The Death of Pie

by Tamar Myers

  ‘I prefer hot chocolate, if you please,’ Alison said, doing a perfect rendition of the Duchess of Cornwall.

  When we Americans pretend to be la-de-da, we ‘la’ our way all the way up the ladder to the top rung. Frankly, I’d rather that the child continues to speak like a royal duchess than a low-class grammar school dropout, but I dare not encourage her. Push Alison a step in one direction and she’ll push back three steps.

  ‘Stop it!’ Wanda cried. ‘Enough!’ Even though she’d been seated behind the banquette table of a booth, she managed to stand and clap her hands over her ears.

  For the first time, that horrible handgun was visible. I am not a political woman, and no expert on guns by any means, but if Wanda was the person who actually bought that gun, then either the seller was completely distracted that day or was someone without a conscience. I state this because Wanda practically had the word UNSTABLE branded into the skin of her pallid forehead. Seeing Wanda with a weapon of a duo’s destruction made me sick to the stomach.

  Unfortunately, my equine features are both expansive and expressive, for Wanda’s subsequent smile undoubtedly reflected her deep satisfaction at the horror registering on my face. She lowered her pistol and pointed it directly at Alison’s chest.

  ‘I have a name for this little baby, and I call her Fanny,’ she said. ‘Do you want to know why?’

  ‘No,’ Alison said. ‘You bore me.’

  ‘What a naughty girl,’ Wanda said, caterpillar eyebrows arched to stratospheric heights in surprise. ‘Really, Magdalena, if I were you, I’d spank that child.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Alison sneered.

  Generally speaking, the kids who come into the Sausage Barn have plump sausage arms and legs, and their focus is lining up to the grease trough that passes for the All You Can Eat Bar every Saturday and Sunday between ten a.m. and one p.m. They dare not sass anyone, lest they be left at home with a babysitter, and the opportunity to nibble on a frozen dinner the next time their All-American family goes off to graze. Wanda, it was clear, had no experience of thirteen-year-old girls with empty mouths.

  ‘Magdalena,’ she said to me, ‘are you going to let her get away with that?’ Wanda’s gun hand began to shake as her temper rose.

  ‘Of course, dear,’ I said. ‘We don’t respect murderesses in our family.’

  ‘And you call yourself a Christian?’

  ‘Wanda, just be glad she hasn’t stoned you yet. That’s very biblical.’

  ‘Mom,’ Alison said, ‘can I? Please? Just one stone – it won’t be very big. I promise.’

  I sighed. ‘Would that I could, dear, but undoubtedly this evil woman with the gun has other plans.’

  Wanda’s lower lip was trembling; I was so close to victory that I could almost taste it. But I couldn’t think what to say next fast enough, so she beat me to it.

  ‘Move,’ she barked. ‘Get out of the booth. Now! Out! Leave your purses. Come! Move along.’

  So, obediently, we slid across a conveniently greased banquette seat and tumbled out into the aisle of an eerily empty restaurant. Wanda then marched the pair of us – two hungry sacrificial lambs that we were – into the kitchen and bade us stand still while she unlocked a door at the far end of the kitchen. This door was equipped with a hasp with a rusty Yale lock stuck through it, and Wanda had to try at least several keys until she found the one that fit. She did that with her right hand, while her left hand waved wildly in our direction. I only briefly entertained the idea of throwing myself at her gun-wielding hand. BC (Before Children) I would have done so with no compunctions whatsoever; AD (After Dementia) I have a tendency to be less rash.

  The door had apparently not been used in some time, and Wanda really had to tug on it to get it open. As I’m a fair-minded Christian woman, I believe in giving credit where credit is due, so I have this to say about the Hemphopple with the Tower of Doom: there are times when that woman sports a rather attractive bulging bicep. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, when this door finally became unstuck and swung open, it brought with it a rush of stale air. Chief amongst the foul odours was an acrid, chemical smell that was somehow familiar.

  ‘Get in there! I want yinz to keep your hands up and get in there one at a time.’

  ‘Speak now,’ I said as I nodded at her gun, ‘or forever hold your piece.’

  ‘Stop it! How the heck can I kill you if you insist on joking all the time? Even we whackadoodle psychopaths require the correct conditions.’

  ‘Pshaw,’ I said. ‘Or do you suppose that is something his urologist instructed him to do during his declining days?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Piss. Shaw. Now see what you did, Wanda? You made me say two dirty words, and your name was one of them. A joke is no good if it has to be explained.’

  ‘Cuckoo, cuckoo,’ Wanda said, addressing Alison while making twirling motions beside her ear, all the while holding the gun in that hand. ‘You much-loved Mom is a nut-job.’

  ‘Perhaps so,’ I said, ‘but if that’s the case—’

  ‘Shut up, Magdalena,’ Wanda said, ‘or your frightened little squab gets it right between the eyes.’

  ‘I ain’t no squash,’ Alison said. She was angrier than a two-headed snake with a one-toad dinner. I was afraid that if I didn’t intervene, Alison was going to do something that would make Wanda actually pull the trigger.

  ‘A squab is a cute little baby pigeon, dear,’ I said. ‘The Whackadoodle meant it as a compliment.’

  Wanda fired her pistol.

  Before I even heard the sound of the gun, I felt the breeze generated by the lead slug as it whizzed just above my scalp. My white organza prayer cap usually sits atop my coiled braids. However, the slug tore right through my braids, severing one in half, and pretty much demolishing my clean white cap. Whether or not Wanda meant to hit my head and missed, or was really aiming for my headgear, one thing was clear: the woman meant business.

  TWENTY

  FRENI’S BUTTERSCOTCH CHIFFON PIE

  Serves eight English, four Mennonites or two Amish

  ½ cup cold water

  1 envelope unflavored gelatin

  4 teaspoons instant coffee powder

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  2 eggs, separated

  1 package (6 ounces) butterscotch pieces

  ½ cup firmly packed light brown sugar

  1 cup whipping cream

  1 baked nine-inch pie shell

  Combine water, gelatin, coffee and salt in saucepan. Cook and stir over moderate heat until the gelatin dissolves and the mixture comes to a boil. Remove from heat. Beat egg yolks slightly; add the gelatin mixture gradually, stirring rapidly. Cook over low heat one minute, stirring constantly. Remove from heat. Stir in butterscotch pieces, reserving one tablespoon for garnish. Beat egg whites until stiff; beat in brown sugar. Continue to beat until stiff and satiny. Fold in butterscotch mixture. Whip cream; reserve half cup for garnish. Fold in remainder. Spoon into pie shell. Garnish. Chill until set.

  TWENTY-ONE

  ‘Mom, mom!’

  I awoke in pitch darkness with a throbbing headache and a teenager screaming in my ear. Forgive me then, if I momentarily thought that I had died and gone to you-know-where. Yes, I know that my salvation is assured, but I am also aware that I quite willingly listen to, and accept, the advice of a therapist named Luci Feragamo simply because I like what she has to say. Granted, this is how most people behave, but Magdalena Portulacca Yoder Rosen is not most people: she is far more inclined than most people to have just plain rotten luck. Hell, I posit, is not much to write home about.

  ‘Mom, I order you to stop being dead and get up!’

  I chuckled. What a delightfully cheeky child I had! Imagine that: ordering her poor old mom to rise from the dead like Jesus did to Lazarus in the New Testament. Well, I would certainly give it a go.

  ‘Oomph,’ I groaned. But as far as rising from the dead, I fear that I only managed to get closer to that point. In my pitiful attempt I just succee
ded in giving my noggin yet another nut-cracking whack.

  ‘Blimey,’ I moaned. It is possible that I said a word far worse than that because I thought that I’d heard one. But since I couldn’t see anything, and my ears were ringing like church bells on Easter Sunday, I couldn’t be positive that it was me who said it now, could I? Besides, even if I did say that foul, four-lettered word, it must be remembered that it has been part of the English language since 1680, and was derived from a Danish word that had to do with cattle breeding. As it just so happens I am the daughter of a dairy farmer and keep two dairy cows, which I breed on a regular basis for milk production. Therefore, I believe that I should be absolved of that one, uh, somewhat unfortunate slipup.

  ‘Mom, that’s awesome!’

  ‘What? You heard that?’

  ‘Aw, Mom, ya rock! Just wait ’til the kids at school hear that you said the—’

  ‘Be a dear,’ I said, ‘and help your old mom sit up – if indeed I am lying down. I can’t make out heads nor tails in here.’

  ‘Yer lying down, Mom,’ Alison said. ‘Yer flatter than a pancake.’

  ‘What happened?’ I said.

  ‘Ya really don’t remember? Ya don’t remember nothing?’

  ‘Well, I do remember how to speak English.’

  ‘Ya like fainted when Auntie Wanda shot your Jesus bun half off your head. But ya weren’t hurt none; we both checked and then she went ahead and shoved ya in here anyway. It’s so awful, Mom, and I’m so sorry ta hafta tell ya, but yer hair’s lying out there on the floor.’

  My hands flew to my head. ‘All of it? Where’s the rest?’

  Alison began to sob noisily. ‘She cut it, Mom! And then she made me cut some of your hair too!’

  For the first time in my life that I could remember, my hair was too short for braids. I felt violated. In a sense I felt as if I had been raped. Wanda Hemphopple had robbed me of the symbol of my religious identity and forced my child to participate in this fiendish act. Even worse than that, she was stirring feelings of revenge up in me. I wanted nothing more at that moment than to do something that would really hurt Wanda. I wanted to not only cause her pain; I wanted to cause Wanda exquisite pain.

  Those were my initial feelings. There’s probably not a child in the Western world whose mother hasn’t told her, or him, to count to ten before responding to something negative. This advice holds for grownups as well. Those of us who are parents must be especially thoughtful about the examples we set in front of our children.

  In the darkness I found Alison’s arm and pulled her into an awkward ‘Yoder embrace.’ ‘There, there, it will be all right,’ I said. Those six words are obligatory in our family when giving comfort, as are giving back-pats. ‘You did nothing wrong, dear. Those braids were hot. Where are we?’

  Fortunately, ‘Yoder embraces’ are mercifully short, and we decoupled simultaneously like train cars. Alison has always run a degree warmer than average. Lately I’ve had sudden bursts of internal and spontaneous combustion of such intensity that, if wheels could be attached to my bony hips, and I used a child’s scooter for steering, I could save a lot on my petrol bill. Perhaps I should also add that the room itself seemed to be stuffy.

  ‘We’re in her cleaning supply closet, Mom. She said that she’s coming back for us just as soon as she makes room in her freezer.’

  ‘She did?’

  ‘Yeah. Bummer, right?’

  ‘Bummer is an understatement. I can see the headlines now in the Bedford Journal: “Charming Innkeeper and Cherished Urchin Perish with Chapped Cheeks.”’

  ‘Mom, sometimes you’re kinda geeky, ya know that?’

  ‘That, too. Alison, have you felt around to see if there is a light switch in here somewhere?’

  ‘Duh, Mom. I’m not, like, totally stupid. There is a light switch, but it’s on the outside. Auntie Wanda said that the tins and boxes didn’t need no light, which was a good thing, because it was cheaper installing it on the outside, and now look how handy it was when storing two shlubs like us in here. Mom, what’s a shlub?’

  ‘Unfortunately, a shlub is anyone who isn’t Wanda. And Alison, there is no need to call Wanda auntie anymore. In fact, please don’t.’

  ‘Gotcha.’

  ‘But speaking of light; do you still have your cell phone?’

  ‘Aun— Wanda saw me with it, and put it down her industrial-strength garbage disposal. Geesh, Mom, ya really don’t remember nothing.’

  ‘Well, at least I remember who you are, and what a brave young woman you’ve become. That was really something the way you were able to text for help while you had a gun pointed at you under the table.’

  Alison said nothing, which didn’t surprise me. At first.

  ‘I just hope that you didn’t send the message to Police Chief Toy. I have reason to believe that he is involved up to his armpits in this case.’

  ‘Ya think he slipped her the poison?’

  ‘No – I don’t know. Anything is possible, I guess. So who did you text? Sheriff Crabtree?’

  Alison giggled. She had a right to giggle nervously; that’s what I thought for the first few seconds. But a mother knows when her daughter is stalling.

  ‘Well, dear?’

  ‘Ain’t that a funny name, like maybe a crabby tree, or a crab up in a tree?’

  ‘Alison! This is important. Who did you text?’

  ‘OK, ya ain’t gonna get all, like, hyper about it if I tell ya the truth, are ya?’

  ‘Alison, we are in a life and death situation now.’

  ‘All right, don’t get your panties in a bunch, is all. I sent Sheldon a photo of the gun pointed at my hoo-ha under the table. But just the gun is all, so don’t, like, get mad and think I’m a pervert like that guy who ran for President of New York.’

  I could not believe my ears! ‘New York has a mayor, for crying out loud, not a president!’

  ‘Y-Yes, but I should have texted the sheriff. We could die on account of I wanted Sheldon to pay attention to me for just one second, and I thought that maybe he would if there was a gun pointed at me.’

  ‘Maybe he still will. Now all we can do is trust—’

  My words of intended comfort were interrupted by the scraping of the lock being removed from the hasp once more. ‘It’s not my fault that it has to end this way,’ I could hear her say. ‘It’s your fault, Magdalena, for being so darn nosy.’ Of course, being a lapsed Presbyterian, Wanda used a stronger swear word.

  By the time the door opened to near-blinding light, my right hand – my strongest – had closed around the handle of a heavy plastic jug. I lifted the gallon vessel and swung it at the silhouette coming through the doorway. How was I to know that the cap wasn’t screwed on tightly? Not only did Wanda experience being hit in the sternum with a heavy object, but a good deal of concentrated cleaning fluid, which was meant for her sticky floors, splashed all over her upper body and may have gotten into her eyes.

  One could only feel sorry then for Wanda. The poor dear screamed like a teenager without phone privileges. I had meant only to disable the woman, and then only just long enough for Alison and me to make our getaways. I’d had absolutely no wish to maim her. Thank the Good Lord, at least, that during that fracas Wanda dropped her pistol and Alison thought to pick it up. And, in a rare moment of maternal clarity, I thought to snatch it from Alison’s hands and stuff it down my bra. Right cup – there’s more room in there. In all honesty, in order to get the small pistol to fit I had to ditch the store-bought pad that it came with plus the two pairs of Gabe’s rolled-up knee socks. (Decades ago this was a Playtex Living Bra, but ever since Little Jacob was born, this brassiere has been slowly starving.)

  Now then, with Wanda’s weapon under wraps, so to speak, I felt free to lend her a hand. ‘Alison, grab an arm! Let’s drag her to the kitchen sink and wash whatever it is out of her peepers.’

  Wanda kept screaming. ‘No, no! Just leave me alone. Go away.’

  ‘Nonsense, dear,’ I said firm
ly. ‘We can’t leave you like this, can we, Alison?’

  ‘Uh, Mom, why the heck can’t we? Wanda, like, was gonna kill us; or did fainting make ya forget everything?’

  ‘Yes, but dear, “all’s well that ends well,” right?’

  ‘Mom, them Jesus words sound awfully nice and all, but like Dad’s always saying, ya can’t just pick and choose. How about “it ain’t over until the fat lady swings”? That means that we gotta get Wanda over to the sheriff in Bedford. She needs to be arrested and hanged for killing that beautiful author lady from Baluchistan.’

  Baluchistan? Oh, well, by then we’d gotten Wanda’s decidedly not-so-bony butt over to the sink. The entire time the wiry woman had been cursing so bad that even Alison could no longer translate. That was just fine with me; I have what is called a phonographic memory, and can recall conversations word for word, years later. That talent can be hazardous to a marriage, but in this case it merely meant that I would ask Gabe later about Miss Potty Mouth’s plethora of putdowns.

  ‘Do your best to hold the little varmint,’ I said, not unkindly, ‘while I hose her off. She’s wiggling like a ten-pound mudpuppy, and I have to rinse these chemicals out of her eyes.’

  ‘Stop it or I’ll sue!’ Wanda shrieked. Admittedly, the ‘s’ word does give me pause. ‘I’m not worried about my eyes, you idiots; but you might get my hair wet, and it isn’t one of my hair-washing months.’

  ‘Get her hair wet, Mom,’ Alison chortled.

  Oh, to be young again and able to chortle with abandonment! Alas, I was far too weighed down by incredulity, followed by a heaping helping of judgment.

  ‘What do you mean by a “hair-washing” month?’

  ‘Don’t be dense, Magdalena. I take down my hair and wash it for spring on the first warm day in April. Then I wash it again in September. That’s all human hair requires – no more, no less. This is the secret to my beautiful long locks which, as you know, are the envy of fertile young women everywhere in the county.’