by Tamar Myers
I gasped. "Mr. Benedict, I don't know what your wife told you, but I'm not here for a job, and I have no intention of saying anything to the authorities. If you cooperate by answering a few simple questions."
He pulled up two of the velvet-covered chairs, placed them side by side, and sat. One buttock on each chair. His knees were at eye level with me, and I struggled not to peek beyond these two watch- towers of decency.
"Shoot, little lady."
"Mr. Benedict, I understand you're a justice of the peace?"
He grinned broadly. "If you need me to be."
"Well, are you or aren't you?"
The grin began to fade. "Well, I used to be. Hell, I've got a minister's license. That's almost the same thing."
"You? A man of the cloth?"
"You betcha. In fact, you oughta be calling me Reverend."
"I don't think so. Where did you go to divinity school?"
The receding grin had stabilized and was now a sneer. "I didn't say anything about attending a school."
"I see. So you have one of those mail-order diplomas. What'd you do, send twenty-five dollars to an address in the back of a magazine?"
"There's nothing wrong with that. And the College of Universal Divinity charges two hundred bucks. 'Course you get a nice little service booklet for that. Real imitation leather binding too. Anyway, it's all perfectly legal."
"Maybe, but it's not legal to marry the same man over and over again."
He blinked. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about."
"Oh, but you do. You performed your little wedding service for Clarence Webber at least four times."
Who knew there was a shade paler than egg whites? "I still don't know what you're talking about."
"You most certainly do! I know for a fact you married Clarence to a woman named Dorcas Yutzy. Extremely tall—although not quite as tall as you—bottle-thick glasses, widely spaced teeth. Wears her hair pulled back in barrettes?"
"Little lady, I do a lot of marrying. I can't remember what they all look like. Least of all their names."
"How about Zelda Root? Take Tammy Faye, give her a boy's haircut, add five pounds of makeup, and voila. You remember her, don't you?"
"Like I said," he snarled, "I don't keep track of the ladies once they pass through here."
"That's too bad, because Zelda's kept track of you. And, as it just so happens, she's a policewoman."
Goliath struggled to his feet. "Time for you to go, little lady."
"In a minute, dear, I'm not done. I bet you married Emma Kauffman and Agnes Schlabach—"
I thought he was going to punch me, but instead he thrust a paw under each of my armpits and, holding me at arm's length, carried me the length of the parlor and to the front door. You can be sure I screamed like a banshee. I also tried to kick him along the way, but he held me off to the side. Although most of my kicks did nothing but stir up stale air, I did manage to get one good one to connect with his left kneecap. At least I think so, because my big toe hurt like the dickens for the next couple of minutes.
Still holding me, but just by one armpit, he opened the door, and with surprising gentleness deposited me on the top step. I scrambled down the flight backwards.
"I could sue you, you know!"
His response was to slam the door.
I decided to report to Beth, the Speedway cashier. She saw me coming and hustled me down an aisle, stopping between the cookies and the feminine hygiene products.
"So whaddya think?"
"That place is a den of iniquity, pure and simple."
Beth appeared to be working on the same wad of gum. "I told ya. So what happened?"
"Mrs. Benedict tried to give me a job."
"What kinda job? Like a maid or something?"
I chose my words carefully, so as not to sound proud. "An entertainer."
Beth clapped her hands to her breast, knocking her name tag askew. "You're kidding!"
"Oh, I'm sure she'd be happy to offer you one too."
"Really?" I could practically see Beth give herself a mental slap. "Of course I would never be interested in such a thing!" She fixed her eyes on mine. "You didn't take her up on it, did you?"
"I played along at first so I could get an interview with her husband. That was, of course, until I realized it wasn't an escort service."
"Escort service, my eye!" Beth blew a bubble that threatened to engulf her face. "And you should see some of those poor girls the Benedicts sucker into working for them. When they start out they look so wholesome, but boy, does that change fast."
"I don't get it," I said. "I thought that kind of thing was against the law."
The bubble popped, sounding for all the world like a backfiring engine. Either that, or a gun. A woman buying cigarettes from Wilma actually ducked.
"It is, honey," Beth said. "But those Benedicts are clever. As long as they maintain the facade of an escort service, and as long as the women that work there don't actually solicit, there's nothing the police can do. Believe me, we've tried to shut them down."
"Who is 'we/ if you don't mind me asking?"
She adjusted her badge. "My church. Folks in the neighborhood. Why, half the town."
I shook my head. "What about Arnold Benedict? How can he get away with conducting bogus marriages?"
She shook her head in sync with mine. "That's a crying shame, isn't it? The fact is, according to the law, he qualifies as a minister. This freedom of religion thing has gone too far if you ask me."
"Amen to that! But even a kosher minister—pardon my mixing of ecclesiastical terms—can't marry the same man to more than one woman."
"He does that?"
"You bet your bippy. He married at least four women, that I know of, to the same man. Maybe lots more. He acts like it's all a joke. Like he can get away with it forever."
Beth squared her broad shoulders, her enormous bosoms straining the green smock. The badge trembled but remained straight.
"Well, we'll just have to see about that. The CCC will get to the bottom of this, I promise you. Arnold Benedict will spend time behind bars."
"CCC?" I'd noticed that she turned the gum with each letter, and I got a good view of her tonsils.
"Cumberland Christian Citizens. There wasn't a whole lot they could do about that escort business, but this marrying stuff is another thing. Marriage is a sacrilege, you know."
"I think you mean sacrament, dear."
She scowled, yet another reminder that sometimes I should leave well enough alone. "The Bible commands us to be monotonous."
"It does? Didn't Solomon have seven hundred wives?"
"That was in the Old Testament," she humphed. "You don't see the disciples getting married."
I bobbled my head to appease her. I'd already broken one of my cardinal rules: Never discuss religion with someone more devout than you.
We exchanged phone numbers, and she promised to keep me abreast of her efforts to land Arnold Benedict in the slammer. Then, almost as an afterthought, she snatched a package of sanitary napkins off the shelf. The kind with wings.
"Here," she said, "a little something for the road."
I took the package. Perhaps Beth had meant to give me cookies, but it didn't matter. A gift is a gift, and that was one horse's mouth I didn't want to look into again.
I'm not perfect. If I think hard enough, I can come up with at least half a dozen faults. One thing I am not, however, is paranoid.
A white car pulled into traffic behind me shortly after I left the Speedway. I noticed it at the first stoplight, because I—well, okay, I was checking myself out in the rearview mirror. I just wanted to see if I could see what Mrs. Benedict saw. Was it possible I was actually pretty enough to work as a you-know-what?
There was no indication that the driver of the white car saw me notice that vehicle. There was absolutely no reason for him or her to do so. In fact, I most probably wouldn't h
ave even remembered the incident, except for the fact that the windshield of the car behind was tinted dark. Almost black. That irritated me no end.
Sighted folks who wear sunglasses during face-to-face conversations irritate me as well. It just isn't fair. The Good Lord intended for us to look each other square in the eye when we talk. If He meant for us to look at our reflections, then we would have all been born with the same head.
At any rate, when I was done appraising myself in the rearview mirror, I stuck my tongue out at the car behind me. Actually I stuck my tongue out at the image of that car in the mirror. I've read enough recently about road rage to know that minding one's business is the safest course of action. Surely the mirror wouldn't tattle on me.
Still, I remember feeling a bit uneasy after my lingual display. Just to be safe, I rolled the power window up on my side, leaving about a three-inch crack. The remaining three windows I closed tightly. I also began keeping track of the white car.
Sure enough, it followed me through the next light, and the one after that. My pulse began to race when at the fourth light it was still behind me. By the time I turned off Route 36 and onto Route 35, which eventually becomes Route 96 and the way home, I was in a state of panic. The gleaming white car with the menacing black windshield was practically riding on my bumper.
I know, a clear-thinking Magdalena would have pulled into the nearest sign of human habitation and begged for help. A technologically advanced Magdalena would have had a cell phone in the car. The Magdalena I've grown to know and love over the years responded by stomping on the accelerator.
The Buick had a fair amount of oomph, but then so did the white car. My one advantage, if any, was that I exhibited more confidence on the curves, and believe you me, Route 96 has more curves than a beach full of bathing beauties. Incidentally, I attribute my skill as a driver to the fact that Papa took me to the state fair when I was eight and let me drive the bumper cars. At any rate, I was able to keep a good deal of distance between myself and my pursuer, as long as I didn't let up on the gas.
Unfortunately—perhaps it was the stress brought on by the bizarre job interview—I forgot that one of the turns is not a curve, but a right angle. I might even have been able to correct that oversight, had not the car behind me smashed into my rear bumper.
The next thing I knew I was airborne, soaring over some cottonwoods that bordered a creek, then over the creek itself, finally coming to rest in the V formed by two primary trunks of a massive sycamore.
It was not a comfortable landing.
20 - Grits Polenta
Polenta is Italian cornmeal mush. It's a great favorite these days for its affinity for full-flavored cheeses. This dish is made with grits, which gives a slightly coarser texture to the cornmeal polenta and also a more substantial body. Since almost any word sounds better than grits, tell your picky-eating friends it's polenta first.
1 recipe Basic Boiled Grits (hot)
½ cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese
1 cup crumbled mild goat cheese, such as Bucheron
Salt to taste
2 cups Tomato Sauce (recipe follows)
¼ cup thinly sliced scallions (green onions)
Combine the grits, Parmesan, and ½ cup of the goat cheese in a mixing bowl. Season with the salt. Pour the mixture into a well- buttered medium-size baking dish. Let cool completely, then invert and cut into 1½-inch squares.
Preheat the oven to 425° F. Generously butter a medium-size baking dish.
Arrange the polenta squares slightly overlapping in the prepared baking dish. Spoon the tomato sauce over the polenta, but don't try to cover it evenly. Leave some areas sauceless so the polenta can toast up a little. Bake in the oven until very hot and bubbling, about 12 minutes.
Sprinkle the remaining ½ cup goat cheese and the scallions over the polenta. Return to the oven to just heat the cheese and scallions, about 1 minute.
Serves 4 TO 6
Tomato Sauce
2 ½ tablespoons peanut oil
1 cup chopped onions
1/3 cup chopped carrot
½ cup chopped celery
2 cloves garlic, chopped
2 cans (28 ounces each) tomatoes
½ teaspoon dried thyme
½ teaspoon dried basil
½ teaspoon dried oregano
Pinch of red-pepper flakes, or to taste
Salt to taste
Heat the oil in a large saucepan over medium-high heat. Add the onions, carrot, celery, and garlic, and cook until the vegetables are tender, about 15 minutes.
Add the tomatoes with their juice, and stir with a wooden spoon, breaking up the tomatoes. Add the seasonings and cook, uncovered, until the desired thickness is reached, about 1 hour. You may puree the sauce if desired.
Makes 6 to 7 cups
21
I passed out. The 1986 Buick I'd bought as a cure for pride did not contain an airbag. My bony chest hit the steering wheel a split second before my forehead hit the windshield. My nose hit something as well, because when I came to, both it and forehead were bleeding profusely. I took one look at myself in the rearview mirror—the skin on my forehead was split open, like a weenie held too long over a campfire—and fainted.
The second time I regained consciousness I knew better than to get a gander at the goo. From what I could detect by feel, the bleeding had stopped. Of more concern to me than my head—which was now throbbing—was the fact that my chest felt like it'd been hit by a baseball bat. My left side ached as well, and just the act of moving my right hand up to touch my nose produced excruciating pain in one of my ribs.
"Oh Lord," I moaned in all earnestness, "take me now."
The Good Lord appeared to have other plans. He left me sitting there, throbbing and moaning, as late afternoon turned into dusk, and then into a night as black and dismal as any I'd ever experienced.
Of course I tried to lower the window some more and call for help—even a long, narrow face like mine can't fit through a three- inch crack—but the Buick's power windows were not about to budge with the motor off. I had not shut the motor off, by the way. When I gained consciousness the first time, the car was as silent as a married man alone with his wife in a restaurant. Turning the ignition key did absolutely no good.
To my great delight, the horn worked fine. At least it did at first. Eventually, though, it began to sound like an anemic lamb two pastures over, and I decided to save what little juice there was left in the battery for emergency use of the lights.
Sleeping that first night was impossible. Pain and fear contrived to revive me every time I nodded off. For the most part I just sat there, willing the hours away. I prayed a lot too, but to be honest, they weren't the most respectful prayers I've ever composed.
I blamed the Good Lord for having allowed the accident in the first place. At the very least, I informed Him, He could have sent a rescue squad to my aid the moment I landed in the damn tree (I'm afraid I did use the D word, which may have contributed to the delay). Finally, driven to it by desperation, I made all kind of promises I know now I can't possibly keep.
They say God answers prayers in mysterious ways, and I wholeheartedly agree. By dawn's early light, what so proudly did I hail, but the roll of duct tape I'd bought at Sam's Comer Market. It was sitting on the passenger seat right beside me, although the rest of my provisions had scattered hither, thither, and yon.
I prayed some more—this time without as much blame—and got the distinct impression that I was supposed to do something with the tape. But what? I could barely move. Then suddenly, like a bolt out of the blue, I had a vision of a blue bolt. Wrapped in the blue bolt of chiffon was my sister Susannah.
Of course! The Good Lord meant me to wrap that duct tape around my chest like I was a mummy. No doubt I had a cracked rib or two, which was causing the severe pain. Those ribs needed to be held in place, and the duct tape just might do the job. But a fat lot of good that knowledge di
d me. To wrap myself would be to cause even more intense pain. Unbearable pain, even.
"Why are you torturing me?" I cried.
The Good Lord, as usual, said nothing. Not aloud, at any rate.
There is, however, inside each of us, a still, small voice that can only be heard if we silence the din in our minds. After moaning and complaining a good deal—it was my right, after all—I finally calmed down enough to hear the voice.
"African women give birth in the fields," it said.
"What?"
"They do it all the time. Look, Magdalena, you can either sit there helplessly, or you can do something to make things better. If African women can deliver their own babies in the fields, and then walk back to the village on their own two legs, then you can wrap a piece of silly tape around your bony chest."
"But it will hurt!"
"Are you a woman or a wuss, Magdalena?"
"A wuss," I wailed.
"Have it your way then, Magdalena. Just remember, I offered My help. Oh, and by the way, you sure wail a lot."
The short hairs on my head stood. The long hairs, fortunately, remained coiled in the semblance of a bun.
"Lord, was that You?"
Again there was no answer.
I thought about what had just happened. Perhaps the still, small voice had indeed been the Lord. More likely it had just been me. I'm in the habit of not only talking to myself, but answering myself as well. This is not, as some people think, a sign of mental instability, but rather of intelligence.
Whomever the voice belonged to, it had made a lot of sense. I could sit there—and sitting was virtually all I could manage under the circumstances—and do nothing, or I could bite the bullet, so to speak, and take the suggested course of action. I bit.
Wrapping one's own broken ribs with duct tape may not be quite as painful as giving birth in a field, but it is surely a close second. During the process I learned that my vocabulary was far more extensive than anyone, least of all myself, had previously thought. I also learned that wetting oneself is not the end of the world.