese balls sailed at us, a whole barrage, Cheese Dude Two flinging pus and mayonnaise fast as a semiautomatic.
Yeah, Limburger jalapeño is a caustic substance, but LLAMA balls are classified as weapons of mass destruction.
Mom and Pop ducked (hey, they’d understood me when my vocabulary was goo-goo and ga-ga). I wasn’t so lucky.
Ba
lls hit sidewalk, spattering me with goop. Uncle Otto, wobbling to his feet, got smacked in the head and went down again. Aunt Hattie darted to his rescue, slipped on cheese slime like a grotesque Slip ‘N Slide and landed on her butt.
Toto barked and darted, erratic as a mosquito. Cheese balls plopped all around him but didn’t hit. He stopped to sniff a puke-green one covered in fur. Or that may have been oregano. With a leg-lift, Toto gave his opinion of that.
Mom peeked out from behind her pole. Dude Two’s eye twitched toward her.
“Mom,” I croaked—just as Dude Two launched a ball at her head. She screamed.
“Rosalinda!” Pop leaped in front of her in true heroic form, almost as good as Glynn, and took a Limburger-pus-and-onion full in the face.
All motion stopped.
Pop’s nostrils flared. Sharp odor wafted potent in the air. His face turned white and his mouth dropped open.
Limburger goop dribbled in.
Sputtering, Pop tried to spit and choked. He doubled over, gagging. His foot hit the edge of the curb and twisted. He fell like a badly thrown bowling ball—hard and into the gutter.
“Oh, Gunter! My brave Gunter, what has that horrible man done?” Dropping, my mother ran her hands over Pop in anxious waves—got a good whiff of what she was wiping, snagged her handkerchief and used that instead. Mom may have started out as a Giraldoni, but she’d lived with the Stiegs long enough that she was incredibly practical. I guess in the ways that counted, she really was a Stieg.
“Enough!” Aunt Hattie scrambled to her feet, snatched up Uncle Otto’s broom and poked it threateningly at Cheese Dude Two’s crotch. I lurched to my feet and backed her up with my best Crouching Tiger, Puking Dragon position.
Dude Two reached for cheese ammo, but his fingers met empty tray. He fell back.
Toto jumped the Dude’s leg.
“Aw, that’s so wrong.” Lobster-red, Dude Two whapped at Toto with the tray. When the dog danced back, Dude Two grabbed pill-bug Dude One and hauled him into their store. The door slammed, and a moment later we heard the click of the lock.
The battle was over. We’d won.
