The Death of Pie

by Tamar Myers

  ‘Nah,’ Alison said, ‘it’s about Grandma Ida and the Convent of the Sisters of Perpetual Apostasy.’

  ‘Do tell!’ That ‘apostasy’ was no slip of the tongue either; the girl was far more intelligent than she let on.

  ‘You mean Apathy,’ Gabe growled.

  ‘That’s what I said,’ Alison said, then leaned forward just so she could throw herself back into her seat with annoyance. Of course that meant that she wasn’t buckled into her seat harness correctly.

  ‘Buckle up,’ Gabe ordered sternly, ‘and what’s this about your grandmother?’

  At that point Alison played her next trump card, which was to mumble. As her father was fifty, sitting in front of her, and a man, she might as well not have spoken.

  ‘Now speak up!’ he said.

  A parent would do well to remember who is ultimately in charge. Or put another way, a wise parent picks his or her battles and then resolves to be content with the outcome. After several attempts to get Alison to speak audibly, both her father and I decided that we could live, at least temporarily, without the information concerning Grandma Ida and her flock of dropout nuns.

  ‘Fine,’ Gabe said. ‘Have it your way. I don’t have to listen to your gossip.’

  That got our girl’s goat! ‘It isn’t gossip; it’s the truth. Grandma Ida and the Sisters of Perpetual Pity were really pis— I mean, mad at that beautiful lady for the way—’

  ‘Do you really think that she was beautiful?’ I asked as I patted my tidy bun under its attractive organza white prayer cap. The Bible says that a woman shouldn’t cut her hair as it is our ‘crowning glory,’ but we Old Order Mennonites also believe that we should reserve the splendour of this home-grown crown for our husbands alone.

  ‘Are you kidding, Mom? She looked like a movie star!’

  ‘I, for one, didn’t notice,’ the Babester said and he reached over and squeezed my knee.

  ‘Anyway,’ my clueless daughter said, ‘they was all jealous of her – even old Grandma Ida, who’s like a hundred years old – so they said that they was gonna tar and feather her. Ya ever hear of that?’

  ‘My mother is eighty-two, and yes, I have heard of tarring and feathering. Just not to anyone I know.’

  ‘Well, they was gonna do it, but then decided against it on account of the tar having to be hot and someone had to heat it, and they was all too pathetic to do it.’

  ‘You mean apathetic,’ I said.

  ‘Whatever. So instead they decided to rub her all over with Vaseline. Do you know that stuff is almost impossible to get off? Especially from your hair, on account of the fact that soap and water and even shampoo don’t affect it none. Then after they was done with that, they was gonna bring her over here and roll her around in our cow poop.’

  ‘You mean manure. What? Oh my, that’s awful! That’s downright wicked. They need to change their name to Convent of the Sisters of Perpetual Punishment. If I had anything to say about it, they’d all be headed straight to You Know Where.’

  ‘Thank God that we Jews don’t believe in your Hell,’ Gabe said. ‘At least that leaves my mother out of it.’

  ‘I’ll be biting my tongue yet again,’ I said. ‘But before I do that, what changed their minds, Alison? Obviously they didn’t smear Miss Sreym with that messy ointment.’

  ‘Well, they tried! Grandma Ida invited her over to the convent to sunbathe in the courtyard there. She told the lady that she’d have more privacy, as you wouldn’t be scowling at her and Dad wouldn’t be making leech eyes her way neither. So she gets there and Grandma Ida offers to rub her down with this special suntan cream that’s guaranteed to turn ya brown as a toad in an hour flat, so the lady says to bring it on.

  ‘But when Grandma Ida starts rubbing it on the lady’s back, the lady complains about the way it feels on her skin, and tells Grandma Ida to quit. Instead of quitting, Grandma Ida calls for reinforcements, and so there are five of them pretend apostates holding down this foreign lady and greasing her up like a roasting pig. But let me tell you, that woman was strong with a capital C! She done broke loose and hightailed it back to the PennDutch. Then she drove to Pittsburgh or someplace and had them folks at a spa remove that gunk.’

  I knew that Alison was telling the truth by the earnest sound of her voice, but it was all I could do to keep from laughing. Ramat Sreym greased like a roasting pig, imagine that! Then I remembered Gabe’s ‘leech’ eyes, and his refusal to believe in Hell, and nothing was funny anymore.

  ‘You should be a writer,’ I said to Alison. ‘You have quite a way with words. But you’d have to work on your grammar.’

  ‘Well, you certainly have the imagination,’ Gabe grunted. ‘Do you really expect me to believe that a frail old woman – an octogenarian, for Pete’s sake – would organize what amounts to an assault with petroleum jelly and manure?’

  ‘See?’ Alison cried. ‘And ya wonder why I don’t tell you guys more! It’s because ya don’t believe me – that’s why. Ya always believe the other person. Always! No matter who it is. Besides, how was I supposed to know that your mom had eight kids at one time? Ya never talk about it. And I don’t see what difference that makes anyhow.’

  ‘What?’ Gabe said.

  I translated for him. ‘She’s referring to the so-called Octomom; you know, that woman who had eight babies all at once?’

  The Babester shook his handsome head. ‘Whoa! That’s a scary thought. No, Alison, Grandma Ida did not have a litter of babies, and let’s say that I do believe you – it’s still an amazing story. It might even be funny if it wasn’t for the fact that they held that beautiful woman down in order to grease her up.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Alison said, ‘but she broke away and got herself a nice spa visit. Aren’t ya always telling me that all’s well that ends well?’

  ‘Touché,’ I said, for that was indeed something my husband was fond of saying.

  Gabe took his eyes off the road long enough to give me a dirty look. ‘Hey, I just had a brilliant idea.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Alison said. ‘Does it involve stopping at McDonald’s?’

  ‘Oy vey,’ I said.

  ‘That too,’ Gabe said. ‘But the main idea is a way to keep you from getting bored during the last two weeks of the summer holiday.’

  ‘Ugh,’ Alison said. ‘Ya know I love this slobbering kid, but do I hafta babysit Mr Chubby Cheeks all the time? No offense guys, but I can’t be expected to improve my grammar with my head stuck up a dirty nappy twenty-four seven.’

  Gabe chuckled. ‘I suppose not. OK then, in that case I’ll babysit Chubby Cheeks and you go off and do what I had in mind.’

  ‘Which is?’ Alison and I said in unison.

  ‘You’ll help your mother look for that beautiful lady’s killer.’

  ‘Yippee!’ Alison cried.

  ‘That was my idea!’ I said. ‘How dare you steal my idea without asking me first?’

  ‘Well, every crackerjack detective has to have a somewhat bumbling assistant, doesn’t he? Or, in this case, she?’

  ‘Which one am I,’ Alison asked, ‘the crackerjack or the bumbler? And what do those words mean?’

  ‘Aha,’ I said, ‘I think I’ll let your crackerjack-doctor Dad dig himself out of this hole.’

  ‘In that case,’ Alison said, ‘I want to be the bumbler.’

  ‘Sold,’ I said.

  But soon after choosing to be a ‘bumbler,’ Alison was uncharacteristically silent. I turned in my seat enough to see her fast asleep, head thrown back and lips only slightly parted. Forsooth, the daughter that was mine by virtue of inadvertent adultery was beautiful when she sleeps.

  Buckled safely in his carrier, also fast asleep, was her brother, the son who was mine by the fervent, feverish fumbling of femurs and assorted body parts, which had nought to do with white satin and lace. It astounded me to think that ten fingers, ten toes and such nachas could result from something as unseemly, and unsanitary as all that – now that was truly a miracle.

  �
��Praise the Lord,’ I whispered, turning back to Gabe. ‘They’re both asleep.’

  ‘I’ll second that,’ he said.

  FOURTEEN

  It was Alison who decided the next step in my investigation. ‘You need to grill old Doc’s weenie,’ she said the next morning over a breakfast of French toast and turkey sausage. I’m guessing the sausage was her inspiration.

  ‘Ahem,’ Gabe said.

  ‘Ya mean “amen,” right?’ Alison said.

  ‘No, I think that he is trying to caution you,’ I said.

  ‘About what?’ That was just an approximation of what our daughter said, because she often speaks when her mouth is full.

  ‘You’re supposed to call him Uncle Doc,’ Gabe said.

  ‘Yeah?’ A spray of masticated sausage flew Gabe’s way. ‘How come? You don’t call him that.’

  ‘That’s because we’re adults. It’s a sign a respect for a younger person in our community to address someone like Doc as “Uncle.”’

  ‘Yeah? Well, how come I ain’t supposed to call him “Cousin”? Ain’t he some kind of cousin of yorn?’

  Yorn? Now she was really digging at the bottom of the grammar barrel. Last year Hernia welcomed a family of Mennonites from the state of Illinois who seemed to have brought that loathsome word along with them.

  ‘And yorn too,’ I said, although I knew that sarcasm, like Limburger cheese, was wasted on the young. ‘Still, I want you to call him “uncle.” But anyway, why do you think that he deserves to be grilled first?’

  Alison rolled her eyes so far back in her head that I feared we’d have to get the toilet plunger to suck them out. ‘Cheese and crackers! Don’tcha observe anything, Mom? He was over here like a million times when that lady stayed with us, and he gave her even more goggle eyes than Dad did, but she didn’t even send him one fairy moan. Not a single one.’

  The Babester, who was feeding warm baby cereal to his male offspring, set down the miniature spoon and scratched his handsome Hebrew head. Figuratively – but not literally, thank you – I scratched my large, horsey head. Alison’s malapropisms were like the Sunday crossword puzzle: with practice they continue to get easier. This one, however, proved particularly difficult.

  ‘Uncle!’ I cried at last.

  ‘OK,’ Alison said. ‘I get it, already. I’ll call him Uncle Doc. Ya don’t hafta beat me over the head with it.’

  ‘No, I mean “uncle” as in “I give up.” I know that you meant to say “google eyes,” not “goggle eyes,” but I haven’t a clue about what a moaning fairy has got to do with anything.’

  Speaking of eyes, Alison’s pair rolled back into place, saving me the time to hunt for them. ‘You’re nuts, Mom.’

  ‘That was insulting, but at least it was grammatically correct, dear.’

  ‘Eureka, I’ve got it,’ Gabe said. ‘The word is pheromone – with a P and an H. Is that right, Alison?’

  Our daughter smiled happily. ‘Ya see? I ain’t so stupid after all.’

  ‘Well, strictly speaking—’ I started to say, but Gabe stopped me with a wink and an upright palm, which was his way of asking me gently to put a lid on my preaching. We Herniaites are, by the way, a winking, blinking and nodding lot.

  I swallowed my irritation – which was a goodly portion of my calories for the day – and smiled kindly at one and all. ‘So, Alison, sweetheart, in your estimation why would Miss Sreym giving Uncle Doc the cold shoulder be grounds for making him a suspect in her demise?’

  ‘Her rump,’ Alison said, to express her impatience with my lack of mental acuity. ‘First of all, I didn’t know the lady had dim eyes, so I didn’t think that she blamed Uncle Doc for that. What I’m saying is that I think it’s weird that she didn’t give him the “come slither” look that Auntie Susannah was always yapping about when she was here. Ya know, where ya wiggle ya shoulders like this, and like that, so that your boobies go— Only I don’t got none, so it ain’t my fault that they ain’t bobbing up and down like fishing corks over on Miller’s Pond. And don’t ya laugh none, because it ain’t my fault.’

  I know what it’s like to be a carpenter’s dream: flat as a board. ‘Don’t worry, dear,’ I hastened to assure her. ‘I can tell by your shoulders that you’ll take after your mother’s side of the family in that department. Why, I’m sure that in five years from now you’ll need an old lady’s walker just to tote those things around for you.’

  Alison’s grin nearly split her head in two. ‘Really?’

  ‘Would I exaggerate, dear? Never mind; I just want you to answer my question about Uncle Doc’s motive.’

  Alison shook her head sadly. No doubt she viewed me as a hopeless case.

  ‘It’s like this, see. Uncle Doc couldn’t stand being flat-out rejected. I know that he’s an old geezer and all, but it’s kind of funny the way he hits on ya.’ She paused, her eyes searching my face. ‘Ain’t it?’

  ‘Pathetic is more like it.’

  ‘Ya mean it bothers ya?’

  ‘It bothers me that sometimes he doesn’t seem to realize when he’s crossed the line between flirting and harassment.’

  ‘Oh, give me a break,’ Gabe said. ‘That old man is always putting you on. He knows that you’ve given your heart to me, and that I’ve given mine to you. We are truly a couple until death us do part.’

  ‘Ooh,’ Alison said. ‘This is way too mushy for my young ears.’

  I felt all tingly inside, from my scalp down to my toes. ‘This,’ I said to Alison, ‘is exactly the kind of thing that your young ears need to hear.’ Then I turned to the Babester. ‘But darling, he’s always telling me how beautiful I am, what symmetrical features I have, what long, lithe, lovely limbs – words like that hurt a gal like me.’

  It came as no surprise when my husband roared with laughter. ‘Face it babe, you are hot stuff. You’re the best-looking woman in three counties, but you can’t see it. You never will. You have a body image problem, and you know it on an intellectual level. You’ve already had a professional diagnose it, and I concur.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ I heard Alison cry.

  I whirled to face my daughter. The poor dear looked as if she was on the brink of crying. Her bottom lip, which is usually stuck out defiantly, was trembling as if she’d suffered a stroke.

  ‘Mom, you ain’t gonna die on me from a disease, are ya? Because if you are, I can raise Little Jacob by myself – with Dad’s help, of course – but I’m gonna need a bigger allowance than the one I’m getting now.’

  Despite the five centuries of Swiss Amish and Mennonite inbreeding that had rendered me incapable of expressing my emotions physically (essentially making a Brit out of me), I was all set to hug my precious daughter when she piped up again after a very brief pause.

  ‘And ya know, a sixty-inch flat-screen color TV for my room wouldn’t be a bad idea either.’

  I smiled broadly. ‘This must be your lucky day then, because both of your wishes will be granted over my dead body.’

  ‘Aw!’

  ‘Aha! You must know that I’m not suffering from a terminal disease, or you wouldn’t be disappointed.’

  The sneaky scamp scowled and turned to her dad. ‘I need that raise,’ she said. ‘I can’t buy the stuff I need for school without it.’

  Gabe is such a pushover when it comes to his children. ‘We’ll see. Go help your mom solve her case – that can be your job.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Come on, Nancy Drew,’ I said, ‘before we both change our minds.’

  The Good Lord knows that I am not a jealous woman. I certainly am not the type of woman who would be jealous of one distant cousin cavorting with another very distant cousin. In fact, both degrees of relatedness are so distant that said parties are permitted to marry each other, both in the church and legally. Therefore to suggest that even for a nanosecond I might have felt a twinge of unpleasantness upon espying my best friend Agnes’s car parked in front of Doc’s house – well, that suggestion would be sheer poppycock.<
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  Yes, it is true: I am in possession of a rich and vivid imagination. Alas, since I am neither a painter, nor a writer, what is for some a gift has often been a curse for me. Yet, since I am not the jealous sort, I wasted precious little time imagining Agnes’s plump, stubby, limbs fumbling for the old goat in a twist of dirty sheets. Nor did I spend much time trying to imagine their long, languorous glances over an inedible dinner that Agnes had insisted on cooking, in spite of Doc’s legendary prowess with skillets, pots and all manner of implements that just might, coincidentally, raise one’s temperature.

  ‘Hey,’ Alison said, ‘ain’t that old Agnes’s car?’

  ‘Please call her Aunt Agnes, now,’ I said. ‘Or Auntie, if you prefer.’

  ‘What? But it ain’t like she’s a million years old like Uncle Doc; she’s just old like you.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll take that.’

  I also had to take the fact that it was Agnes who answered the door. ‘Come on in,’ she said with a welcoming gesture of one of those short plump arms. ‘Doc is occupied at the moment’ – she paused to giggle behind the back of her plump hand – ‘but he’ll be out in a moment. Or three.’ She giggled again with irritating familiarity.

  There are times when I just can’t help myself, when I simply must speak what’s on my mind or risk spontaneous combustion. Given that I am so thin that, were it not for my rudder of a nose, I would all but disappear when viewed from the side, fire could consume me in mere seconds. No more bossy, opinionated Magdalena would mean no more Mama for Alison and Little Jacob. Little Jacob would probably fare better than his sister, because he has never been rejected. For Alison, however, who was dumped on my doorstep at age eleven, my sudden demise would probably be devastating. That said, I owed it to her to tell Agnes exactly what I thought of her shameless behaviour.

  ‘Hush, you shameless hussy, hush!’ I said, sounding curiously Portuguese. ‘Can’t you see there’s a child here?’

  ‘I ain’t no child,’ Alison said angrily, and flounced over the threshold with her arms crossed.