The Glass Is Always Greener

by Tamar Myers

  “I’ll start praying,” Mama said. “They’re only Episcopal prayers, so they may not be as effective as—”

  “Exit your car, ma’am, with your hands above your head.”

  “Sir,” I said, “may I use my hands to open the door first?”

  “Very funny, ma’am. Now I said exit the car with your hands above your head.”

  “Abby,” Mama whispered, “this one’s a woman, and you just called her a ‘sir.’ ”

  “Oopsie daisy, ma’am. Would you please open the door for me?”

  Much to my surprise, Detective Krupp actually did just that. Much to my continued surprise, I was not ready, and since I was shamefully in violation of a very important North Carolina state law—the seat belt law—I fell sideways, virtually into Detective Krupp’s standing lap. That is to say, she had to catch me, and hold me to her, as she lowered me to the ground.

  “Wow,” she said, “you were really quick with that seat belt. I swear I didn’t even see your hands move.”

  “That’s because she—”

  “I learned it from Tweetie—may she rest in peace. Oh the things that girl could do with her hands. And that’s just for starters.”

  “Are you being crude, Miss Timberlake?” Detective Krupp said.

  She made me stand on my own two little feet, which turned out to be a valuable source of inspiration. “Oh not at all. That’s why I hate innuendo. It ruins things for us innocent folks. I was referring to the fact that Tweetie was a superb soccer player. And ballerina. Why, you should have seen her stand en pointe.”

  Mama snickered. “Are you referring to our Tweetie? Tweetie Timberlake?”

  “Yes, Mama, our dear, sweet Tweetie, upon whom our very lives depended more than one occasion.”

  “Oh.”

  Detective Krupp, who was now standing an arm’s length from me, beamed. “Cool beans. That sounds like the Tweetie I knew, all right; tell me more.”

  “Uh,” Mama said, “Abby, this really is your bailiwick, not mine.”

  “Bailiwick,” I said, “now there’s an interesting word. I wonder how it came about.”

  “Quit stalling, Miss Timberlake,” Detective Krupp growled.

  “Okay, you only need to growl once. Well, you see, Mama and me were up at the top of Mount Mitchell in a blizzard—”

  “I,” Detective Krupp said, rudely interrupting me.

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “It should be ‘I,’ not ‘me.’ ”

  “Does it really make that big of a difference?” I said. “After all, this is dialogue; this is how real people speak.”

  “That may be so,” she said, “but if I read this in a book, I’d throw it across the room.”

  Thank heavens Detective Wimbler trotted over at that very moment, saving me from myself: my own worst enemy. “Mama,” I said, gratefully, “Detective Wimbler’s mother—she’s passed on now—was a Wiggins.”

  “Well I’ll be,” Mama said. “My husband—may he rest in peace—was a Wiggins. Do you remember her daddy’s Christian name?”

  “Yes, ma’am, same as mine: Wallace.”

  “Abby! That’s the same as your granddaddy’s name!”

  “Mama, I’m sure there was more than one Wallace Wiggins walking the earth in granddaddy’s time.”

  “Son,” Mama said, “what was your mama’s name?”

  “Formalda—short for formaldehyde. My grandpa was a funeral director who loved his work and he named his children after various aspects of it. He wanted them to take over his business when they grew up, but his son left home and cut off all contact with the family.”

  “Cry me a river,” Detective Krupp said, “and then gag me with a spoon. This is not why we’re here, Wallace.”

  “Shut up, dear,” Mama said, “and let the boy talk. Wallace, was this runaway uncle’s name Hyde by any chance?”

  “Yes, ma’am! How did you know?”

  “Oh Lord, Abby, this boy is your first cousin.”

  “I’m not a boy, ma’am,” Detective Wimbler said.

  “Mama, this is beyond ridiculous. Daddy’s name was Clarence. In fact, he was Clarence Rufus Wiggins III. And he had only one sister, and that was Lula Mae Wiggins, who died as a maiden lady in Savannah.”

  “Abby,” Mama said sternly, “now you need to shut up and listen. Your father, bless his now defunct heart, was a man who carried a lot of deep dark secrets with him; most of these secrets, I suspect, went to his grave unrevealed to anyone. But every now and then, when he’d had one beer too many—this is after you children went to bed, of course—he’d let something from his past life slip. And yes, his real name was Hyde and he had a twin sister named Formalda.”

  “What a touching family reunion,” Detective Krupp said. “Spare me any further details.”

  At that Mama got out of the car and stormed around to where the female detective was standing. With her puffed-up skirt she reminded me of a pink-and-white checked mother hen. Or perhaps a tom turkey with its feathers all fluffed out. I’ve been chased out of more than one farmyard by tom turkeys—but in my defense, they do stand nearly as tall as I do.

  “Now what did I tell you?” Mama said. “Either you quit harassing my family, or I’ll bring charges down on your head so quick that your eyes will spin out of their sockets faster than toy tops on a greased glass cutting board. Capisce?”

  “Mama,” I said proudly, “you’re my hero.”

  “Auntie—I don’t even know your name,” Detective Wimbler said adoringly. “What is your name, if I may ask?”

  “Mozella.”

  The new cousin giggled unbecomingly.

  “What is it?” Mama said.

  “No offense, Mozella,” he said, “but that’s kind of a funny name.”

  “Ooh,” I said. “First offense, cousin, and you better start keeping track.”

  “Abby,” Mama said, “I’m not that bad.”

  “Yes, you are.” I clapped my hands, which produces the sound a five-year-old might make at her birthday party. “Everyone, I can’t tell you how much fun this has been, but Detective Krupp is right. The family reunion, as lovely as it has been, must be put on hold until after Jerry Ovumkoph’s killer has been put behind bars. And surely, dear cousin, you still don’t think that I, your own flesh and blood, the owner of these minuscule mitts”—I held up my dainty hands—“am capable of murdering anyone. Do you?”

  “Miss Timberlake, we’re not here to arrest you.”

  “You’re not?”

  “If we were,” Detective Krupp said, “do you think we would have let you babble on so long about all this nonsense?”

  “Miss Timberlake,” Detective Wimbler said, “we told you yesterday that it was our intention to help you, but clearly you didn’t believe us. Do you know how hurtful that is? Especially now that I know we are kin?”

  “Get to the point, nephew,” my bantam mama said. “My daughter has been through enough already and the day is barely started.”

  “Humph,” Detective Krupp said, as she dug a knuckle into my cousin’s biceps, “I told you we should get right down to business.” She did her best to focus her watery green eyes on me. “The coroner’s report came in at six this morning. Miss Ovumkoph died of heart failure before she was put in the freezer. The heart attack was probably brought on by the ingestion— that means eating—of some sort of poison. The full report will probably not be out for another six weeks. At any rate, you are no longer a part of this investigation.”

  “Whoopee!” Mama cried, and tried to hug me, but I squirmed out of her embrace. She hugged Cousin Wallace instead.

  “What about my prints being all over that knife?” I said, dumbfounded.

  “Miss Timberlake,” Detective Krupp said, “you’re married to a former detective; you’re supposed to know how this works: we wanted to keep our as—I mean bases—covered until the preliminary report was issued. So we said what we had to say. What was the harm?”

  “That’s it?” I said. �
��What was the harm? Are you idiots serious?”

  “Abby,” Mama said. “Please stop shrieking, dear.”

  I ran around the car and hopped back in. “Come on, Mama, let’s go.”

  “Where, dear?”

  “Anywhere these guys aren’t is fine with me.”

  Chapter 23

  I hadn’t been to Bubba’s China Gourmet on Pine- ville-Matthews Road for the shelf span of a thousand-year-old egg. It may not serve up the best food in the Charlotte metropolitan area, but its dishes rank among the most interesting. Where else can one find stir-fried collard greens, sweet and sour okra, and moo goo gai grits? Adventurous diners may wish to sample General Tso’s possum or the Hunan-style hog hocks. Finicky eaters need not dismay. There is always the dynamite salad bar with all the colorless iceberg lettuce you can eat, and if you’re really lucky, Bubba will have gotten it into his hard Dixie skull to make lime gelatin squares that day.

  It’s almost impossible to find a parking space, thanks to Bubba’s low prices, so I had to circle the lot for at least ten minutes before I found one that was more than half empty. Finally a Buckeye family of five waddled out and crammed themselves into a full-size van, which left me with plenty of room, along with the smug satisfaction that Bubba was beginning to get famous above the Mason-Dixon Line.

  A faux Asian waitress with bottle-black hair and a Japanese kimono pounced on me the second I pushed open the greasy door. “I’m your waitress, Consuelo,” she said in a heavy Spanish accent.

  “You see, Mama! That’s what I love about this place! Consuelo, is Bubba here today?”

  “Si—no, hai! Is very hard this Japanese English, yes?”

  “I thought this was a Chinese restaurant,” Mama said.

  “It is, but Bubba has this thing about kimonos, and fortunately his cultural confusion and fusion cuisine coincide nicely, hence the immense popularity.

  We’re actually here to meet a Mr. Ovumkoph,” I said to Consuelo.

  “We are?” Mama said.

  “Yes, ma’am, and there he is waving at us.”

  “You didn’t tell me that he was so cute,” Mama said, as we made our way to the genuine faux leather booth Ben occupied.

  “That gringo real hottie,” Consuelo said. “Very rich, I think, but very old too. Not for me.”

  “Indeed,” I said. “He played with Moses as a baby.”

  “What?” Consuelo said.

  The concern in her voice belied her white-powdered persona. It also informed me that she hadn’t understood my reference and was concerned that she might have been too hasty in her decision to dismiss the gringo because of his age.

  “Never mind,” I said.

  “I want bring you complimentary peech-er of sangria,” she said as she seated us.

  “You bet,” I said. “That’s a yes.”

  “You want hear specials?” Consuelo said.

  “Yes,” Mama said. “But speak loudly. It’s noisy in here.”

  Consuelo giggled. “Is no specials, is only buffet.”

  “Why that was meaner than one hen stealin’ the eggs offen another,” Mama said. She was born and raised on a farm between Rock Hill and York, South Carolina, and sometimes when she’s under stress her country roots take over.

  “So sorry,” Consuelo said, and still giggling, trotted away with mincing steps.

  “Welcome ladies,” Ben said. He’d stood for us and now waited for us to sit. “Mrs. Timberlake, you failed to mention that your mother is such an attractive woman. Mrs. Wiggins, I hope that your husband appreciates the beauty that he is fortunate enough to gaze upon regularly. I myself am a divorced man, and no longer have such a pleasure.”

  Mama’s giggle was annoyingly similar to Consuelo’s. “My husband has been dead for almost fif— Many years, Mr. Ovumkoph. And though it’s none of my business, your wife must have been out of her noodle.”

  “Mama!”

  “Well, just look at him, Abby,” Mama said. “He looks just like our Robbie, but older. Unless his man plumbing wasn’t working back then, or he was beating her or something—I mean, sometimes women can be too fickle. That’s all I’m saying, dear.”

  Poor Ben was blushing to the point that his skin appeared almost black. But then a moment later he roared with laughter, and soon his complexion returned to a healthy glow.

  “My man plumbing was—and continues to work—just fine. And please call me Ben.”

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” Mama said, and extended a well-manicured hand.

  “Gag me with a pair of chopsticks,” I said.

  “Abby, don’t be rude,” Mama said.

  “But Mama, you two are flirting like a pair of seventh-graders at a sock hop.”

  “Oh Abby, you silly thing, you couldn’t possibly remember a sock hop; you weren’t born until—”

  “And neither can you, Mama,” I said, “and not for the reason that I can’t. Tell me, Ben, what is this meeting all about?”

  “You may call me Mozella, by the way. I’m in the Charleston white pages.”

  Ben smiled broadly. “You two ladies are something else. Maybe if I’d have met you, Mozella, instead of that self-styled wildcat down in Australia—well, who knows.”

  This was getting ridiculous. Suspiciously so.

  “I’m afraid Mama wouldn’t make a very good Jew,” I said. “She loves shrimp.”

  “But only kosher shrimp,” Mama said.

  Although Mama sounded clueless to me, Ben laughed. “You have a dry sense of humor as well. I like that.”

  “Too bad it’s not rye,” I said, “because she’s been known to ham it up.”

  “Abigail, are you making fun of me?”

  “Should I be?” I asked.

  “Ha ha,” Ben said. “I just adore you two. My mother was so strict. The only time I ever saw my mother smile, it turned out to be a bowel obstruction.”

  That brought short-lived smiles to our lips. “I’m serious,” Ben said. “We are taught to honor our parents, and one must never speak ill of the dead, but Mama is where Chanti got her scintillating personality.”

  “Shades of Mommie Dearest?” I said.

  “Exactly,” he said. “By now it must be clear to you that I had a favorite sister.”

  “In fact—”

  Aiyee caramba! Just when the conversation was about to get interesting, along minced Consuelo on her platform shoes, toting the pitcher of alcohol-free Chinese sangria.

  “Gringos, geet up,” the waitress ordered. “Zee boo-fay, she not coming to you.”

  “Yes,” Ben said, “but she is not going anywhere either.”

  “Don’t make fun of her,” I whispered.

  But Consuelo didn’t seem to have heard him. “Eez all you can eat,” she said. I could hear the longing in her voice.

  “Does Bubba let you eat here?” I asked.

  “Only zee food that—how you say in English—smell bad.”

  “Why that’s awful!” Mama said.

  “That only sometime,” Consuelo said. “Because the rest of the time Bubba adds more spice and gives the food a new name. That’s how he came up with Bubba’s Pungent Pork Surprise. The surprise is a tummy ache.”

  “Whoa,” Ben said. “What happened to your Hispanic accent?”

  “Busted,” Consuelo said, her voice dropping three octaves.

  “And you’re not even a real gal, are you?”

  “Busted again, dang it.”

  At that point poor Consuelo looked so miserable that I had no choice but to intervene in his destiny. “Why don’t you join us, dear? Lunch is on me.”

  “Bubba will fire my ass.”

  “Consuelo—uh, that isn’t your real name, is it?”

  “It’s Conrad, ma’am.”

  I smiled. “Conrad. What’s going on? What was with the accent?”

  Mama raised her hand and like a Goody Two-shoes schoolgirl waved it impatiently. “I bet I know!”

  “Mama, please,” I said.

  “He’s an il
legal alien,” Mama said, whereupon Conrad blanched.

  Ben chuckled politely. “Mozella, you are indeed droll; there is no doubt about that.”

  “Oh, can the droll,” Mama said. “Abby, my sniffer is working again. This young man is from Manitoba and he slipped across the U.S. border up in North Dakota without documentation. Somehow he made it down to Charlotte. He likes it in this country and wants to stay, but of course he can’t, not without a green card. Then he read an article in the Charlotte Observer that Bubba hires Hispanic waitresses to play the part of geisha waitresses in his Chinese restaurant. Conrad—who is no stranger to drag, but had never met a Spanish-speaking person before arriving in the Carolinas—thought he could make this work. Am I right so far, dear?”

  Conrad clumped over to the next table, swiped an empty chair, and threw his narrow butt gratefully down in it. “I can’t believe this woman. Everything she said is absolutely true—well, except I come from Saskatchewan, not Manitoba.”

  “Don’t you miss your family and friends?” I said.

  Conrad had large, expressive brown eyes. “Have any of you read a book titled A Complicated Kindness by Miriam Toews?”

  Amazingly, all three of us had. “I do have a sensitive side,” Ben said when he saw my reaction to his affirmative response.

  “Well, anyway,” Conrad said, “that was exactly the way I was raised. From the moment we were born the whole object was for us to gain admittance to the afterlife. In other words, to get saved. And we started early getting used to the idea of dying. I’m sure you know the prayer that goes: ‘Now I lay me down to sleep, oh Lord I pray my soul to keep.’ ”

  “Yes, and I refused to teach it to my children,” I said. “ ‘If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take!’ What a gruesome thought to put into a small child’s head just before they nod off.”

  “Exactly,” Conrad said.

  “This is very interesting,” Ben said. “This is a Christian prayer, I presume.”

  “Yes,” Mama said, as she patted her pearls indignantly. “Call me old school, if you wish, but I see nothing wrong with it. I found it very comforting as a child.”

  “What I find so interesting about it,” said Ben, “is that my sister had her own version of it that she used to say all the time. I just didn’t know it was part of a real prayer.”