For Butter or Worse

by Saxon Bennett

  “What if she doesn’t?”

  “She will. Lehane is her only true competition. She doesn’t want to win the competition because of a forfeit. There’s no glory in that,” Betty says, nervously eating one of my donuts.

  I follow her to a chair sitting in the middle of the room and ten feet in front of the judges’ table. It looks suspiciously like an inquisition in which the outcome has already been decided.

  Betty hands out my coffee-stained resumes. I see the disapproval written across their faces. Caroline pinches hers by a corner then sets it on the table with a look of disgust written across her face. Betty gives the judges a couple of minutes to study my credentials. I squirm in my chair and chew on my cuticles.

  Finally, Betty claps her hands once and announces, “I’d like to introduce you all to our proposed substitute butter carver, Jamie Bravo.”

  I nod and smile. My face feels really tight. I probably look like a crazy chimp right before it attacks.

  Betty continues the introductions, “This is Judge Benny Bungle.”

  I try really hard not to laugh. I bite the inside of my cheek in order to prevent this. Benny Bungle looks to be in his late sixties and needs to comb his hair, which is sticking up in all directions. He has Mr. Magoo glasses that make his bluish grayish eyes as big as eight-balls, is wearing a wrinkled suit, and bears an uncanny resemblance to Bernie Sanders.

  The next judge is named Miriam Webster. I kid you not. She’s a snappy dresser for a white suburban woman. She’s wearing a blue and white striped dress with matching white square-heeled shoes, and bears a uncanny resemblance to Kathleen Turner in Serial Mom. (Notice how all my descriptions of people harken to famous people? That’s because it helps me remember who they are. In my business that’s a necessity. I’m terrible with names.)

  Last but not least is Helen Reams. She’s ninety-five if she’s a day. She has thinning gray hair pulled back in a severe ponytail and the alert eyes hidden behind a pair of large glasses. She’s wearing black orthopedic shoes and a neon green pant suit, which seems incongruous to the rest of her. To each their own. Oh, and she looks like Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

  And then at the end of the row is Caroline Swank. She’s wearing a butter yellow dress that fits her perfectly. She also has a butter yellow pill box hat. I didn’t even know those still existed. She looks at me with a glare that could melt butter.

  The judges stare at me and I squirm in my chair again. Betty has finished nervous-eating my donuts. I’m wishing Travis and Michael were here for support.

  “I like to begin this session with questions for Ms. Bravo. We’ll start with Benny Bungle,” Betty says.

  Benny Bungle stares hard at me then runs his finger along my resume. “It says here you were raised on a farm in Wisconsin?”

  I clear my throat before answering, “Yes, sir. I’ve always had an affinity with bovines, especially dairy cows with their large, sensitive eyes and soft lips. And those wonderful cows inspired me to take my love of butter to new heights.”

  He seems impressed with my answer. “I felt the same way. Cows have always been a part of my life. Just milked a few this morning over at the Dairy Barn. They were short-handed.”

  Maybe that’s what happened to his hair. Milking has its hazards.

  The next question comes from Miriam Webster. She looks down at the resume again. “It says here that you won a butter competition in Switzerland when you were ten?”

  I nod way too many times. “Yes, I lived there as a child before moving back to the states where I joined 4-H until I was twenty-five.”

  Caroline pipes up, “The 4-H program is for children.”

  “I served as a mentor,” I retort.

  Betty steps up. “Caroline, you’ll have your turn. Please refrain from questions until that time. I’ve left notepads and pens so that you may write your questions down while you await your turn.”

  Caroline scowls. She is not the sort of woman who takes kindly to reprimands. She savagely scribbles something down on her pad. I can tell Caroline is going to be the hardest sell. I need to make her believe that I’m no real threat to her ascension as butter queen.

  It’s Helen Reams’ turn. “I’d like to hear in your own words why you love butter.”

  I look at the floor as I formulate my answer. After a moment, I look her square in the eyeballs and say, “Butter is a pure food. And it is a perfect complement to so many other foods. We need to convince the public of the beauty of butter and bring them back to the fold, make them aware that butter is good, and those margarine spreads are devil-spawn filled with chemicals. Butter is a wonder food and its time the world recognizes that fact. Like I always say, “Make America Butter Again.”

  Betty claps heartily, discreetly swiping away a tear. “Well said, well said.”

  The three judges nod their agreement.

  I think I’ve done okay so far. Caroline is the only hurdle left. She purses her lips, stares me down, and jabs a finger at my resume. “It says here that you’re writing a book about butter and butter sculpting. What makes you such an authority?”

  I’m stumped on that one. So I go for bluster. “Well, that’s a very good question. Butter has always been a part of my life. I’ve studied butter at college and earned a degree in Butterology. I’ve studied with many master butter sculptors and interviewed some of the biggest names in butter. In fact, after this competition is over, I’d like to include an entire chapter on your fascinating butter career.” This changes the tide immediately. Flattery works wonders.

  Caroline puts her hand to her chest and her features soften. “Oh my… I’d be honored.”

  Betty beams at me. I’m pretty sure I’m a shoo-in. “Is everyone ready to vote?”

  They nod.

  “All in favor of Jamie Bravo becoming substitute butter sculptor?” she asks. Everyone raises their hands. Betty turns to me and says words I never thought I’d hear, “Jamie Bravo, you are now a master butter carver! Welcome to the wonderful world of butter!”

  Chapter Five

  I’m sitting next to my nephew Griffin at a table in a room that initially felt nice and cool but is starting to get cold. Griffin is ecstatic about learning to carve butter. Not me. I’m terrified.

  We finally left his mother behind after an unfortunate trip through the Midway. As it turns out, just watching spinning rides gives Juniper motion sickness. She vomited right in front of the spinning art. The other part of the unfortunate-ness is that she wears a surgical mask everywhere she goes. She didn’t get the mask off in time and you can imagine the rest. It wasn’t pretty. Did I mention my sister is a hypochondriac?

  Juniper used to be the more normal type of hypochondriac, you know, the one who complains all the time and is always sicker than you even if you’re dying. I haven’t quite figured out why she wears the mask because she’s still always sick. The one plus side about the mask is that it keeps people at a distance. People in a long line actually stepped aside when they saw her mask and Griffin got on the rollercoaster ahead of everyone else. He was thrilled. Getting Juniper to use a public washroom was another adventure. Needless to say, it involved a lot of shrieking and three travel size bottles of hand sanitizer. We walked Juniper to her car after she cleaned up.

  I took Griffin back to the fair with me. Poor kid, he misses out on a lot. We went back to the Midway, used up all his tickets, and then headed to the butter barn. We stopped by the beer tent but only got to wave because Travis and Michael were up to their lederhosen in customers. Even Ivan was tuckered out and was fast asleep in his doggie bed behind the counter.

  Arthur, my butter instructor, is eager to teach us everything he knows about butter. He’s gathered up aprons, knives, carving tools, and lots of sticks of butter. He has the sticks stacked up in a tower.

  “Are we going to play Jenga?” I ask.

  “These are for practice. I’ll heat them up just enough to forge a bond and make a solid block. That’s how most of us practice because hauling ar
ound huge chunks of butter in August is not easy. I thought this way you can learn to make your own butter block for homework,” Arthur explains.

  I’m going to have homework? I thought I’d just go in and putz around a bit before the contest, not that I’d really be studying butter sculpting. I mean, Caroline is destined to win. I’m just making do so I can figure out what happened to Lehane. I’m starting to get a vibe that all is not well in Butterland.

  “Can I carve the Union Pacific trains of yesteryear?” Griffin asks.

  Yesteryear? Griffin is a weird kid. Smart but odd. He’s eight years old and has an absentee father named Jenner who is always away on business. No one in our family has ever seen Jenner. We’re not entirely sure he exists, but Juniper has lots of money and a son, so maybe Jenner does exist. Who knows? He might show up someday. We don’t talk about him because of Griffin, although Griffin doesn’t appear to miss him. He looks more like a Bravo than his mystery father: olive skin, dark-brown eyes, and curly dark hair. He’s cute and may grow up to be handsome. It’s hard to tell when a kid is eight. Anything can happen. All I know for sure is that he’s not a hypochondriac and he loves his mother. He’s a good kid.

  Arthur is in heaven. It’s as if he’s found his calling—the teacher of butter. “Of course, that would be a very good start. In fact, why don’t both of you carve the train? We can use sticks and start small. Each train car can be a stick of butter.” He hands us each a thick canvas apron. Griffin looks like he’s wearing a floor-length dress but doesn’t seem to care. He ties his apron strings behind him, hops up on the stool, and grabs a knife.

  “You’re going to be super careful with that,” I say.

  “Of course. A knife is not a toy,” he says.

  Arthur smiles down on him benevolently like he’s seeing a kindred spirit. I hope I haven’t turned Griffin into a Butter-ite. I can see it now, Griffin standing in the airport dressed in a butter-colored robe handing out pamphlets extolling the virtues of butter. (Don’t scoff, I’ve seen crazier things at airports.)

  Arthur explains how one goes about carving butter, the tools to cut, smooth, texture, and the dynamic nature of the butter knife. Griffin takes to it like a fish to water. I am more like a manatee, big and unable to hold a knife with my flippers.

  Griffin carves a damn good steam engine, Arthur decides that he’ll make some of the rail cars because so far, I haven’t been able to carve anything that even comes close to resembling a caboose. I’m mangling my eighth stick of butter when we are blissfully interrupted by a man in his mid-forties with a handlebar mustache of a magnitude I’ve never seen. It’s black, thick, and matches his hair, which is long and hangs down his back like a mane. It’s beautiful and I think what a waste it is for a man to have such gorgeous hair. Completely unfair.

  The man sneers down at our train. Arthur gets up from his chair and pumps the man’s hand, the back of which is hairy as well. A person pays for a mane and mustache like that with body hair everywhere. I can’t even think of his chest and back. He must be a gorilla under his white polo shirt.

  “This is Melbourne Ross. He’s the head of the United Butter Federation,” Arthur explains.

  “I came to have a word with you,” Melbourne Ross says, aiming his dark eyes in my direction.

  “Me?” I say, trying hard to suppress the urge to pet his prodigious mustache. I have no idea where this urge comes from. It’s like a siren call.

  “You don’t mind if I borrow Ms. Bravo?” he asks Arthur.

  “You can call me Jamie,” I say, still staring at his mustache.

  “No, go right ahead. Griffin and I will work on the caboose,” Arthur says kindly.

  “We’ll make it all nice for you, Aunt Jamie.” Griffin looks at me with pity.

  Melbourne and I walk out of the building. He suggests we sit at a picnic table nearby. “I’ve never gotten used to the cooler temperature of the butter booth. I guess I’m still a sunshine boy from Florida. I seek warmth.” He takes off his blue puffy parka, which is wise considering it’s ninety-five degrees outside.

  “I was actually getting the sniffles in there,” I say just to make conversation.

  “Do you want to borrow my coat?” he asks.

  “No, I’m pretty much tapped out today on butter sculpting.”

  “You are going to have to improve if you’re going to keep up your cover,” Melbourne says.

  I’m flummoxed. I thought Betty Butter wanted to keep this on the down low. “You know about that?”

  “Of course. I’m the head honcho. I’ve been to the police and they’re still not interested. They say there’s no evidence of foul play,” he says.

  “But you think there is?”

  “Yes, I do. I’ve known Lehane going on ten years now. This is not like him at all. I think someone has it in for him. I just can’t figure out why someone would hurt such a kind soul. He’s done so much for butter. Without him in the contest attendance will suffer. He’s our star attraction. Now, I’m not saying that Caroline Swank isn’t talented, but as you can tell she’s not a good ambassador. People don’t like her much.”

  He’s right about that; she’s a coldhearted bitch. There’s no getting around it. I try to be diplomatic by saying, “Well, she could work on her social skills a little.”

  Melbourne snickers. “Yes, you could put it that way.”

  “So, what do you want me to do?”

  From his pocket, he pulls out a key on a leather fob. “This is Lehane’s house key. I’d like you to take a look. Maybe there’s a clue to his whereabouts.” He hands it to me.

  “Okay, I can do that.”

  “And I brought you a CD and a beginning sculpting guide.” He hands me both items. The guide is a big yellow book with the title Butter Sculpting for Dummies. He continues, “It’ll help. We all know Caroline’s going to win, but we’ve still got to give folks the semblance of a competition.”

  “You really think this is going to make me an ace butter sculptor in a week?”

  “It’s worth a try,” he says, shrugging his massive shoulders.

  “I’ll do my best,” I say but we both know it’s going to be a bitter butter disaster. I liked butter better when all I did was spread it on my toast.

  ***

  I drop off Griffin and check in on Juniper, who swears she has an inner ear imbalance that’s giving her vertigo. She’s sprawled on the couch with a cold compress over her eyes. It smells like eucalyptus.

  “Do you want me to make you dinner?” I ask. I don’t want Griffin to starve because his mother is out of commission the rest of the evening.

  “No!” both Juniper and Griffin say simultaneously.

  I’m a terrible cook, so we’re all relieved that I’m off the hook.

  “Mom brought over ziti and bread. We’ll be fine,” Juniper says.

  “Yummy. Did she bring cannoli?” Griffin asks.

  Juniper sits up slowly and motions for her son to come to her. He willingly obeys and sits beside her on the sofa. She brushes his curling hair out of his eyes. “Has she ever let us down?” she asks.

  Griffin’s smile lights up the room. “Never.”

  I snag a cannoli on my way out the door.

  ***

  I decide to run by and check on Del Hargrave before I tackle Lehane’s house. When I get there, I’m just in time to see her and the red-haired woman get in the Lamborghini. The redhead is driving, which, now that I know Del is a narcoleptic, I am thankful for. I tail them, hanging back and letting an old Volkswagen Jetta get between us as we merge onto the freeway. I hope they’re not going out of town; I didn’t bring my toothbrush.

  On the outskirts of Lakeland, we pass motels, gas stations, and truck stops. They make a sudden right into a McDonald’s. They pull into the drive-thru and I get behind them. I consider whether I should get a burger, but the roll over my waistband reminds me that fast food is too high in calories and I’ve already had three corn dogs and a chocolate-covered banana. (I don’t count
the cannoli because nobody saw me eat it.) I wait in the parking lot until they get their order and then I take off behind them again. They get off at the next exit and pull into a modest motel. The redhead goes to the office to check in.

  Del gets out of her Lamborghini and pulls a black duffle bag from the trunk. She’s forgotten to zip the bag, so it spills out onto the gravel parking lot. I’m parked at the far end, so I pull out my trusty binoculars and peer at the bag’s contents. I won’t go into detail because I’m still trying to bleach it from own brain, but suffice it to say, it involved a lot of leather and plastic.

  Del gets it all scooped back into the bag before the mystery redhead returns with the key. The redhead takes the bag from Del and puts her arm around Del’s waist like she’s leading a lamb to slaughter.

  They enter room 5C. I slink down in my car because the redhead is checking out the parking lot the way criminals do before they do something illegal and don’t want to be seen. I’ve always wondered about that. Innocent people don’t scope out the parking lot before entering a hotel room.

  I figure I’m going to have a long wait, so I get out my copy of Vanity Fair. The book, not the magazine. It’s a tome of a book that I’m forcing myself to read. It’s on the list of one hundred books a person should read if they want to be cultivated. It’s a struggle, but since I’ve got time, I open the book to page twenty-seven and dig in.

  I don’t have to wait long. One hour and fifteen minutes (and sixty pages) later, Del and her mystery woman are pulling out of the parking lot. The book has fallen out of my lap and I’m pretty sure I nodded off just for a minute or two. I rub my eyes and start the car. What I wouldn’t give for a cup of coffee.

  I follow them back to town where there’s a quick peck on the cheek and an exchange of cars. I jot down the plate number on the car the redhead drives. I don’t think it’s a rental, but I’ll need to hit up London to find out for sure—she usually runs plates for me.