by Mary Daheim
Judith cocked her head at Renie. “You’re going to
ask the general manager of a major league baseball
team to deliver a box of fried chicken? Are you nuts?”
“No,” Renie replied. “Wouldn’t you like to talk to
Tubby? Not that he’ll say much. He’s Mr. Ambiguous.”
“Well . . . I suppose I can’t miss the opportunity,” Judith said. “I’ll time his visit with Addison. Sister
Jacqueline told Tubby to keep it to ten minutes.”
“That’ll be twenty,” Renie put in. “Tubby talks and
moves in low gear. That’s why he never makes a trade
deadline.”
“Okay,” Judith agreed. “I figure a little over five
minutes have gone by.”
Renie’s phone rang. She picked up the receiver and
smiled. “Hi, Bill. You’re using the phone. What a nice
surprise . . . Yes, I realize you can’t come up tonight.
It’s snowing hard here, too . . . What?” Renie’s face
froze. “You’re kidding! Did they call the cops? . . . Joe
reported it? . . . Good . . . Yes, sure . . . Now don’t get
too riled . . . Okay, will . . . Love you.”
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Renie hung up and stared at Judith. “Joe took Bill to
pick up Cammy at the Toyota dealership,” Renie said,
her face pale. “Cammy wasn’t there. She’d been
stolen.”
EIGHT
“HOW,” JUDITH DEMANDED, “does a car that’s in for
service at a dealership get stolen?”
“That’s what Bill and I would like to know,”
Renie said angrily. “We’re a one-car family. We’re
stuck.”
“Your kids each have a car,” Judith pointed out,
hoping to assuage her cousin’s distress.
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean they’ll lend one to
us,” Renie said, still fuming.
“Nobody’s going out in this snow anyway,” Judith said, eyeing the young orderly, who had advanced into their room to mop the floor for the
second time that day.
“That’s not the point,” Renie snapped. “Poor
Cammy’s out there in this blizzard, shivering and
sobbing. Her little engine is probably freezing up.”
“Don’t you and Bill have antifreeze in the radiator?” Judith inquired.
“What?” Renie scowled. “Of course. It comes
with the car these days. I meant metaphorically
speaking.”
“So Joe reported the car as stolen?” Judith asked,
putting the dinner tray aside and smiling at the orderly as he made his exit.
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Looking glum, Renie nodded. “Stolen cars won’t be
a high priority for a while. I’m sure there are too many
accidents out there right now.”
“Cheer up, coz,” Judith said, still not surrendering in
her efforts to make Renie feel better. “Nobody’s taking
your car anywhere in this storm. I guess I’ll bite the
bullet and call Mother.”
“Go for it,” Renie muttered, sinking back onto the
pillows.
Predictably, Gertrude answered on the eleventh ring.
“Well,” she said in a deceptively affable voice, “so you
pulled through. How come you didn’t let your poor old
mother know before this?”
“Joe told you I was okay,” Judith replied. “I’m sure
that Carl and Arlene mentioned it, too. Besides, you
hate to talk on the phone.”
Gertrude bridled. “I do? Says who?”
“Mother, you’ve always hated to talk on the phone,”
Judith said patiently. “How are you getting along?”
“Good,” Gertrude said. “I just had supper. Liver and
onions. Arlene makes the best. And she gets it to me on
time, straight-up five o’clock. That’s when supper
ought to be served. Who cares about late meals and
being fashionable?”
Judith glanced at her watch. It was a few minutes
after six. Usually, Judith wasn’t able to deliver her
mother’s dinner until almost six-thirty. The timing
had nothing to do with fashion, and everything to do
with Judith’s busy late afternoons, greeting guests
and preparing for the social hour. “Arlene’s very
thoughtful,” Judith allowed. “What are you doing
right now?”
“Making a family tree,” Gertrude said. “Mike called.
He wants to see who all’s hanging on it for Little
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Stinkers Preschool or whatever it’s called. Dumb. Why
can’t kids stay home and play like they used to?”
“I don’t entirely disagree with you,” Judith said.
“Today’s parents seem in such a rush to get them to
grow up. Maybe that’s why when they hit twenty, they
suddenly stop maturing until they’re almost middleaged. They’re making up for all the lost years when
they should have been carefree kids.”
“Well.” Gertrude chortled. “Maybe I haven’t raised
such a nitwit after all. When was the last time you
agreed with me on anything?”
“Come on, Mother,” Judith said. “I agree with you
on many things. Um . . . Who are you putting on the
family tree?”
“Family,” Gertrude retorted. “Our side. The Grovers
and the Hoffmans. You can do Lunkhead’s.”
Judith wasn’t sure which husband Gertrude was referring to. Her mother referred to both Dan and Joe as
Lunkhead. In fact, Judith had never been sure if
Gertrude knew—or recognized—that Mike wasn’t
Dan’s son. Over thirty years ago, a baby conceived out
of wedlock was a shameful thing. At least by
Gertrude’s strict, old-fashioned standards. While Judith believed that her mother knew, deep down, she’d
been in denial for the past three decades.
“That’s good,” Judith said, aware that her mother’s
memory, like those of most elderly people, recalled
more from the distant past than the immediate present.
“I mean, you can remember all those relatives who
were dead before my time.”
“You didn’t miss much with some of ’em,” Gertrude
declared. “Take Uncle Kaspar. He thought he was a pencil. My grandmother was always pretending to sharpen
him. The funny thing was, his head did come to a point.”
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“I never heard you mention him before,” Judith said.
“Maybe I forgot till now,” Gertrude said. “Then there
was my father’s cousin, Lotte. Big woman. Lotta Lotte,
my papa used to say. She sat on his favorite mare once
and the horse fell down, broke a leg.”
“Did they have to shoot her?” Judith asked.
“Yep,” Gertrude replied. “The mare was fine,
though. Fixed her up good as new.”
“Mother,” Judith said severely, “you’re not telling
me they shot Lotte!”
Gertrude was chuckling. “Why not? It was the old
country. They did a lot of queer things over there. Oldfashioned stuff, like wars and bombs and all that other
goofy stuff.”
“Mother,” Judith said stiffly, “I don’t want you making up information. It’s important to Mike and Kristin.
/> In fact, I’d like to know more about our family tree myself.”
“Wait till I get to your father’s side,” Gertrude said
in a low, insinuating voice. “Bet you never knew about
Uncle Percy.”
“Before my time?” Judith ventured.
“A bit.”
“What about him?”
There was a long pause. “I forget. It’ll come to me.
Hey, toots, got to go. Arlene’s here to let me teach her
how to play gin rummy.”
Gertrude hung up.
Judith looked at Renie, who was guzzling more
Pepsi. “Did you ever hear of Uncle Percy on our fathers’ side of the family?”
“No,” Renie replied. “Did your mother invent him?”
“I think she’s making up most of my side,” Judith
said. “It’s not like she doesn’t remember from way
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back. It’s five minutes ago that eludes her. Have you
made up your mind how to get dinner from the front
door to our room?”
“I told you,” Renie replied with a scowl, “I’m asking Tubby Turnbull. He should be about ready to leave.
I’ll go look.”
Tubby, in fact, was sauntering out of Addison
Kirby’s room. Renie put out a stocking-covered foot,
which caught him above the ankle. “Oof!” Tubby exclaimed in mild surprise. “Sorry. Did I step on you?”
“Mr. Turnbull,” Renie said, turning on what meager
charm she could manage, “I’m upset. Who are you getting to replace Joaquin Somosa?”
“Well . . . ,” Tubby drawled, rubbing his prominent
chin, “that’s a darned good question. Who do you think
we should get?”
“Me?” Renie pointed to herself. “I’m just a fan, a
mere woman at that. How should I know?”
“Well . . .” Tubby scratched at the elaborate combover that covered his bald spot. “Sometimes player
trade ideas come from the darnedest places. I got the
inspiration for our closer, Ho Boy Pak, from a fortune
cookie.”
“Really,” Renie breathed. “I’m not surprised. He
sort of pitches like chop suey.”
“Yes,” Tubby agreed, “he can be kind of erratic.
Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”
Renie put out her good left hand. “Oh, please, Mr.
Turnbull, could you step in for a minute and meet my
cousin? She’s a huge Seafarers fan.”
Renie made the introductions. “What a pleasure,” Judith enthused, studying Tubby more closely. He was definitely tubby, soft, and pliable. For a moment, Tubby
seemed to be deciding whether to sit or stand. He eyed the
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123
visitors’ chairs, the beds, even the commode. At last, he
stayed put. Judith knew of his reputation for indecisiveness, and noticed that the socks under his galoshes and
shoes didn’t match. Judith wondered if he’d simply not
been able to make up his mind when he got up that morning. “I’ve been rooting for the Seafarers ever since the
franchise got here,” she said as Tubby slowly released her
hand. “I’m a big sports nut. Wasn’t that terrible about Bob
Randall?”
Tubby nodded. “Really terrible. Just like Juan. And
that actress, Addison Kirby’s wife. It makes you stop
and think.” Tubby stopped, apparently to think.
“It was nice of you to call on Mr. Kirby,” Judith said.
“My cousin here actually saw him get hit by that car.”
“Really?” Tubby turned to gaze at Renie. “That’s
terrible, too. I guess you can’t blame Addison for being
kind of upset.”
“That’s true,” Judith responded. “You know, we
spoke to him before the accident. He told us he was on
his way to meet you. I’ll bet you wondered what happened to him when he didn’t show up.”
Tubby rubbed at the back of his head. “Did I? Yes,
sure I did. I wondered a lot. Then the hospital called
and told me what happened and that I’d better mosey
on over to see him. So here I am.”
“How thoughtful,” Judith said. “We gathered that
Addison had something very important on his mind. I
hope he was feeling strong enough to tell you about it.
It’s so hard to be laid up and not able to get things off
your chest.”
“That’s terrible,” Tubby agreed, “being laid up like
that and not able to . . . Yes, he got it off his chest. But
I don’t see how I can help him. I know very little.”
Behind Tubby, Renie nodded emphatically.
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Mary Daheim
“You know very little about . . . what?” Judith
prompted.
“About . . .” Tubby scratched his triple chins. “About
how Joaquin and Mrs. Kirby and Ramblin’ Randall
died so all of a sudden. But I told him—Addison—that
it seems like a real coincidence to me.”
“It does?” Judith said, trying not to sound incredulous.
“Well . . . sure,” Tubby replied, holding out his
chunky hands in a helpless gesture. “What else? I
mean, I know it wasn’t drugs with Joaquin. He never
did drugs. He believed his body was like a . . . temple.
Or something. And I suppose I have to believe what
Addison said about his wife not taking drugs, either.
He ought to know. But I can’t say about Bob Randall.
I hardly knew him, except to see him at sports banquets and such. I figure this drug talk is a smoke
screen. The doctors just plain screwed up. It happens.”
“Occasionally,” Judith allowed, wondering if it was
worthwhile to continue the conversation with Tubby
Turnbull.
Renie apparently thought not. She put a hand on
Tubby’s elbow and steered him toward the door. “Thanks
for coming by, Mr. Turnbull. You’ve given us a real . . .
thrill. Good luck when spring training rolls around.”
“What?” Tubby looked startled. “Oh—spring training. Yes, it’s coming. At the end of winter, right? Bye
now.” He trundled off into the hallway, where he
stopped, apparently undecided about which way to go.
“You didn’t ask him to meet the dinner wagon,” Judith remarked. “How come?”
“Because Tubby couldn’t handle it,” Renie said.
“It’ll take him half an hour to find the exit, and then
he’ll have to figure out if he’s going in or going out.
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I’ve got a better idea. Hey,” Renie called from the
doorway, “Maya?”
Judith heard a far-off voice tell Renie that Maya
wasn’t on duty. Renie leaned back into the room. “No
Maya tonight. But I’m not without resources. Are you
in there, Mr. Mummy?”
With great effort, Judith scooted farther down in the
bed. She was just able to make out Mr. Mummy, who
apparently had come out of his room and crossed the
hall to Renie.
“How,” Renie murmured, “do you feel about fried
chicken, Mr. Mummy?”
Mr. Mummy’s feelings about fried chicken, especially Bubba’s, were extremely positive. He was in a
walking cast, and could get down to the main entrance
with no trouble.
&nbs
p; “Can I fit the Bubba’s box into my plastic carryall?”
he inquired, his cheeks pink with excitement.
“Yes, you can,” Renie said, handing over the check
she’d already written. “Just be sure no one sees you
make the transfer.”
Mr. Mummy beamed at Renie. “It’s like a spy story,
isn’t it? You know, where one man sits on the park
bench and the other one comes along with a folded
newspaper and he leaves it on the seat and the first
man—”
“My, yes,” Renie interrupted. “You’d better go, Mr.
Mummy. The delivery may be arriving any minute.”
Judith saw Mr. Mummy scoot off down the hall, the
leg in the walking cast at an angle, and his sacklike
hospital gown waving behind him like a rag tied to a
large load on a pickup truck.
“He’s sweet,” Judith said as Renie headed back to
bed. “I’ll bet he has a crush on you.”
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Mary Daheim
“Probably,” Renie said, a trifle glum. “Why couldn’t
Sean Connery have fallen off a ladder instead of Mr.
Mummy?”
Heather Chinn appeared, taking more vital signs.
“When will Maya be back?” Judith asked.
Heather concentrated on Judith’s pulse. “Maya’s not
with us anymore.”
Judith lurched forward, disrupting Heather’s pulse
count. “Literally? Figuratively?”
“Both, I suppose,” Heather replied, slightly irritated.
“Yesterday was her last day working for Good Cheer.”
“Oh.” The thermometer cut off further comment
from Judith.
“Seeking new opportunities, huh?” Renie remarked.
“Yes,” Heather said, still intent upon her tasks.
“What was in the autopsy report on Bob Randall?”
Renie inquired.
“I don’t know,” Heather replied.
“Surely not suicide,” Renie said.
“I don’t know,” Heather repeated, her pretty face set
in stone.
“Yes, you do,” Renie asserted. “Bob Randall was
one of your patients. You would be informed if he’d
taken his own life. Don’t you think it would be prudent
for you to tell other patients on this floor what really
happened? Cover-ups never work, and then you’re left
with serious egg on your face.”
Heather removed the thermometer from Judith’s
mouth and glared at Renie. “We’ve been told not to
discuss Mr. Randall’s death. The orders have come
down from on high.”