For a few Dumplings More

by Leena Clover

  “What the heck is this, Motee Ba?” I burst out.

  “Mind your language, Meera!” Motee Ba said sharply.

  Disciplining us kids is second nature to her.

  I swiveled my head and looked back at the woman, willing her to look me in the eye.

  “Is it true? Are you my mother?”

  “So they say,” she said, not mincing words.

  “What do you say?”

  She shrugged.

  “I don’t know.”

  This was getting weirder and weirder.

  “What’s going on, Motee Ba?” I wailed. “Am I having a bad dream?”

  “Our prayers have been answered, Meera,” Motee Ba said, sounding all choked up. “She’s back. Your mother’s back.”

  The past few months have been anything but ordinary. First, my father’s protégé and my nemesis Prudence Walker was found dead in the college pond. Then a strange man was found dead on a park bench by the lake. I sort of helped the cops in solving both these murders. An older woman was spotted following me around amidst all this chaos. My eyes widened as I connected the dots.

  “How did she get here, Motee Ba?” I asked urgently, then looked at the woman again.

  “Have you been following me around? On campus? In a car?” I lashed out.

  The woman barely nodded. She looked at Motee Ba and tipped her head to a side.

  “You’re right, Meera. It’s her.”

  “Why didn’t you come and talk to me?” I asked incredulously. “And where have you been all this time?”

  The story that came out was straight out of the movies.

  The tornado that almost killed us had snatched my mother and thrown her a considerable distance. Whether that was a mile or three, there was no way to know. A bus or van had come along and picked her up, fleeing from the scene, trying to beat the tornado. They had possibly tried to revive her, but she had been unconscious for a few hours. They dropped her off at some hospital in New Mexico. She woke up a few weeks later with no memory of who she was.

  The doctor who treated her had moved her into his home. He worked diligently to rehabilitate her and the two had fallen in love in this process. They later moved to California, where my mother had been happily married to this doctor. He died in an accident about a year ago. That’s when my mother had come across a box in their bank locker. It contained a driving license for one Sarla Patel from Swan Creek, Oklahoma. There was a peculiar necklace made with black beads and gold along with the license. This had started my mother on a path of self discovery. The one that had finally landed her in our kitchen.

  “That’s fantastic,” I cried. “Do you expect us to believe you?”

  “The police have run her finger prints,” Motee Ba told me. “They are a match.”

  This was harder to challenge.

  “They have also proposed a DNA test,” Motee Ba added, “just to be sure.”

  “Does Dad know about all this?” I asked.

  Motee Ba shook her head.

  “No. Neither do Mr. Patel or Jeet.”

  Motee Ba calls her husband ‘Mr. Patel’ in the old fashioned style. Pappa, my grandpa, is formidable on his best days. But he is over eighty. Who knew what this kind of shock would do to him.

  “Patel women are strong,” Motee Ba repeated what she had been telling me all my life. “I want you on board before we tell the others.”

  The woman quietly sat through all this, her hands folded in her lap.

  “Don’t you have anything to say?”

  I realized she was feeling as awkward as I was.

  “You don’t really know me, do you?”

  She shook her head.

  “The accident wiped out most of my memory. I lived in the present for several years.”

  “Didn’t you ever go to the police? Try to find out where you came from?”

  The woman looked at Motee Ba before continuing.

  “I was told my family died in the tornado.”

  “That jerk!” I flew out of the chair and began pacing the room. “So he as good as kidnapped you. Did he lock you up all this time?”

  “Angelo was good to me,” the woman protested. “It took me a long time to do simple things. I could hardly speak. He taught me everything from scratch.”

  “And you never remembered a single thing about us?” I asked.

  “About five years after Angelo took me home, I started having some dreams. I was holding a baby in my arms. There was an older man. There was a little girl. But I thought they were all dead.”

  “What changed?” I pounced.

  “The driver’s license gave me a name and address. I decided to come and check for myself. I have been here off and on since the summer. Being around this place brought back more memories.”

  “So you just figured out we were your family?” Meera asked.

  The woman nodded.

  “That, and Angelo left me a letter. He confessed he had hidden the id from me. He had no idea if I had a family. He just didn’t want to lose me.”

  I sat down again, holding my head in my hands. None of it made sense to me. I had dreamed of this day all my life. How my mother would miraculously come back one day. But now that she was here, I had no idea what to do.

  Chapter 1

  Heavy black clouds hung low on the horizon. Winter winds buffeted everything in sight. The weather forecast gave ample warning of a cold front coming in. I wanted to get home before the roads turned icy. My old car wasn’t the most reliable in bad weather. A healthy hum of conversation rippled through the diner. The hardy folk of Swan Creek had bundled up and chosen to spend Saturday afternoon at Sylvie’s Café and Diner. Many of them didn’t have a choice if they wanted a hot meal.

  Most of the local women were attending one of the most important meetings of WOSCO, the local ladies’ club. The Women of Swan Creek Oklahoma or the WOSCO Club has been around since World War II, and they believe in keeping busy.

  Becky topped up someone’s coffee and rubbed her lower back with her other hand. I motioned her to come and sit down at the small table wedged between the kitchen door and the pantry.

  “I swear, if I pour one more coffee today …” Becky blew out a huge breath and dabbed her forehead with a napkin.

  It might be 40F outside, but the blast of hot air coming out of an overhead vent wasn’t doing us any favors. We had been at it since breakfast, and with Sylvie gone, we were rushed off our feet.

  I had barely touched my tushie down when the phone rang. Jon held up a hand from the counter as I started to get up. Two soup bowls full of Jon’s spicy gumbo were calling to us. I couldn’t wait to start eating.

  “Just two of these left?” Becky grumbled, pointing to the samosa dumplings on a plate.

  “There’s plenty of stuffing left,” I reassured her. “We’ll fry us some more after we take a break.”

  The samosa dumplings are the latest item I have added to Sylvie’s menu. Samosas are pastry triangles stuffed with a spiced potato mixture, deep fried until golden. They are a very popular Indian snack, even in small town Oklahoma. I had mixed some chicken in, making them even more popular.

  We had fried up a few dozen for the WOSCO meeting. A couple dozen had been gobbled up by the weekend crowd.

  Jon walked up to us, shaking his head.

  “That was Sylvie. They want a couple dozen more of those dumplings.”

  I swallowed my first spoonful of gumbo and stared at Jon in dismay.

  “What, right now?”

  Jon nodded.

  “Those women sure must be hungry. Sylvie said their meeting hasn’t started yet. It will easily go on for 2-3 hours more.”

  “I’m not getting up until I eat this,” Becky declared. “I’m dead on my feet.”

  We scraped off every bit of the gumbo from our bowls, guzzled our colas and finally got up.

  “I’ll do the frying,” Becky offered. “I still can’t fold them as well as you.”

  I rolled out the dough in circ
les, stuffed the dumplings and Becky fried them up. Soon we had two dozen ready to go.

  “Want to ride with me?” I asked Becky.

  “I wish,” she groaned. “One of us needs to be here to help Jon.”

  I covered the tray of dumplings with a lace doily and placed it on the front seat of my battered Camry. I drove out slowly, taking the straightest possible route to the Lucas house. Lucas mansion, really.

  The local ladies come up with a calendar of activities for the year, including everything from charity to pure entertainment. The annual election of the club was coming up, and the first meeting of the year is always an important one. This is where the women throw their bonnets into the ring. I mean, put in their names to be on the committee. Motee Ba, my grandma, is an active member, and so is Sylvie. Motee Ba had been hinting that she wanted to run for President. Sylvie supported her and was eager to be her running mate. Personally, I wasn’t sure my grandma would be able to usurp Mary Beth Arlington, the sitting President of the last ten years.

  The Lucas kid was lurking by the garage when I pulled up to their front door. Their acreage is even more lavish than ours, which meant I could park anywhere I wanted. I stooped in to pull out the tray, feeling eyes on my back. Teenagers!

  The kid smirked when I caught him staring.

  “Don’t you have school or something?” I glared.

  “Saturday,” he grinned.

  I acted cool, ignoring him, and walked up the steps to their front door. Balancing the tray in one hand, I lifted my hand to knock. There was a healthy buzz of voices inside. A groan went up and someone swore. The voices rose a few seconds later, until a scream rent the air.

  I gave up any thoughts of being polite and banged on the door. I doubted anyone could hear it in the uproar. Someone pulled open the door suddenly, and walked into me.

  “Meera!” Henry Thompson gasped, staring at me wildly.

  “What’s the matter, Miss Thompson? I heard a scream.”

  A scream wasn’t that unusual in a big gathering of women. But my Motee Ba was inside, and I wanted to make sure she was fine.

  Henry Thompson remained tongue tied. I gently nudged her aside and entered the spacious foyer. A wide flight of stairs led to the second floor landing. I followed the voices to a room a few paces to the left. All the women were gathered around something, buzzing like bees.

  I placed my tray of dumplings on a side table and sidled up to the women. I put my hand on someone’s shoulder and tried to peer through. I wasn’t ready for the sight that met my eye. A frumpy old woman lay motionless on the floor. She was wearing a navy dress that had seen too many washes. The scarf lying beside her had cost more than her entire outfit. One hand held a crushed samosa dumpling while the other was wrapped around the leg of a table.

  “Is she…?” I looked around, trying to spot my grandma.

  The wail of sirens sort of answered my questions.

  “Make way for the law,” a pompous voice rasped out.

  I prepared myself to face Stan Miller, one of the rising stars of the Swan Creek police force. As luck would have it, I was the first person he spotted.

  “Meera! I should’ve guessed. Did you make the 911 call?”

  I held up my hands.

  “Wasn’t me this time. Just here for a food delivery.”

  A familiar arm came around my shoulders and I grabbed Motee Ba around the waist.

  “What happened?” I whispered. “Isn’t that old Dotty down there?”

  “That’s Dot Brown alright,” Sylvie spoke up before Motee Ba could say a word. “Dead as a doornail.”

  “Who screamed?” I asked.

  “How long have you been here, Meera?” Motee Ba asked wearily.

  “I was about to knock when there was some kind of commotion inside. Someone screamed and then the voices rose up.”

  “The lights went out,” Sylvie supplied. “It got pitch dark for a while. People seemed to panic, even though it’s barely 2 in the afternoon.”

  I nodded. The room suddenly felt a bit close. Thick drapes had been drawn across the tall windows, making it necessary to light the big chandelier and the different lamps placed around the room. I could imagine it being dark without the lights. And creepy too, I guess.

  “They came on about a minute later,” Motee Ba added. “That’s when someone saw Dot sprawled on the floor.”

  The women were huddled together in small groups, their faces clearly showing their different reactions. Some were chattering nonstop, some looked stunned. One of them was red in the face and another woman was fanning her with a magazine.

  A deputy started taking down everyone’s names and contact information. Most of the ladies in the room had lived here for decades. But there were a few new faces too. Naomi Lucas stood at a sideboard, sipping a dark amber colored liquid from a crystal glass.

  Sylvie elbowed Motee Ba and pointed her toward Naomi. Naomi saw her and raised the glass in salute.

  “A stiff in my own home! Calls for a stiff drink, hunh?” she laughed at her own lame joke and drained her glass.

  “As if she needs a reason,” Sylvie muttered.

  “Ladies, please clear the room,” Stan bellowed. “This is now a crime scene.”

  I hadn’t noticed the medical examiner come in.

  “Did she hit her head on the floor?” I asked Stan deliberately.

  “I can’t comment on that, Meera,” Stan said. “I think the best thing to do is go home. I know where to find you.”

  I nodded, glad to see our truce was still on. Stan Miller can be a bit of a jerk. He had mellowed a bit when I had helped solve a couple of murders. It seemed like he was still feeling kindly toward me. I wondered how long that would last.

  I prodded Motee Ba and Sylvie and ushered them out.

  “Are you okay to drive?” I asked Sylvie.

  She nodded, and we got in our separate cars.

  Becky came out as soon as we pulled into the café parking lot.

  “Dotty’s really dead?” she asked before I could say anything.

  The town grapevine was in overdrive. I feel the smaller the town, the more effective gossip is.

  “As a doornail,” Sylvie agreed before I could stop her.

  We went in for a few minutes and brought Jon and Becky up to speed.

  “What could anyone want from Dot?” Motee Ba wondered out loud. “She barely had two pennies to rub together.”

  “No thanks to that gambling drunk,” Jon muttered.

  Dot Brown was my teacher in Junior High, and later in High School. She moved up the same year we did. She retired as the Principal of Swan Creek High two years ago. Dot Brown was an institution in our town. Almost everyone I knew had been her student or had a kid in her class.

  Who had hated her enough to kill her?

  Chapter 2

  The whole family was gathered around the table for tea. Motee Ba looked ashen and I worried about her. Dad, Jeet and Pappa sat in a row on one side of the table. They stared at us, reminding me of a tribunal demanding answers. Pappa took advantage of the tension and snuck a few glucose biscuits under the table.

  “Put those down, Pappa,” I said sternly.

  He stuffed them in his mouth and glared at me. Dad pulled the plate of biscuits and slid it out of Pappa’s reach.

  “How are you, Ba?” Dad asked with concern.

  “I’m fine,” Motee Ba said. “You worry too much.”

  “How did you manage to be at yet another crime scene?” my father demanded, shaking his head at me.

  Jeet laughed. Everyone ignored him. My brother is a precocious High School Senior. We can always count on him to be irreverent.

  “I was just taking over some food they wanted,” I protested. “How was I to know Dotty would drop dead?”

  “See? That! That right there!” my Dad fumed. “Have some respect, Meera. She’s just lost her life. And she was your teacher!”

  “Sorry, it just slipped out,” I muttered. “Everyone calls her Dotty.
”

  “I hope you were far away from her, Hansa,” Pappa said.

  Motee Ba thought for a moment.

  “It’s funny. She was at the other end of the room just a few minutes ago. But then she was sprawled on the floor right next to me.”

  “Let’s try to forget all that,” Dad said. “Isn’t there anything for tea today, Meera?”

  Although we’ve lived in Oklahoma for a couple of decades, some of our family traditions remain. Tea in the evening with some heavy snacks is one of them, a remnant of the English tea my Pappa’s used to since the colonial days.

  “I was going to bring over samosas,” I explained. “But that went south.”

  I got up and popped some frozen chicken nuggets into the microwave. I didn’t have the energy to make cucumber sandwiches.

  “Why don’t I make dinner tonight, Ba?” Sally spoke up.

  “Thanks dear,” Motee Ba smiled, “but I don’t want you to trouble yourself.”

  “No trouble,” Sally said.

  The three Patel men looked uncomfortable. None of them could think of anything to say. Neither could I.

  Sally Ross is none other than Sarla Patel, my mother. How did that happen? Remember Angelo, that angel doctor who nursed my mother back to life? It seems he also gave her a new name. He probably anglicized Sarla to Sally and she got his last name when she married him. In hindsight, that marriage wasn’t legal, considering she was already married to someone.

  There was some compelling evidence that Sally was, is, my mother. Most importantly, the elders recognized her. She told us she wanted to get to know us. We are virtual strangers, considering she doesn’t really remember any of us. Motee Ba had a simple solution for this awkward situation. The guest house!

  We have a fully functional two bed room apartment or guest house a few steps away from the main house. I use the kitchen there to try out my recipes, and it’s become a hangout for us kids. Sally moved in there a couple of weeks ago. She takes her meals with us. I have no idea what she does the rest of the day.