Curds and Whey Box Set

by G M Eppers

  I could hear Backwash purr from across the aisle, where I sat. “It’s all right, Dinny. The distraction will help make the time go faster. Let the cats squabble, as long as there’s no bloodshed.” It wasn’t too much longer until Harelip happened upon Sylvia and jumped into her lap, rubbing her head against Sylvia’s stomach. I went over to Sylvia’s seat to get a better look at our new addition. So did the rest of the team, except for Sir Haughty. I decided to let him be.

  T.B. found his effort to capture the intruder thwarted and stopped short. He paced for a bit, then stopped in front of me, gazing up as if he wanted to be held. I bent down to pick him up, but he turned and ran off. “Suit yourself,” I told him, and went to see Harelip.

  While the twins and Sylvia had been healing, so had Harelip. Her tail, bushy and jet black, moved smoothly now in a slow S. Sylvia scratched her back, turning her so we could see her face. She had one blue eye and one green eye. The green eye was not as bright as Sylvia’s, but it was close. But the most striking thing was her mouth. Most of the hair had grown back in where the doctor had shaved, but for a small area the size of a pea where the skin had puckered, lifting her lip in a gentle snarl and revealing the base of one fang. “Harelip, huh?” said Sylvia, surveying her rescued feline. “I like it. It’s perfect.” Harelip gave her another quick snuggle, then jumped down and went in search of T.B. She found him, and the chase was on again.

  It was some time before the cats calmed down. Harelip was sleeping on Sylvia’s lap. Some of us were reading, I was playing Mah-Jongg on my phone. T.B. had still not come up near me. He sat on the floor in front of me, however, staring at me. After several minutes he was still there, staring. “Dinny!” I called. “Have they been fed?”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” she said brightly. “An hour before take-off.” She came to see if there was something I wanted, but I turned her down. It was warm enough in the plane; I didn’t need a blanket, and I had already flipped the pillow into place under my head.

  “T.B. keeps staring at me.”

  “I think he blames you for bringing Harelip onboard,” she suggested.

  “But I didn’t! Sylvia was carrying her! And then you did. I had nothing to do with it. I’m innocent!” It didn’t seem fair. If you’ve ever had a cat stare at you relentlessly, you know what I mean.

  Dinny shrugged. “He knows who’s in charge,” she said. “Anyone need anything?” She asked the plane in general. Then to me, she added ”What time would you like to eat?”

  The others seemed to be bedding down to continue their interrupted sleep, but I knew it wouldn’t be long. “Oh, give us about three hours, Dinny,” I said, with a yawn that was just for myself. I wanted everyone to be well-rested. It was going to be a long day, even though we didn’t have a mission. I thought about Sticky waiting for us in that big empty house, facing his own mortality, and hoped we’d get a good tailwind. I wasn’t sure if we were going in the right direction for a tailwind, but I wished for it anyway.

  I woke a little over two hours later to find T.B. still staring at me, this time from the empty seat next to me. I gave him a good head scratch as I straightened my seat and stretched. Nitro was still asleep, but the rest were already awake. Sylvia was reading, and Badger was happily thumbing his smartphone. I didn’t see Roxy, Billings, or the twins until I happened to glance up to the second level. I could see the tops of their heads as they sat at the conference table. I couldn’t tell what they were doing. I don’t know if Sir Haughty slept at all. He was still staring out the window. Backwash had vacated the seat next to him, so I moved over and put my hand on his. “How are you doing, Sir Haughty?” He didn’t seem to hear me at first. “Sir Haughty?” I said a little more firmly. Finally, he turned his head, appearing to have trouble focusing. “How are you doing?”

  He didn’t speak at first. Then he said, “When Sticky and I were in university, we shared a room together for three years. I’ve never told anyone this, but he was a terrible student. He stayed out all night, slept through classes, handed in homework so sloppy I thought he would be expelled. I tried everything to straighten him out. I begged, I pleaded, I bribed. Nothing worked. He was failing and he didn’t seem to care. At the time, I wondered why he’d enrolled in the first place. He told me it was his father’s idea. His father wanted him to be a barrister, perhaps go into politics, work in the House of Peers. He had big ambitions for his son. Huge ambitions. And he expected his son to meet them. All Sticky wanted to do was, well, socialize. He liked the idea of politics just fine, but wasn’t the least bit interested in the book work. Of course, we didn’t call him Sticky then.”

  My ears perked up, but I didn’t want to interrupt.

  “His name is,” He paused, looking around at everyone pointedly ignoring him, but lowered his voice anyway. “Llewellyn. He went by Lew, of course. Anyway, I didn’t want to see him throw his life away like that. I couldn’t. I could see he had potential. He just needed a little…forceful intervention. I…” again he paused, looked around, and lowered his voice even further, “I Super Glued his desk chair. When he sat down, he couldn’t get back up. I stayed there with him and helped him study. Oh, he hated me. He hated me passionately. We had to cut him out of his trousers when we were finished. But when he took the next poli-sci exam, he got an A. An A minus, but still an A, when he’d been getting C’s and D’s. The instructor thought he was cheating, but could never prove it, of course, because he wasn’t. I did it again before the next big exam, and after that he didn’t need the glue anymore. He just needed me to be there to make him do it.” His eyes hadn’t met mine through the entire story, but they did now. “His father died before we graduated, and Lew never made it to the House of Peers. Those courses were all but useless, as it turned out, but being stuck to that chair for six hours while I peppered him with facts and questions gave him the self-confidence his father had denied him. He happily took the name Sticky to remind himself of what he could do if he really tried.”

  “And it was the self-confidence,” I summed up for him, “that allowed him to open and run a bed and breakfast.”

  “Yes. I believe so.”

  “He’s an amazing man.”

  “Yes.”

  I patted his hand, and gave him a kiss on the forehead.

  His hand pulled out from under mine and landed on top. “Helena.” I didn’t think his voice could get any softer and still be audible, but my head was only inches from him and I could hear just fine. “Not a word to anyone. Not anyone.”

  “Of course, Francis.” And those were the only two times I ever called him by his first name.

  Not long after, Dinny served us tacos. We moved up to the conference table in time to see Billings, the twins and Roxy stowing away a cribbage board and a deck of cards. Dinny was placing all the fixings, except for shredded cheese, on the table. We were able to grab our own shells and fill it with whatever we liked, so Nitro invented the first ever lettuce and tomato taco. Plus, it was messy. T.B., Backwash, and even Harelip wandered the floor nibbling at whatever crumbs (and there were plenty) landed there, and for a change no one chased anyone else. They would have walked on the table if it had not been filled edge to edge with condiments and ingredients. There was bottled water, iced tea, and diet soda choices to wash it down.

  It was meant to be just a light meal. After all, we were invited to dinner. But dinner wasn’t for hours yet. Eating before a dinner party is a trick I learned from reading Gone With the Wind. Young plantation ladies would be required to eat a full meal at home before attending a social event at a neighboring plantation, so that they wouldn’t be seen eating like a normal person in public. Between the full stomachs and the tight corsets, they’d only be able to nibble. And since the dinner party we were going to wasn’t about the food, I didn’t want hunger to cause anyone on the team to be distracted from the real mission, providing emotional support. We would be landing at Heathrow shortly before 8PM local time. With airport security and getting a car big enough for all of us,
it would probably take another 90 minutes to get to Chigwell. It would be a late dinner, but we’d get there.

  Sir Haughty phoned Sticky from the plane to give him the details so he wouldn’t worry. After he hung up, he turned to me. “He said there would be no problem holding dinner until 10.”

  “But?”

  He blinked and cleared his throat. “He seemed agitated to me. Perhaps it’s just the pressures he’s under, but . . . I think he was being polite. I know we can’t do anything about the delay, Helena.”

  “We’ll get there as soon as we can, Sir Haughty. I promise.”

  We each took time to freshen up before landing procedures began, and Roxy changed into a red and silver silk evening dress with her right shoulder bare, and matching three inch heeled pumps. Those were almost flats compared to her usual footwear. After landing, we were able to zip through the locker room, since we didn’t need to collect anything there. We carried only small overnight bags with a change of clothing and toiletries, and Sir Haughty placed his top hat on his head with a tap. We got off the plane and entered the crowd threading through the concourse toward the car rental booths. And I suddenly heard, “Well, well, well. Isn’t it a small world, after all?” I stopped so quick my team collided with me in a several people pile up. They quickly spaced themselves out and we all turned to see my ex-husband Butte coming up behind us rolling a black wheeled carry-on. “I hope you guys aren’t undercover, because you stand out like a parrot at a penguin party.”

  Before I even acknowledged his existence, I told Billings, “Take the team, get a car and wait for me out in front of the main door.”

  “I’m not leaving you alone with him, Mom. I don’t have bail money,” Billings replied.

  “I will rent us a vehicle,” said Sir Haughty. I knew he was anxious to get to Sticky’s bed and breakfast, but it was obvious that I had to deal with Butte.

  “Thank you, Sir Haughty,” I said, “I apologize for the interruption. I’ll be there as quickly as I can.” And I waited for the team to turn the corner. Sylvia turned back and peeked at the three of us, but saw me catch her at it and vanished. I turned to Butte. “Why are you here?”

  “Same reason you’re here,” he said, as if that explained everything.

  “We’re here to visit a sick friend,” I said, not wanting to get into specifics.

  “All of you? You expect me to believe that? I always thought you were a much better liar, Helena.” He tsk tsked me in feigned pity.

  “Yes, all of us. We stick…stay together. Unlike YOUR ‘team’.” I looked behind him and around the milling concourse. “They taking the conveyor belt down with the luggage?” I was getting heated, and Billings put a protective hand on my shoulder.

  Butte parked his carry-on and pushed the handle down, then straddled it, indicating he was ready for a long session of Push My Buttons. He could see I was in a hurry, and I was sure he was only doing it to irritate me. “I’m scouting ahead. WHEY is on the next flight. You’re here because he’s here and you know it.” People began to divert around us, giving us annoyed looks.

  “He who?” I asked, not really expecting the confusion to pass for real. “I told you. We’re here to visit a sick friend in Chigwell. Why do you think I had my team get a car? You know as well as I do that you don’t need a car to get around London.” I didn’t say anything, but it did worry me that Butte was so sure Butler was in London. First off, there was no way I could beg off Sticky’s dinner and go look for him, and secondly because I wanted to know how Butte knew Butler’s whereabouts. No doubt the Krochedy Brothers had something to do with it. They had holdings everywhere and probably had no problem finding snitches. In London alone, they had the Museum of Broken Oil Pipes, Blow Me Bubblegum, and LLC Cigarettes (commonly referred to as Lungs Like Charcoal).

  “Simple. You’re going hunting.”

  I pulled my pockets inside out and spread my arms. “We are unarmed, Butte. There’s no hunting. We’re going to Chigwell. And YOU are a paranoid schizophrenic with delusions of relevance. This has nothing to do with you, cheese, or rennet.”

  He laughed obnoxiously while other debarking passengers gave us a wide berth, gawking as they went past. “It has everything to do with Rennet,” he said, using a capital ‘R.’ “You’re here to harass him and obstruct his fair trade.”

  I made a noise that could have come from a constipated wildebeest and wished I had at least brought my stun gun. Billings’ hand moved from my shoulder down my arm to my hand, which he grasped in his and squeezed. “He’s not worth it, Mom.”

  “His fair trade is illegal!” I said, my voice a tad too loud. I pretended not to hear what Billings said and kept going. “You probably don’t remember what that means. You have a serious problem with vocabulary, Butte. You always have. Which explains why you support a group that defends a product that doesn’t even exist. There is no energized yeast, for the millionth time. Yeast isn’t the problem. Yeast is a bacterial culture. The problem is rennet, small ‘r,’ you addlepated twit. It’s an enzyme.” I stopped to spell it for him because I thought it might help. It didn’t. “It’s not even a related compound. No connection. None.”

  “Come now, Helena. Who besides you and Little Lord Fauntleroy has ever heard of rennet? People don’t care about things they don’t know.”

  The wildebeest was developing some serious gastrointestinal distress. “Everyone who’s been listening to the news for the past seven or eight years, that’s who. People learn, Butte, except for you. For example, yeast isn’t even in cheese. The riser is a bacterial solution called starter. Yeast is a fungus. Not the same thing.”

  “But there’s no ‘S’ in WHEY,” he said.

  Billings was now trying to pull me away from Butte, but despite my small size I’m very solid, and I wasn’t ready to go yet. “It’s your PR problem, not mine.”

  “I thought you were smart.” This was from Billings, who, seeing that he couldn’t stop me decided to try to help this conversation come to a conclusion. He released my hand and pointed at his father.

  Butte’s head turned slightly to address his son, who towered over him as he sat on his luggage. “What’s not smart about ensuring that the civilized world encourages and embraces freedom of choice? What’s not smart about protecting everyone’s right to buy any cheese they want?”

  There was a small moment of silence, broken only by the milling noise of airport foot traffic. “Grandpa died because of that cheese,” Billings said in a calm voice. “It’s poison.” I’d never told Billings that it had been a gift from Butte. It didn’t seem wise.

  Butte stood up, but Billings was still a head taller. I wasn’t quite clear on when that happened exactly. “Your grandfather died because he failed to seek medical treatment when he should have. It was his own fault.” Butte’s voice was also calm. I think I would have preferred shouting. I didn’t like calm in situations like this. It’s like the eye of the storm.

  I wasn’t wrong. Billings’ arm went back and his hand clenched into a fist. I had to stand on tiptoe to grab his arm at the elbow and pull it down. “No, Billings!” His lips had become a thin line and his eyes were dark and cold, but the arm came down. Butte smirked. Without missing a beat, I put all I had into a right cross to Butte’s chin, causing him to stumble backwards and fall over his suitcase. He sprawled on the floor, rubbing his chin. I’d been hoping to split his lip, but I guess I just didn’t have the leverage. Maybe I should have let Billings do it.

  I turned my back on Butte, not caring if he got up at all, and took Billings by the arm. As we walked away, Billings asked, “Why did you stop me, Mom?”

  “Because I love you,” I replied. “And because he’s your father, and I seriously wanted to do it myself.”

  “I could have made him fall harder,” he suggested.

  I looked up at my son. Almost a full foot taller than me. He had a weight set in his room at HQ and worked out with it every day he was there, in addition to yard training. Arms one day, legs
the next, every day without fail that he could manage. He even had a smaller set on the plane with the understanding that it would be the first thing to go if we lost altitude. “You could have snapped his neck. There’s a lot of paperwork involved in that, and like you said, we don’t have bail money.” Then I added, “It was NOT his fault, you know.”

  “I know.” He paused, then added, “addlepated twit?”

  Chapter Two

  Sticky’s bed and breakfast, named simply Hearth and Home, was a lovely three story English Tudor cottage with three forward gables. It was painted yellow. A stone retaining wall enclosed a traditional English garden with benches and some statuary. Ivy partially covered most of the walls, and a trellis on the side was covered in climbing red roses. A narrow, rectangular chimney was centered on the opposite side right to the edge of the roof, the brick leading down to the rear side of a large fireplace. The light was dim when we got there, but it was still inviting. Many houses that are gorgeous in daylight are forbidding and menacing as dark sets in, but not Sticky’s. It gave out a welcoming feel even now, in twilight, with gentle external lighting enhancing the glow from the nearest streetlamp. A large oval plaque was mounted on a pedestal at the foot of the driveway, giving the street number, and the words “Hearth and Home.” A Union Jack was on a flagpole, flapping crisply in the wind.

  Sir Haughty led our party to the front door and rang the bell. We could hear some noises coming from inside, probably Sticky making some last minute adjustments to the furniture. Shortly, the door opened and Sticky, tall and slender, balding, wearing a red dress shirt, brown trousers and loafers said, “Welcome, ladies and gents!” He stepped back, allowing us to enter. The lobby of Hearth and Home was cozy, but spacious. Flowered area rugs covered a pristine hardwood floor. The walls were painted a pale blue. There was a large, overstuffed couch and three matching chairs around a low table with a fan of local magazines. A staircase to the right of the door led to the rooms, beyond it a dining room, and a small office had been created between the kitchen and lobby. The fireplace was on the far wall to the left, with a big, sturdy brick hearth. Even though it was a perfectly temperate summer night, a fire was blazing in the fireplace, guarded by a metal screen, with a rack of iron tools standing sentinel.