Butter Safe Than Sorry

by Tamar Myers

  That precise moment, the passage of the passerine and the passing of its poop, was like a switch being flipped in my brain. Just like that, I went from a near-vegetative state to the tart-tongued endearing old soul I used to be. I rose from the wicker rocker like a modern-day Lazarus from the dead, threw off the hideous turquoise-and-slime green afghan that had been wrapped around my shapely shoulders, and shook a slim fist at the son of a squab.

  “You come back here, you rat with wings!”

  Sister Disarticulate was temporarily at a loss for words. “You—you’re back!”

  “As big as life and twice as ugly,” I said.

  “Whum?” she said.

  “Nothing. That’s just something my first husband used to say—except that he wasn’t legally my husband, which meant that we were cohabitating without the bonds of matrimony—oh dear, this must shock you, you being a nun and all.”

  “I’m not here at noon. I’m merely a cistern.”

  I ran that through my awakening brain. “But nuns, sisters—they’re all the same, right?”

  “Gracious, no. I’m not Catheter, nor even Despicable; I’m a Pigeon.”

  I pointed to my head. “Nonsense, dear. That was a pigeon; you don’t look anything like one—well, other than your eyes, which, you must admit, are rather beady and your legs . . . Honestly, dear, you should either request a longer habit, or see if Mother Grand Poo-Bah can make an exception and allow you to wear trousers. If not, the next time you’re in Home Depot, someone looking for broomstick replacements might lunge for your shins. In which case, if you’re not appropriately clad under there, it could be somewhat embarrassing. Delores Klinkhauser forgot to wear her bloomers—”

  “No, no,” she cried, in mounting agitation, and then finally her words came out as sharp as the Devil’s pitchfork and every bit as dangerous: “I have no religion; I’m a pagan!”

  “Get behind me, Satan!”

  My outburst produced a flock of curious onlookers. They pushed and shoved—in a gentle, apathetic sort of way—to get a better look at the miracle unfolding before their languorous eyes.

  But as I said, the “old Magdalena” was back: she who was half full of the vim and vigor, and half full of wit. That is to say, it was time to check myself out of the “Clooney” bin.

  “Pardon me, guys,” I said, as I pointed in the direction opposite my inn, “but is that the Chattanooga Choo-choo?”

  A dozen cowled heads swiveled as one. “Where?”

  Off I shot like a hundred-twenty-five-pound bat out of Hades (the meals at the convent were completely uninspiring).

  Despite the fact that I’d sprung myself from his mother ’s convent, Gabe was overjoyed to see me again—back as myself. Dear Freni nearly plotzed with happiness, and even allowed me to clasp her tightly in an English-style hug. And as for my little one—I kvelled with pride every time I saw him, and when I felt his little arms around my neck, I was in heaven. Oh, what naches (to borrow yet another term from my yiddishe mother-in-law)! We were as happy a family as could possibly be—well, barring a few minor details.

  When our daughter, Alison, came home from college on spring break, she brought the evil mutt Shnookums with her. The creature seems convinced that I’m responsible for his mistress (my sister, Susannah) being in prison, so he spent the entire week either nipping at my heels or attempting to dance with my shins—if you know what I mean. Another small irritant—both literally and figuratively—was the Babester’s mother, who, in her role as mother-in-law, was not so superior.

  Understandably, she was a bit piqued that I had returned to play the part of her son’s best friend, constant companion, and—horror of horrors—lover. She scrambled desperately to secure the knots in her apron strings, but I had an advantage she didn’t have, and it wasn’t up my sleeve either. I promised myself that if necessary I would resort to even going so far as to dance with my husband rather than let his mother win that battle.

  In the woods behind my pasture flows a small creek. Each spring beavers attempt to dam it, as is their custom, by cutting down every young tree within dragging distance. I have one heck of a time trying to stop them from doing so, and invariably I give up and the varmints succeed, which means that they flood my woods and destroy even more trees. Beavers might appear cuddly on television, or as stuffed toys, but in real life they are about the size of Ida Rosen, but with slightly smaller teeth. Thus it was that I chose these animals as my metaphor for my struggle with my husband’s mother.

  The Battle of the Beavers, as I called it, was actually quite beneficial to revitalizing my marriage. Victory for me was keeping a smile on my Beloved’s face, and I must confess that I got to be rather innovative in that department. My matrimonial vows gave me a certain advantage, which I exercised in all six of our guest rooms, the hayloft, the corncrib, the silo (it was empty), and even the six-seater outhouse (it’s just for show). I drew the line at our solid-oak dining room table, which was made by my ancestor Jacob the Strong in the early nineteenth century. That massive piece of furniture is the only thing that survived the tornado that destroyed my inn a few years back, and while it could have held the weight of a plethora of polygamists, I didn’t believe in mixing business with pleasure.

  At any rate, I was soon back to my normal, pre-bank robbery self. The “old-Magdalena” as people started referring to me. I bit my tongue—the grooves were still there—and plowed on, taking one day at a time. The irony was that the balm to healing my soul, which had been wounded by a threat to my son, was time spent with my son. And the more time I spent with my son, and the faster I healed, the angrier I became.

  Three men—at least three men—had come into the bank, prepared to kill the occupants, and just to get money. So far the Bedford Police Department and the county sherriff had been unable to get any leads from the videotape. Perhaps I was reading something into the situation, but I sensed that they were mostly just happy that no one had gotten killed. The fact that the gun-men were Amish appeared to have made the police more than a mite uncomfortable. According to my sources (Freni and extended family), the interviews that they conducted amongst the local Amish community were bare-bones brief, and the officers seemed eager to believe every word they were told. In no time at all, an official conclusion was reached: the robbers were transient individuals and they had no connection to the community.

  What enraged me even more is that the community accepted this verdict.

  “B-b-but that’s j-just ridiculous,” I sputtered to my best friend, Agnes.

  Agnes calmly wiped the coffee- flavored spittle from her face and set the newspaper on the table between us. “There’s more,” she said, “and you’re not going to like it either.”

  “It’s better that I hear it from you first, dear. Believe it or not, your voice has a soothing, almost hypnotic, effect.” That was only a white fib, of the totally permissible variety, seeing as how it was not meant to hurt anyone. The truth is that I finally had reached the point where reading glasses were more than just a good idea, but I had yet to overcome the sin of vanity.

  Agnes took a bite of store-bought chocolate éclair. It was a day old—given that she only shops in Bedford once a week—but so was the newspaper. Sadly, Agnes would still have eaten the éclair, had it been a week old.

  “It said,” she informed me, “that in all probability, the gun would not have been fired, and that Amy Neubrander would not have been grazed by that bullet, if an overzealous customer had not tried to play the part of Indiana Jones.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That’s right. You don’t go to movies or watch television,” she said with exaggerated sarcasm. “Tell me, Magdalena, don’t you ever regret letting the world pass you by? Think of all the things I’ve seen and done that you’ve deprived yourself of.”

  I snagged the last éclair from the white cardboard box. The score was Magdalena four, Agnes eight—not that anyone was counting.

  “I hardly consider myself to be deprived, d
ear. After you saw that chain saw movie, you had to sleep at the inn for a week, and when you went on your singles cruise to the Bahamas, you got so seasick that you had to jump ship before it even left Miami.”

  “The harbor was choppy that day.”

  “You know, of course, that this leaves me fit to be tied.”

  “I was afraid you’d say something like that. Does this mean what I think it means?”

  I bit the end off the French pastry and savagely sucked in a mouthful of rich, thick cream before answering. “That I’m going to go off on another half-cocked, harebrained, ill-advised, foolhardy, cockamamie investigation of my own?”

  “I’d say that pretty much covers it.”

  “Then you’re absolutely right.”

  Agnes nodded. “You’re kind of like a pair of Teutonic plates, Magdalena; I know that they’re going to be the catalyst for an earth-shattering event sometime in the near future, but there’s just no stopping them. The same thing applies to you.”

  “That’s just about the nicest thing anyone’s ever said.”

  “So, you’ve agreed to take me along with you on your next wild adventure?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Come on, Magdalena, you know that’s why you’re here; you didn’t drive all the way out to my neck of the woods for stale pastries and scintillating conversation. Freni makes the best cinnamon rolls in the world and we could have chatted over the phone. No, you planned to recruit me as your sidekick.”

  I feigned surprise. Feigning, by the way, is not nearly as bad as lying. I defy anyone to find that word in their King James Version of the Holy Bible. Its absence is proof that it was not important enough to be considered a sin.

  “Oh my,” I said. “You don’t think that position is still open, do you?”

  “But, Magdalena, I’m your BFF.”

  “My what?”

  “Best friend forever? Best female friend? Whatever. I’m both, aren’t I? And anyway, I’m always your sidekick.”

  “Only when Wanda Hemphopple isn’t.”

  “Please, Mags.”

  Feigning reluctant sighs comes easy to anyone who has ever had a mother. “All right, but you have to follow my lead. No thinking for yourself.”

  “I promise.”

  Rather pleased with my performance, I stood up. “Got any more coffee?”

  “There’s some in the kitchen.”

  I went to refill my cup but was back a few seconds later. “What’s up with your uncle?”

  “Which one?”

  Agnes’s two uncles live next door. Both men are in their seventies, and both are nudists, even when the weather is cool, like it was that morning. Yet despite the low temperature, one of the old coots was keeping a remarkably high profile—so to speak.

  “I didn’t look at his face, dear. He’s the one who’s outside the kitchen window planting pansies.”

  “You must mean Uncle Willard. You know that commercial that says if it lasts more than four hours, then you should see a doctor? That’s right. You don’t watch TV. Anyway, that’s what he took, and it lasted more than that, so I drove him to the doctor—twice, as a matter of fact—and his blood pressure, heart, everything checks out fine.”

  “Ah, I’m not sure you’re getting my drift. This would appear to be a hydraulics problem.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

  “You mean they have pills for that?”

  “Magdalena, have you been living in a cave somewhere?”

  “That’s a very rude thing to say, Agnes. You know that I don’t read secular magazines either. It takes a lot of willpower in this day and age to keep a mind as narrow as mine, and I would appreciate a compliment now and then.” I lowered my voice to BFCL—hereafter known as “best friend confidential level” before continuing. “Besides, you may extrapolate from my question that my Dearly Beloved doesn’t require the benefits of modern science to replicate the Empire State Building.”

  Agnes giggled into her cup and turned seven shades of red. “Ooh, Magdalena, you’re so wicked.”

  I considered my next question carefully. “How long has it been?”

  “Two weeks.”

  I gasped as a very important detail occurred to me. “But why would he take the pills? He isn’t even married!”

  “There you go, being Miss Judgmental again. My uncle’s reason for taking the pills is none of your beeswax.”

  “Why, I never! Just for that you may not be my sidekick—no matter how much you beg.”

  “That’s fine with me.”

  I waggled a finger at her, à la Bill Clinton. “I mean it.”

  “So do I.”

  “Somebody else is going to get all the glory.”

  “They’ll also have to put up with you.”

  That did it. I was out of there like fleas on a freshly lathered dog. Agnes Miller had a few things to learn about friendship and loyalty; too bad that I didn’t have the time to set her straight just then. At least my soaring blood pressure could be put to good use at my next stop of the day.

  It is twelve miles and half a century from Hernia to Bedford. Even Hernia’s non-Amish population lags behind the rest of country in its mores and outlook, and somehow this spiritual quality is manifested in the physical. The end result is that one actually can feel the culture shock when passing the sign that says Welcome to Bedford. If I may speak frankly, it may as well say Welcome to Sodom and Gomorrah.

  As I did every time I ventured into this den of iniquity, I prayed for strength and patience (not the strongest of my virtues). The latter is my least-answered prayer. I haven’t the foggiest what it feels like to have it answered; I certainly didn’t feel any different that day. With the economy still deep in the loo, I didn’t have to worry about finding a parking space at my bank; neither did I have to wait to speak to the bank manager himself.

  Mr. Pernicious Yoder III was at first very gracious and even offered me a Styrofoam cup of tepid coffee.

  “Cream and sugar?” I asked hopefully.

  “I have packaged whitener that tastes like chalk and a pink sweetener with a bitter aftertaste.”

  “Ix-nay on ink-pay, but I always carry some extra packets of Splenda in my purse. Would you like a couple?”

  His nose literally wrinkled. It was like watching an albino inchworm trying to get away from itself.

  “Uh—no, thanks.”

  “They haven’t been opened, dear. Besides, I gave my purse a thorough cleaning since the hamster died.”

  “It died in your purse?”

  “Heavens no! But that’s where my son—he’s only four—put it—it was his, you know—so that I would find it and make it better. Unfortunately, that was just before he and his dad were going off to spend the weekend with some friends on a male-only camping trip. The little tyke didn’t know it was dead—he’s not very clear on that subject yet—and that just so happened to be the weekend I decided to stay home and put up my tootsies. So you see I had no need for a pocketbook.”

  “Please, might we change the subject?”

  “Certainly.” I flashed him a much-practiced winning smile. “Cousin Yoder—”

  Persnickety Pernicious held up a manicured hand. “I must insist that you address me as Mr. Yoder, as we have no proven bonds of kinship.”

  “Au contraire. I have done my homework. My adopted father and your father were double-first cousins. My adopted mother was a third cousin once removed to your father and fifth cousins two ways to your mother—just not through the Yoders. My biological father was a fourth cousin twice removed to your father as well as a fifth cousin in another line, and my biological mother showed five cousin relationships six generations back. Ergo, it wouldn’t surprise me if you and I were brother and sister, by at least some arcane system of calculation, somewhere on this globe.”

  “Oy vey,” he groaned, revealing yet another possible connection, “you wouldn’t happen to have some aspirin, or other type of headache medicine,
in that miniature sarcophagus of yours, would you?”

  “But I thought—”

  “You have a way of making a man desperate; two minutes with you has given me the mother of all migraines. Indeed, we must be related.”

  “Very funny.” I fished around until I found a couple of loose ibuprofen. I picked off a long light brown hair. “This is the best I can do, dear. Although I could give you Sermon Number Thirty-seven—that’s what my sister called it, at any rate—on appropriate premarital sexual behavior. Susannah used to claim that it put her in a coma. You probably wouldn’t feel much pain in a coma.”

  He grabbed the pills from my hand and swallowed them without as much as a sip of water. “Thank you. Now, could you please get to the point of your business?”

  “Very well.” I took a seat opposite his glass-topped desk, smoothed my skirt, and silently repeated my prayer for patience. “As you know, my miracle baby and I were here the day of the robbery—”

  His hand went up again. “Ah, ah, ah, it was not a bank robbery, Ms. Yoder. My capable guards and I foiled the plot quite handedly, if I must say so, despite your crude attempt at a civilian’s bum rush, which almost resulted in disaster. In fact, as a result of your irresponsible action, one of my most valuable employees was gravely wounded.” He removed his glasses with his other hand and massaged the indentations on the bridge of his nose. “Frankly, the jury’s still out on whether or not the bank will sue on this young lady’s behalf.”

  “Sue? Sue whom?”

  “Why, sue you, of course.”

  “Moi? It was your guards who stood around, just staring, as immobile as fence posts until I took action on my son’s behalf. It’s me who should be suing you!”

  He blinked rapidly, as if trying to dislodge an airborne dust particle from his left eye. In fact, so vigorously did he attend to this matter, and whilst making such contorted faces, that one might conclude that he was trying to remove a clod of dirt from that unfortunate peeper.

  “Would you like me to look at it for you?” I asked.

  “No. I’m fine.” Eventually his eye filled with tears and he stopped rubbing. “Now where were we?”