Butter Safe Than Sorry

by Tamar Myers

  “Susannah! Do you hear yourself? You’re defending a murderer. You are, in fact, a convicted accessory to murder. Oh where, oh where, did I go wrong?” Not knowing quite how to wring my hands, I rubbed them together vigorously.

  “Stop being so dramatic, Mags. If you loved someone as much as I love my dingleberry pie, you wouldn’t be asking yourself that question.”

  Not being a great fan of dingleberries, I let the argument drop. “Let me get this straight, sis. All you wanted was for me to listen to your premonition as regards what’s his name in an upcoming heist?”

  “His name is Melvin Lucretius Stoltzfus III.”

  “Lucretius? The poor dear never stood a chance—but still, that’s no excuse for cold-blooded murder.”

  “Guard, guard!” Susannah shouted. “I’m through in here!”

  “Oh no, you’re not,” I hissed. I was so angry I was able to do it without an “S”—a feat usually reserved for sloppy novelists. “You’re not through until you promise me that your little nephew is safe.”

  Susannah waved the guard back, but her eyes were as flat and lifeless as the buttons on my old wool coat. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

  “Because if what you’ve intimated is true, then the Son of Satan was in the bank that day and saw my Little Jacob. If he thinks that Little Jacob can identify him then—”

  “Can he?”

  “Of course not! If he could, don’t you think he would have told me? And if he’d told me, do you think that I’d be this shocked to learn that he was still around?”

  “You’ve always been a good actress, Mags—which is the same as being a good liar.”

  “Well, I’m telling the truth this time. Listen to me, I’m not even wailing. I’m just being quiet and earnest. This is a mother talking, not your sister.”

  “You sound cagey to me, sis.”

  “Save the life of my child,” cried the desperate mother. “Honestly, Susannah, Little Jacob didn’t see anything.”

  “Guard,” she called again.

  “So help me, Susannah, if Melvin touches one hair on my baby’s head, that little rat of yours is going to—”

  That was when Susannah threw back her head and screamed like a banshee with its tail in a vise. I’d been referring to her lap rodent (was it really a dog?) named Shnookums, who was quite safe with my daughter, Alison, who was away at college. Besides, I’m the sort who scoots earthworms off the sidewalk and ferries lost ladybugs outdoors. I only step on fleas by accident. So you see, there was no need for her to carry on like that, and she dingdang well knew it.

  Unfortunately the lady linebacker guard jumped to a wrong conclusion, and woman-handled me in the worst possible way. It wasn’t the least bit fun and offered me absolutely no fodder for romantic daydreams—not that I was in the market for any. It’s just that as I get older, I try harder to keep an open mind.

  By the time I got to the car, I was shaking like the paint mixer at Home Depot. ’Tis a cliché, I know, but one that originated with me, so I feel free to employ it. Very little of my intense emotion came from the rude way in which I’d been treated; to be honest, I was just plain scared. I feared for the life of my son, who was my flesh and blood, my pride and joy, the crowning achievement of my life.

  Take the inn, Melvin. Strip everything from me, but leave my son be. He is my life. Yes, I know, Gabe was my life as well, but my husband had already lived a good many years, and had a vast range of experiences under his belt. Little Jacob, on the other hand, was just starting out. He was just beginning to be curious about everything. It was “why” this, and “why” that, and he was innocent—he didn’t know what death was; how could he possibly comprehend his own?

  Ordinarily, logic would dictate that I contact the sheriff with the information that Susannah had given me, and I intended to, but not until my little darling was safely out of harm’s way. But first I needed a plan—a way to get Little Jacob out of Hernia without being followed.

  I couldn’t very well hide him in the trunk of my car. Who would that fool? If indeed Melvin was back in Hernia, he probably had a telescope trained on my inn. He had, after all, made his supposed escape from our town on the bus with the Sisters of Perpetual Apathy, who were now living in a convent just across the road from me. Perhaps he was back with them, disguised again as a nun—or maybe one of the self- styled nuns was in cahoots with him. After all, they were all a bunch of whackos—and I say that with Christian love.

  The Babester would face the same problems that I would, so there was no use going that route. Besides, he’d want to confide in Ida, who was Sister Superior to the Super Deluded—again, I say this with Christian charity. It did occur to me to enlist Freni and Mose; perhaps Little Jacob could be smuggled out hidden in the bottom of their buggy. However, despite the fact that both septuagenarians have hearts of spun gold, their lips could sink all the ships in the Gulf of Aden, thus causing a global oil shortage of epic proportions.

  No, there was only one person in all of Hernia with whom I could entrust the life of my precious little boy.

  “You want me to do what?” Sam said.

  “Shhh, I don’t want him to hear you,” I said.

  “No need to worry about that,” Sam said. “Even Superman couldn’t hear us with the volume up that loud.”

  He was right. We were standing up by the register, at the front of the store, and Little Jacob was at the back in Sam’s office watching cartoons. As we don’t have a TV set, he seldom gets to watch it. Needless to say, he was utterly entranced.

  “Sam,” I said, “you’re my last resort. You’ve got to help me think of a way to get him out of town—out of state—without anyone suspecting until he’s long gone.”

  “Yes, but why me?”

  “Because you love him, and because I can trust you.”

  “You can?” Sam’s watery blue eyes attempted to lock onto mine.

  “Yes,” I said wearily, “but don’t be reading anything into that. I’d sooner cheat on Gabe with a drunken henweigh than allow you to plant one kiss on these ruby red lips of mine.”

  “Uh—is that so? What’s a henweigh?”

  “About four pounds if she’s plump.”

  Sam roared. “You see? That’s what I love about you!”

  “Well, then love me from afar, but help your godson close up—you know what I mean.”

  Sam sighed. “Yeah.” Then he closed his eyes and scratched his balding head with the stub of a number two pencil that lived behind his ear. “Wait a minute—what time is it?”

  “According to that enormous clock behind you—courtesy of Blough Brothers Butter—now that’s a mouthful—it’s two fifteen. And a few seconds.”

  “That’s it!”

  “Sam, that is indeed the largest—and ugliest, I might add—clock I’ve ever seen not attached to a tower, but even my somewhat diminutive offspring couldn’t fit in there. Besides, even if he could, how long do you propose he stay sequestered? And of course, you’d have to remove the works—”

  “Magdalena, there you go again, getting all sorts of exercise from jumping to conclusions.” There were no customers in the store, but Sam did a visual of all three aisles first just to be sure. “You see, Henry Blough, the owner, is my second cousin once removed on my father’s side of the family, and something else—but I forget—on my mother’s side. He’s related to you too, for your information. Anyway, I’ve been stocking his butter for the past twenty-three years. It’s the only kind of ‘store bought’ butter my Amish customers will buy, and you know why?”

  “ ’Cause it’s the best?”

  “You’re darn tooting.”

  “This is all very nice, Sam, and remind me to buy some more soon, but what does this have to do with saving the life of my child?”

  Sam flipped his fingers from his forehead to indicate what he thought of my highly developed intellect. “It has everything to do with it. You see, the butter truck is due to arrive just about now—always before two thirty. They
unload my butter, the last order of the day, and then zip on down back to Maryland and the family farm.”

  “The farm’s in Maryland?”

  “Yes, and surrounded by three other farms that are all owned by relations of some sort, and they have every animal you can think of—even llamas. Little Jacob’s going to love it. Trust me, Magdalena, I wouldn’t suggest this, unless I was a hundred percent sure that the boy would be safe.”

  I knew Sam believed his own words, but could I? “What exactly is your plan?”

  “We put Little Jacob in an empty butter carton and carry him to the back of the truck—he can get out as soon as he’s in the truck, but he has to stay out of sight. Meanwhile you stay visible up here; pretend you’re shopping. Of course, the TV will be blaring cartoons the whole time. After the truck has pulled safely away, I’ll fix up a dummy of sorts—Hey, I can use the scarecrow from last year’s Halloween display. We’ll wrap it in a blanket and you’ll carry it to the backseat of your car and lay it gently down. Pretend it’s him. Then you drive straight to Agnes Miller ’s house.”

  “Agnes’s house?”

  “Yes, it will buy you more time. Everyone knows you hang out there. After a while you can call Gabe from there. But make him come over to Agnes’s before you tell him what’s really going on. Dollars to doughnuts, the inn is bugged.”

  I shivered. “Sam, you’re a genius. You’d be a diabolically evil criminal if you had chosen to go that route.”

  “The only reason I didn’t is because of you.”

  “Stop it, Sam! Not now.” I put my face in my hands and prayed. Then I walked assuredly back to where my son was enjoying himself more than he had in perhaps weeks, and kissed him on the forehead, both cheeks, and even on the corners of the lips.

  “Mama!” he said, pushing me away. “I can’t see.”

  “You’re going on a trip,” I said. “You’ll see pigs, and sheep, and goats—even llamas. It’s going to be lots of fun.”

  “Do the llamas have TV?”

  “I’m sure somebody there has TV.”

  “Will I get to watch cartoons?”

  “You know what? I hope that you can! But first we have to play a little game of hide and go seek.”

  The truest love of my life looked up at me for the first time since I’d entered the room. “Do I get to hide?”

  “Oh yes, dear. Uncle Sam and the butter man are going to hide you in a cardboard box and put you in the back of the butter truck. That way the others can’t find you.”

  “Who is the others, Mama?”

  “Everyone, dear. This is going to be our little secret until you’re out of Hernia and on your way to this special farm.”

  “Are you coming with me?”

  “If I come with you, someone might see us, because I’m too big to fit in a box. But I’ll be there as soon as I can to get you.”

  “But I don’t want to go without you.”

  He threw his arms around my neck, and put his head against mine. His little-boy scent of sweat, as yet unsullied by puberty, nearly broke my heart. This was the human I had actually grown inside me—from scratch! I’d almost sooner cut off my arm and send it away in an empty butter box, except that such a ghoulish act would do nothing to keep my progeny safe from the maniacal Melvin.

  “Lots and lots of cartoons,” I said. I didn’t care if it turned out to be a lie. I needed to keep my boy safe.

  “Okay, Mama.” He kissed me on the lips and then leaned back in my arms. “Why are you crying?”

  “Because I want to fit in a butter box too,” I said in an exaggerated pout. I tousled his hair. “Hey, do you think President Obama has a llama? A llama with drama?”

  Little Jacob giggled. “Mama, you’re silly—you know that?”

  While my heart went south to Maryland in a butter box, I drove north to see Agnes. My dearest friend remained remarkably composed when I poured out my anguish, and although they didn’t help anyway, she remembered to serve me hot chocolate and ladyfingers. It was Agnes who told me how to break the news to my son’s father; she even got him on the phone.

  “Gabe—”

  “Hon, where have you been? Are you all right?”

  “We’re fine as a frog’s hair split three ways, dear.”

  “Frogs don’t have hair.”

  “It’s so fine you just don’t see it.”

  “They don’t have hair.”

  “Okay, if you’re going to split hairs—”

  “I’m not; you are.”

  “Gabe, just shush up and listen. Please.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m leaving you, Gabe.”

  “What?”

  “Our marriage is over. Surely you’ve seen this coming.”

  “The heck I have!”

  “Well, I have. Our differences are just too great; we’re never going to get past them. The best thing we can do for Little Jacob is to go our separate ways now and get on with our lives while he’s still young enough to adapt.”

  “Adapt? To what?”

  “To whichever path we decide to head down—individually, I mean. I imagine that you wouldn’t mind it if he learned more about Jewish customs and—”

  “Ding dang dong,” Gabe shouted into my ear. “Frumpy Felicity feverishly fricasseed fryers!” Of course those weren’t the actual words he said, but they do alliterate with them. The real words were boringly repetitive and I would never repeat them.

  “Look, we can discuss this better face-to-face,” I said. “I’ve decided to stay at Agnes’s tonight. Little Jacob is in her bedroom watching cartoons, so I haven’t told him yet. Why don’t you come over right now and we can discuss this more in person?”

  “What? In front of Agnes?”

  “No, silly. I’ll send her over to visit her weird uncles.”

  “You serious, babe? Because you’ve just socked me in the gut with a punch out of nowhere and—”

  “Come,” I said and hung up.

  19

  First Gabe was incredulous. Then he was angry that I had not consulted with him before shipping our beloved son off to the butter farm—No, angry is an understatement. But I’d expected some of that, so I was as ready as one can be on that score.

  It was, however, the fear he felt and the torrent of tears it brought on that came as a surprise. Nothing in my life had prepared me for an experience of this nature.

  I’d never seen anyone cry like that, male or female. In my culture we are reserved, stoic even. We bear up under our burdens or give them over to the Lord, who shoulders them for us. Yes, there are times when we are overwhelmed, and Satan is nipping at our heels, when we might succumb and weep quietly—but always in the privacy of our own bathroom or bedroom. We never, ever sob openly—in a living room, and most certainly never with streams of water cascading down our cheeks.

  Agnes, dear friend that she was, prepared for Gabe his own version of hot chocolate and ladyfingers. I knew that Agnes belonged to the First Mennonite Church of Hernia, which was vastly more liberal than Beechy Grove Mennonite, but just how liberal, I had no idea. Gabe’s hot “chocolate” turned out to be “Irish coffee,” and his ladyfinger was a shot glass of straight- up liquid comfort served on the side. Considering how distraught he was, I held my counsel like the good little wife I was supposed to be. For the time being.

  It was decided that I would spend the night with Agnes on the pretext that Gabe and I were still fighting. Surely by the morrow we would receive word that the eagle had landed and I could return home, but with lips sealed so tightly that even waterboarding couldn’t pry them open.

  Sure enough, around seven a.m.—I’d already been up for three hours—I got a call from my little one.

  “Mama?”

  “Darling! Are you all right? Are you safe?”

  “I’m at Cousin Hilda’s farm and they have every kind of animal, just like you said. After breakfast we’re going to feed the Obamas.”

  “Uncle Sam’s cereal?”

  “I
don’t know, Mama, but then we’re going to hunt for eggs in the barn, ’cause they don’t keep their chickens penned up like we do.”

  “That’s wonderful, dear. So you are all right?”

  “Yeah, kind of.”

  “What do you mean, ‘kind of’?”

  “Well, I gots a boo-boo on my foot on account of something bit me.”

  First I panicked. “When was that?” Then I took a deep breath. “Show it to Cousin Hilda!”

  “It’s all better, Mama. You put a Flintstones on it, remember?”

  “Oy veys meer.” Was that all? But you see what had happened? The stress had caused my brain to crosswire. If it kept up, the next thing I knew Swahili might come flying out of my mouth.

  “Mama?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Can I stay here for a while?”

  “Yes, dear, but you have to brush your teeth.”

  “But I don’t gots a toothbrush.”

  “The word is ‘have,’ dear—Never mind, dear. Cousin Hilda will get you one.”

  “Mama?”

  “Yes, darling?”

  “I love you.”

  In the final analysis, it didn’t matter to me if loving little Jacob was really nothing more than loving myself. What mattered is that I did, and that I would do anything to protect him—even brave Freni’s wrath. Although it must be noted that Freni, being a good Amish woman of an essentially peaceful nature, was slow to anger. Relatively speaking, that is.

  “Magdalena, I cannot believe that you would leave our little one with Agnes Mishler.”

  “Agnes is my best friend—after you, of course. And Gabriel.”

  “Yah, but she does not have children.”

  “Nonetheless, the little shaver adores her.”

  Freni, who was rolling out dough, gave my future cinnamon buns a sharp whack. “Maybe, but what will he do there?”

  “Watch car—s go by,” I said, compounding my lie. Freni, even more than I, disapproved of television of any kind.

  Freni dropped the rolling pin, which promptly rolled onto the floor. Instead of picking it up, she vigorously smeared a handful of butter across the flattened dough. It was like watching her give a Swedish massage to an enemy.