A Pain in the Tuchis

by Mark Reutlinger

  “No, Ida, I see what you mean. And I feel responsible for putting you in this situation, and for assuming that what Little Moishe said about his father not being able to drive the motorcycle was true. But I’m afraid you have now only two choices: you can tell Moishe the truth, and that includes the fact that it was all my idea and you never intended to ride with him, or you can walk out there and get on the motorcycle. I wish there was a third choice, but I do not see one.”

  Maybe if we had had more time we could have come up with another plan. Like I suddenly have a fainting spell and have to be carried back inside. But neither I nor Mrs. K, who as I have said thinks much more quickly than I do, thought of that at the time. We saw only the two choices: confess or ride.

  Well, somehow I could not tell Moishe, who is a mensch, though a meshuggeneh one, the truth, even if it was not my idea. I had to get on the motorcycle.

  Mrs. K squeezed my hand, and I walked toward the open garage door, Moishe still looking back as he held up the motorcycle. You remember what I said about the condemned prisoner building his own gallows? Well, now I felt like I was about to put my head into the noose, walking the “last mile,” as they say. And in this ridiculous leather costume, yet, complete with space helmet.

  I was angry with myself for having put myself in such a terrible situation. I was even angry, quite unreasonably I know, at Mrs. K for having advised me to do it. But fortunately I had forgotten one very important thing: when it comes to anything that requires what you would call athletic ability, I am a real klutz. A little awkward. Even in school as a child, I was never very good at sports. Because I now play games like bridge or canasta instead of hopscotch or basketball, being a klutz has been only a mild nuisance to me. But I never thought it would actually become a benefit!

  Nevertheless, that is exactly what happened. I gathered my courage and walked up to the motorcycle, which Moishe was holding upright with obvious difficulty as it burbled and chugged, no doubt wanting to be unleashed and allowed to run.

  “What should I do?” I asked Moishe, never having gotten onto such a beast before.

  “Just grab the chrome bar behind my seat, put your right foot on the little step there, and swing your left leg over.” Then he added reassuringly with a smile, “It’s easy, just take your time.”

  Nu, time was not my problem. With the grabbing and the putting I had no difficulty. But with the swinging, that was another story altogether. I do not know whether I could have made a successful sitting on the seat if I had not been wearing that heavy leather jacket and chaps, not to mention the big space helmet with the orange stripe. Maybe yes, maybe no. What I do know is that, combined with my bursitis and my being a klutz, instead of my left foot swinging over to the other side of the motorcycle, it instead struck the big animal in the tuchis, if you know what I mean. Apparently that tipped it sideways just enough so that it began to fall and Moishe, who was only barely keeping it upright in the first place, was unable to stop it falling completely over. It was a little like you see in those movie scenes where everything slows down like it is happening underwater, and maybe two lovers are floating across a meadow toward each other.

  I had no idea Moishe, at his age, could jump that far that fast! But jump he did, and just in time, because had he not, Mr. Harley Davidson would surely have fallen right on top of him. As it was, he missed Moishe by a good six inches as the big machine went crashing to the ground. And there it lay, like a wounded animal, still burbling and growling, but—more like an upside-down turtle—unable to get up on its own. I of course lost my balance and ended up kop over tuchis—head over behind—on the other side of the machine. Oy gevalt, what a mess!

  Mrs. K, who had watched the entire scene unfold, came running over to see if we were hurt. I seemed to be only a little shaken up, saved from any real damage by being completely covered from head to foot in armor that would have made proud a knight by King Arthur. Now I know why they wear the black leather and the shiny helmet.

  But I still cannot understand about the zippers.

  —

  Now, you might think that this that I have described to you was a real brokh, a total disaster. But in fact, as I said, it turned out to be a stroke of good fortune, thanks to Mrs. K. My first thought, after checking to see that I was still in one piece, was to blame Moishe for the silly idea, in addition to Mrs. K for talking me into going along with it. But it was she who saw the possibility for making lemon pudding from lemons.

  Seeing that I was unhurt, Mrs. K then rushed over to Moishe, who fortunately was hurt only in his pride, and apologized profusely on my behalf, as if the entire mess was my fault! I began to protest, as best I could from where I was sitting, but then I heard Moishe reply, and I understood.

  “Oh, that’s all right, Rose,” says Moishe. “Riding a motorcycle is not for everyone, and of course Ida did not mean to knock the bike over. I am sure we would have had a wonderful ride together, but as it is, there does not seem to be any harm done, Got tsu danken.”

  He then stood up, brushed himself off, and checked for any injuries. Finding none, he came around to where I was sitting on the ground and helped me to stand up. I too apologized for being such a klutz and knocking over his machine. “All my fault,” I told him.

  “Do not worry, Ida. I’m just glad you are all right,” he said. “I never should have insisted you come for a ride.” He then lowered his voice and continued, “To tell you the truth, Ida, I probably should not have been riding either. It is a long time since I was trying to handle such a large bike by myself, and, well, I think it is time I let my son do all the driving, and I shall continue to ride in back. I enjoy it very much, and he is strong like I used to be.”

  So somehow my pushing over Mr. Davidson convinced Moishe he should not try to drive motorcycles anymore, and my taking the blame for it let him save face.

  So all is well that ends well; and all would have been too, if Moishe had just not added one last sentence:

  “I shall ask him to take you for a ride instead.”

  Chapter 20

  I seem to have gotten a bissel far from Vera’s murder, so let me bring you back to the evening before I had the encounter with Mr. Harley Davidson. After dinner, Mrs. K and I were watching a movie on her television. I think it was one of those they call “chick flicks,” or something like that. The girl is going to marry some shlemiel until along comes this mensch, and she almost marries the shlemiel but at the last minute she goes for the nice boy instead, as we all knew she would. Anyway, we are watching this movie when there is a knocking on the door.

  It was Fannie.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” Fannie said, “but I was wondering whether you had heard anything further about, you know, about my sister’s death.”

  “I assume you know about Daniel being arrested,” Mrs. K said. By now I think everyone in the Home knew that.

  “Yes, of course, and I have heard that Vera was poisoned in some way or other.”

  “In fact, she was given a medicine that when combined with what she was already taking—something starting with a ‘Z,’ I think—made her heart fail.”

  “I see. That’s interesting. But that can’t be the end of the matter. I mean, surely you don’t think her own son…”

  “No, of course not. Ida and I have talked with the police and we are doing what we can to find the real person responsible.”

  “And have you made any…any progress?”

  Mrs. K looked at me, and I shrugged my shoulders a bit. How much, if anything, should we tell Fannie? The police said we should not discuss details with others. But after all, it was Fannie who first raised the alarm, and who asked Mrs. K to help. We should at least give her some idea of where things stand.

  While I was thinking these things, so was Mrs. K. She obviously came to about the same conclusion as I did.

  “Fannie, dear, the police still think that Daniel seemed to have a motive and opportunity to…to do it. But they are still nosing around,
and we are trying to help them find someone else who is a more likely suspect.”

  “So do they have any other suspects?” Fannie asked.

  “Yes and no. There were a few other people who entered Vera’s room that day, such as the nurse who usually gives her a pill with lunch, and two people they have not identified who entered in the late afternoon.”

  “Two people.”

  “Yes, at least two.” Obviously Mrs. K did not want to tell Fannie, or anyone else, that we had already guessed it was Rena and talked with her.

  “Why would these people be going into my sister’s room in the afternoon? Were they cleaners or something?”

  “Possibly. Have you any idea who they might have been?”

  Fannie appeared to think about this for a moment.

  “No, other than the cleaning staff, and maybe a nurse, I can’t think of anyone. But if my sister was indeed poisoned, I don’t see why it matters. She would not have taken any medicine anyway.”

  Again we looked at each other with surprise.

  “She would not? How do you know this?”

  “Because it was Yom Kippur, of course. All of her medicines were to be taken with food, and of course we fasted all day. She wouldn’t take her medicines that morning from me, so I’m reasonably sure she wouldn’t have taken them from anyone else until after sundown, after Yom Kippur was over.”

  This was something neither I nor Mrs. K had considered, and it was a big shock to us both.

  “But Fannie,” Mrs. K said, “you know that one is permitted to take medicine, even to eat, on Yom Kippur if it is necessary for one’s health. Surely your sister knew that and didn’t refuse her medicine.”

  “Yes, I know that, and I argued with her about it briefly, but she said she was feeling better and missing one day wouldn’t matter. She was quite adamant about it. I even went to find Dr. Menschyk to ask him if it really was okay for her to miss a day of medicine, but I couldn’t find him, so I left it at that and went to services. So you see, until sundown, no one could have given Vera any medicine, unless they somehow forced it on her.”

  “But of course then she would have told someone, certainly Daniel, what had happened,” Mrs. K said. She sounded quite miserable, because of course if no one could have given Vera the wrong medicine until sundown when Yom Kippur ended, then the only person who could have given her the bad medicine was the one who came to her room after the Day of Atonement was over.

  Only Daniel.

  —

  After Fannie left the room, Mrs. K and I sat and talked for a while about what we had learned from her. It was not a happy talk.

  “First of all, I am surprised that Vera would refuse to take her medicine on purely religious grounds,” Mrs. K said. “She never struck me as that orthodox to begin with, and in any event, we know that anyone needing to take medicine is excused from fasting on Yom Kippur. Surely she knew that too.”

  “Maybe not. And besides, is it not true that people sometimes become much more religious when they have a life-threatening illness? But if she was being so strict about it, do you then think she also refused to take her pills from Daniel the evening before, on erev Yom Kippur? The Day of Atonement would have officially started then.”

  “We could ask Daniel, I suppose. But remember that he had to be at services himself by sundown, so he would likely have given her the medicine earlier that evening, before the beginning of the fast. And of course we all ate early so we could be finished before sundown.”

  “Hmm. That is true. So all we really know is that Vera refused to take her morning medicines. If someone tried to give her something later in the day, she may have refused, or maybe she was persuaded that it was in her best interest.”

  “Gotteniu! One way or the other, Ida, this makes it even harder to find a more likely suspect than Daniel.”

  So maybe we were on the wrong team after all?

  Chapter 21

  So Mrs. K and I are sitting reading in the lounge the next morning—you have noticed that we spend a lot of time in the lounge, but it really is the most comfortable place to read or sip our tea, or both together—when again I have the feeling someone is watching us.

  This time I turned around quickly, or as quickly as a person built like me can turn, and I could swear I saw a man who had been standing behind a decorative screen—it hides a wastebasket—quickly turn and walk away. I could not tell who it was, but from the little I could see from the back, I could say for certain that he was short, heavyset, and balding. That describes a lot of people of my acquaintance.

  “Excuse me a minute,” I said to Mrs. K as I got to my feet. I did not want to bother her with what was probably my overactive imagination, but I was sufficiently curious to do a tiny bit of investigating myself. I walked to the front desk and asked Joy Laetner, the morning receptionist, if someone of this description had come in recently.

  “Sure did,” Joy said. “I didn’t recognize him, so I had him sign in.” She indicated the sign-in list on the corner of the desk. I looked at it and there it was, on the last filled-in line, the name of the strange visitor:

  “Fred Herrington.”

  —

  That evening was the play to which Isaac Taubman had invited Mrs. K. It was Friday evening, Shabbos, and ordinarily we would all be at services. But Mrs. K and I, as well as Taubman for that matter, are not so religious that we will not miss services if there is something else important to do.

  Mrs. K and Taubman were to leave by taxi at about seven-thirty. At seven o’clock she called me on the telephone and asked me to come over to her apartment. “I would like you should give me your opinion on something,” she said.

  I wondered on what my opinion was wanted, so I went right over. I knocked on Mrs. K’s door and walked in, as I usually do. She was in her bedroom, standing in front of a full-length mirror.

  “What do you think, Ida?” she said. “Is this the right thing for tonight?”

  Now you can be sure this was not the first time Mrs. K had gone to a play in the evening. In fact, she and I frequently attended concerts or plays together, although we usually preferred afternoon matinees. She had never before asked my advice on what to wear.

  I moved closer to get a better look at her dress. As I did, I sniffed a scent I did not recognize.

  “Rose, are you wearing a new perfume?” I asked.

  “No, no, it is only some toilet water, and I have had it around for a long time. My daughter gave it to me. I just haven’t worn it before.” This would have been Mrs. K’s daughter Rachel, who is married to a doctor.

  “Well, it is quite pleasant. Not at all like the aftershave or cologne or whatever it is men sometimes wear. You almost need a gas mask to get near them.”

  Mrs. K laughed. “Yes, I often think they must take a bath in it, or maybe apply it with a fire hose. Maybe they cannot smell it themselves.”

  “Then they must have no sense of smell. But do not worry, what you are wearing is very nice.”

  “Thank you, Ida. And the dress?”

  I looked at the pretty black dress with delicate flowers here and there. It really was quite becoming, which I told her. I had not seen it before.

  “So you are ready for your date,” I said. “It has been a while since you have been on one.”

  Mrs. K waved this off. “It is not a date, Ida,” she said emphatically. “It is merely two friends going to a play. It is no different than when you and I do the same.”

  “Maybe,” I said, “but unless that reporter at the gay restaurant was right in what he first assumed, the fact that I am a woman and Isaac is a man makes it different.”

  She laughed. “Let us not argue about it, Ida, because however you want to characterize it, it is still just two people going to a play. If the play is good, we shall have a good time. That is all.”

  A few minutes later, as she was ready to leave, she said, “I do feel bad for Karen, though. I think you were right, that she wanted Isaac to invite her, and perha
ps she resents that he invited me instead.”

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I saw Karen earlier this afternoon and she looked quite pleased. She told me that at the last minute Ben Lowenstein had asked her to accompany him to the play.”

  “Really? Lowenstein is, I think, the youngest man living here. Just in his sixties. And he is not so bad-looking either.”

  “No, really quite handsome, I would say.”

  “And Karen is quite pretty herself and only a few years older than Lowenstein. I am not surprised she is pleased. I am pleased too.”

  “So now you have, what do they call it, a clear field with Isaac Taubman, yes?” I could not resist asking.

  Mrs. K blushed just a bissel. “I meant I was pleased for Karen. I already told you, this is not a date, it is just two friends attending a play. Perhaps you would like to come along as a chaperone?”

  We both laughed at that. If a lady and a gentleman in their seventies require a chaperone to keep them out of trouble, the world has indeed turned upside down.

  “I would go along and protect you from Taubman,” I lied, “but as you know I am leaving in the morning to visit Morty for the weekend and will not be available for this important duty. You will just have to behave yourselves on your own.”

  It was true that I would be visiting my son Morty and his family and staying overnight. I was looking forward to seeing my two grandchildren, who are already teenagers.

  “I know, Ida,” Mrs. K said. “And I’m sure you will have a wonderful time. And while you are gone, I intend to spend a lot of time thinking very hard about Daniel’s situation. I am sure there is something important we are missing. There must be. If not, then Daniel is the guilty one, and I continue to believe that is not possible. So I must find another solution that, although it may be improbable, is the truth.”

  And I was confident that she would discover the truth. But I was not as certain as she as to whether that truth would find Daniel to be innocent or guilty. Chas v’cholileh! God forbid.