Curds and Whey Box Set

by G M Eppers

  “Thank you. Thank you.” As Nitro got out plates and utensils to eat like a civilized person, the front door opened and in walked Roxy carrying about six large plastic garment bags over one arm. “What’s marked?” She saw the rectangular box with the wire handle that Nitro was holding. “Oooo, Chinese! I’ll be right back!” She hurried upstairs to hang up her dresses and reappeared moments later to paw through the containers. Roxy has flaming red hair and pale skin. She was wearing an asymmetrical sky blue dress with velvet trim, an empire waist and full length split skirt.

  Badger, our communications officer, was right behind her, fresh from the shower and smelling of Irish Spring. He had traded in his contact lenses for his round wire-rimmed glasses. “Roxy said there’s Chinese.” He waited his turn at the fridge door, then ducked inside to investigate. With his head still inside he asked, “where are the fortune cookies?”

  “Yellow bag,” I told him.

  He came out of the fridge carrying the yellow bag, a container of egg foo young, and the box of spring rolls. He grabbed a fork from the drawer and moved to the table, where Roxy and Nitro were already seated and eating. Unlike Nitro, he didn’t bother with a plate, but ate right out of the cardboard container. He propped open the bag of fortune cookies so everyone could reach them, then took a spring roll and passed the box around. “Remember you guys, I get the fortunes when you’re done.” Badger loves languages. I don’t even know how many he speaks fluently. The closest Chinese got to being useful was trading barbs with the harbormaster in Italy. He seemed to be learning Chinese for fun, since our missions to date never took us into Asia. Asia was not big on cheeses to begin with. Only about one percent of the population of China died in the OOPS as opposed to closer to ten percent most other places. I think there’s a chembassy located on the Yangtzee River, but we really don’t hear from them much. Unable to wait, Badger grabbed a cookie and broke it open, discarding the cookie part. “The early bird gets the worm, but the early worm gets eaten,” he read. He shrugged and turned it over. “Hey, Shanghai dialect. This is new.” And he began studying the new word as he ate.

  Roxy swallowed some lo mein, a soft noodle snaking into her mouth with a slurp. “So, Helena, what are you wearing tomorrow?”

  “I haven’t the slightest,” I admitted. “I guess my usual jeans. I have some dressy shirts that would look all right.” Maybe I could blend in with the common crowd, put in ten or fifteen minutes and leave.

  “Oh, you have to dress up. Like you did a couple years ago.”

  “I was at the White House for Christmas. They saw my dress already.”

  Roxy pursed her lips, probably thinking of me as a Philistine for having only one dress. “I’ve got something you can wear.”

  If I’d been eating anything, I would have done a spit take. I’m five foot two, Roxy is five foot ten or eleven. Plus, her figure is close to Barbie doll. Mine is more like Raggedy Ann. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “No, really. We’ll go upstairs later and see.” She forked more lo mein into her mouth. “Why am I so hungry? Dinny fed us an awesome meal on the plane.”

  Diane Rosensglet is our flight attendant slash co-pilot. Each CURDS team owned a plane courtesy of U.S. taxpayers. Ours is called the CURDS1, then there was the CURDS2 and the CURDS3. Dinny took care of our plane just like Knobby took care of the house, though she didn’t make repairs directly. But she knew how to inspect everything and knew who to call if something wasn’t right. During flight, if she wasn’t needed in the cockpit, she paid attention to us, making sure we were comfortable, adjusting the lighting, providing extra blankets or pillows, and serving surprisingly gourmet meals. “What did she feed you?”

  “Nitro got a vegemite sandwich. The rest of us got these fabulous meat pies. I ate three!” She hesitated with another forkful of lo mein and the expression on her face told me she was questioning her willpower. “I’m working out later. I promise.” And she stuffed the fork in her mouth and chewed happily. “I think I’m just excited about Big Block of Cheese Day. I had loads of fun last time. Security is a pain, but I love visiting the White House. Don’t worry, Helena. I’ll set you up with an outfit and you’ll look stunning.”

  I smiled good-naturedly. Knobby said his goodbyes and left to tend to HQC.

  It wasn’t long before the front door opened again and the twins bounced in. Billings got up and greeted them, giving Avis a respectable kiss on the lips. By that time, Sir Haughty and Sylvia had returned in search of Chinese food, so the table was buzzing. “Oh, good,” said Avis as they entered the kitchen. “You’re all here. Oooo, Chinese.” They diverted to the fridge where, because of their positioning, Agnes opened the door and handed her sister a handled container then chose one for herself. Agnes also grabbed two forks on the way past the silverware drawer and they took their places at the table. To make it easier, I was standing by the kitchen counter sipping my second cup of coffee, still trying to dispel a bit of chill.

  Nitro snapped open his fortune cookie. “Anyone who says it’s nice to be kneaded has never owned a cat,” he read, pointing out the spelling. “Clever, but not entirely true. I don’t think our cats have been into that, have they?” We have experience with cats. Three of them live on the CURDS1, cared for diligently by Dinny.

  I didn’t recall T.B., Backwash or Harelip ever kneading me. In fact, T.B. was pretty much the only one who came near me. Harelip, rescued by Sylvia, tended to gravitate toward her when she wasn’t roughhousing with the other two (Harelip, not Sylvia), and Backwash, well, he wasn’t attached to anyone in particular. There was a general shrug and negative response to Nitro’s inquiry. He rolled the slip of paper into a tight spiral and shot it across to Badger with a flick of his index finger.

  Avis opened her container of chop suey and dug in, while Agnes ate her sesame chicken. Agnes picked two cookies from the yellow bag and handed one to Avis, who set it aside. She cracked hers open and read, “I tried the power of positive thinking, but I knew it wouldn’t work. Har de har har. I want my money back.”

  “I bought them,” I said.

  “Okay, I want your money back.” She passed the fortune to Badger and took her sister’s cookie.

  “I met with the wedding planner at the bridal shop,” said Avis, ignoring the theft. “She wants me to make some decisions, although we can’t finalize anything.” They might never be able to finalize anything. Due to the nature of our jobs, we could be called to a mission at any time. Scheduling things is a nightmare. “The planner is actually working up a number of themes and prioritizing based on how quickly it can be implemented. But we’re mostly working on the common things that won’t have to change. Naturally, I want all of you to be involved. Sylvia, you and Roxy will be bridesmaids, of course. Agnes will be my maid of honor –“

  “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “Agnes can’t be your maid of honor.”

  “Why not?”

  It seemed obvious to me. But as much as I hated to point it out, I told her, “Because you’re conjoined. One of the jobs the maid of honor does is to control the train. How is she supposed to pin up the train for the reception, or spread it out on the floor for the processional?”

  Agnes and Avis looked at each other as if agreeing that I was an idiot. “I’m not using a train.”

  “But there are a lot of other duties that would be very awkward. The maid of honor stops people from seeing the bride in the dress before the wedding. How is she supposed to do that? She has to play hostess to the guests and plan the bachelorette party and the wedding shower.”

  “The maid of honor has to stay at my side and help me. I can count on Agnes to be there.”

  Agnes twisted to put one arm around Avis and gave her a comforting squeeze, then cracked open the stolen cookie, popping a piece into her mouth. “Happiness is a warm puppy. Sadness is a cold guppy. Jeez, they’re getting worse.” She flipped over the fortune dismissively.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Helena. Of course I want you to be my maid o
f honor. You are the matriarch.”

  Ouch. Matriarch. That hurt. But I had the perfect way to retaliate. “Sorry, but I can’t be your maid of honor, Avis.”

  “Why not?” I sensed just a bit of panic and disappointment in her voice. There was no reason to make her suffer very long, though.

  “Because I’m not a maid, silly. I would be honored to be your matron of honor, however.”

  Agnes answered for her sister. “But you already have a job. You’re mother of the groom. You’ll be doing mother of the groom things.”

  “You mean, like crying and looking around suspiciously when the pastor says ‘speak now or forever hold your peace?’” I asked.

  “If you think that will help,” said Avis. “Mom will probably do that, too,” she said to Agnes, then turned back to me. “Redundancy can’t hurt, though. Let’s make you plan A for maid, I mean, matron of honor. It’s not exactly engraved in stone yet.” She wiggled. “But I’m getting nervous already. Are you prompt? I’ll go insane if you’re late. Promise me you won’t be late.”

  “I promise I will not be late.” I said.

  Billings snapped his fortune cookie in half and took out the narrow slip of paper. “I don’t think you’re going to win this argument, Mom.” He read his fortune to himself. It looked like he was going to say it out loud, then thought better of it.

  Badger said, “Give me your fortunes when you’re done, guys. I’m learning Chinese.”

  “Why?” asked Sir Haughty. “Seems a waste of time to me. Besides, don’t they have about a hundred dialects. You couldn’t possibly…”

  “400, actually, if you use the common definition of dialect. Many are closer to accents, though thick enough to be unintelligible to speakers of another dialect. It’s fascinating.” There were many heads shaking in disbelief as people obediently tossed their fortunes over to Badger, all except Billings. He quietly closed his hand around the small slip of paper. “I’ve been doing Mandarin for years, but I want to expand. It’s not as bad as the African languages. There are about 2000 of them and all pretty much distinctive. I’ve only got a handle on about ten of those and not fluent in any.” He started scanning the various slips of paper, flattening them and arranging them. “Pushpin, alligator, outlet…the mnemonics are going to be nasty…”

  “Back to the wedding plan,” Avis said. “We need a plan B maid of honor. Roxy, how about you? You’re so good with clothes.”

  “Gosh,” said Roxy, suddenly flustered. “I…I would be honored! Imagine. Me. Plan B.”

  I helped Roxy along. “Keep in mind this is all hypothetical right now. There’s no date, no hall, no chapel and no band. Therefore, no pressure. Right now.”

  “By the way, you didn’t go with the polka dots, did you?” asked Sylvia with a wry, worried look.

  Agnes and Avis looked like they were close to teasing her, but instead they replied, “It’s not decided, but we were looking at cornflower taffeta.” I thought that in Sylvia’s case that might clash with her serious green eyes, or rather, eye, but that was for the three of them to work out. I wondered idly if she would decorate the eye patch.

  Badger shuffled through the fortunes. Without looking up he asked, “Some of these are really weird,” he said under his breath. “So who’s going to be best man? Remember, I’m a crier.”

  All heads turned to Billings. “I haven’t talked to the planner yet. I haven’t decided.” He had the harder choice, I guess. With all peers to choose from, someone was bound to have their feelings hurt. Even though Badger was giving him an out, it didn’t seem like it was entirely out of the question for him, either.

  Roxy and Sylvia finished eating and disposed of their containers and silverware in a more organized fashion than they’d done their mail. Sylvia sat back, patting her full stomach. “Come on, Helena,” said Roxy, pushing away from the table, “let’s find you a dress for tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be up in a minute.”

  I waited while the crowd thinned and it was just me and Billings. He was sitting there, rereading his fortune. When he saw that I’d waited, he folded it up. I took a seat next to him and reached for it. He didn’t try to stop me. Instead, he tried to distract me by starting a game of Misunderstood Name, something only intellectuals and children of history teachers ever play. He liked to try to stump me. He’d research the sequence for weeks to find someone I couldn’t identify. “All these fortunes are kind of like that guy who could see the future back in 16th century France.”

  “Nostradamus,” I said, wondering where he was going, giving him the time to formulate what he really wanted to say. This game challenged me but relaxed him.

  “I thought that was the Dracula guy.”

  “That was Nosferatu.”

  “No, that was the Prime Minister of Israel, the one who kept trying to destroy Palestine.”

  “Netanyahu!” I said, feigning anger.

  “No, no, that was the Pharisee John wrote about in his Gospel.”

  “Nicodemus.” He’d almost had me on that one. I wasn’t big on Biblical lore. I got it mostly from the context of the sequence.

  “Wasn’t she the daughter of that hotel magnate?”

  I paused a bit. “You mean, Nicky Hilton?”

  He stopped there, allowing me time to open the fortune and read it. Opportunity knocks at the closed door, not at the open window. “Sounds like the fortune writers are getting their inspiration from Bartlett’s,” I said. “What’s the deal, Billings?”

  “I’m not sure.” He seemed to shake off something. “I guess I’m just being dramatic or something, but that thing gave me a bad feeling.”

  I rose to go upstairs and gave him an encouraging squeeze to his shoulder. “It’s just an outlier. The fortune writer ran out of platitudes, got creative, who knows? It’s just a stupid mass market fortune cookie fortune. It kind of fits, though, doesn’t it? It’s like a conjoined fortune. A mix of opportunity only knocking once and that platitude that says when God closes a door he opens a window. You’re not taking it seriously, are you?”

  He heaved a sigh. “No. Of course not.” But he didn’t discard the slip of paper. He fiddled with it like a magician practicing passing a coin between his knuckles.

  “Get some rest, sweetie. Big Block of Cheese Day can be exhausting.” I kissed his forehead and headed for the stairs. The truth was it was exhausting for me. I’m not a social butterfly and without particular interest in the cheese I was going to feel like an eight-year-old at a Shakespeare play. I would still have preferred to stay home at HQ and relax. But maybe I’d just gotten used to relaxing. The cabin fever had worn off weeks ago. I’d wanted to be requalified for the freedom, not necessarily because I was in a hurry to get back to work. The others probably saw Cheese Day as a party, I saw it as a social obligation. Plus, I really didn’t think I was going to find anything interesting to wear. I was still dubious about the whole affair, but I climbed up to Roxy’s quarters on the third floor. It’s one day, I thought. I can do this.

  Chapter Two

  “I can’t do this!” I cried. I must have tried on a dozen dresses and none of them fit right. Either they pooled on the floor or hung on my chest like a leaky balloon.

  Roxy was looking at me critically, examining my appearance from top to bottom. “Hey, is it cold in here? Why are you all goose pimples?”

  “Don’t worry. I got chilled during my recertification in the yard and it’s kind of hanging on,” I told her. Standing around in my underwear wasn’t helping the situation. But I wasn’t sure it was just the cold weather, either. I couldn’t really get my mind off of the fact that they were going to exhume my father. I knew it was just a formality, like I’d told my mother. I knew it was just procedure. But it still felt like his peace was being disturbed and it was unsettling. I had to shake this off. There was nothing I could do about it. I wasn’t about to fly to Illinois. Besides, Butte was there. He was taking care of things. My showing up there would just cause a fight. We could be civil on the
phone, sort of, but in person it was like trying to run sandpaper over a cheese grater. One of us would get shredded.

  I stood there, in Frillyville, next to Roxy’s bed, feeling put upon and abused, but too diplomatic to say so. The bed was covered in a bedspread that looked like leaves. The rectangular outline of the mattress could be seen in ruffles and flounces. On a walnut side table was a clock radio and a lamp with a coordinating green shade. Matching curtains adorned the one window, under which sprawled her home office including a legal-size filing cabinet. All of it sat atop tan, low-pile carpeting and was surrounded by walls of ecru. In comparison, my room had all the personality of the Bates Motel. That’s the way I liked it. I’m not into a lot of cosmetic aspects of décor. I prefer functional. I’m utilitarian and pragmatic. In my room, a shelf was simply a shelf, bare oriented strand board, just something to hold a few pair of fancy shoes and a box of memorabilia from when Billings was young. The shelf in Roxy’s doublewide closet was a statement, meticulously covered in woodgrain contact paper and edged with lace, it held stacks of shoeboxes, each one marked with a picture of the pair inside.

  Roxy caught me studying her arrangement. “Do you like the lace? I crocheted it myself. Nasty stuff, lace. I’m not doing it anymore. It’s way smaller than it looks. Oh, I know! Wait a minute. I’ve been going about this all wrong. It’s all about perspective.” She went to her closet and started sliding hung dresses to one side. Yards of various colored silk, lace and chiffon bounced and fluffed, rejected out of hand by Roxy’s practiced eye. A pretty brocade flew by that I could have used as a sleeping bag. Finally, to make the search easier, she slid the door open on the far side.

  I noticed that the entire lower half of that side of the closet was stuffed with more plastic storage boxes containing dozens of skeins of yarn. Sitting on top lengthwise was a towering stack of crochet books, including Holidays in Yarn, The Amigurumi Compendium, and Crochet Isn’t Just for Breakfast Anymore. More books, whose spines were not visible, had fallen to the floor. She reached down to pick some of them up, but the books were causing many of her long skirts to bunch up on top of the pile. “Sorry, I haven’t figured out where to put all this stuff, yet. It seems to multiply.” Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the room her law library filled an eight shelf unit and had its own Dewey Decimal System.