I stomped my feet. “It’s about time.”
Remember how I kept my eyes glued to the truck so I could catch a glimpse of the driver. It didn’t matter. There wasn’t much to see when they opened the cab door and jumped to the plowed blacktop below. If a cop ever asked me to describe what I’d viewed, all I could report seeing was a lanky body clothed in jeans and muddy boots and a face half hidden by a tan cowboy hat with turquoise stones circling the ribbon band.
A few seconds later, a shrill scream pierced my ears. It came from a woman as she rounded the back of the truck I’d been staring at. “Well, I don’t believe it,” she said, “you’re actually standing out here freezing your butt off to see me, Anita.” She took her hat off, exposing her shoulder length hair—black with streaks of plum, and swatted Anita on the back. “How you been, lady?”
A sassy laugh poured from Anita Crane’s wide mouth. “Keeping myself out of mischief of course, like you.”
“Of course,” the forty-something woman wearing aviator sunglasses replied. I see you haven’t gotten rid of the ugly green hairnets yet.”
“Unfortunately, I never got the chance to convey my sentiments to Don Hickleman before, well you know,” she said sourly, scraping her foot back and forth. “Maybe the next owner will be open to his employees’ suggestions.”
Hmm. It sounds like Butch wasn’t the only one unhappy with the king.
I studied the woman chatting with Anita. She may have been blessed with an oval face, but the rest of her begged for help. Besides having a body that looked like it suffered from anorexia, she owned a long beaky nose, bushy eyebrows, pencil thin lips, barely a chin, and a bird-like neck. The combination of looks and mannerisms brought to mind one of Cinderella’s creepy cruel step-sisters. Yuck. Something tells me I’d better be on my toes whenever she’s around. She might be as bad as the stepsisters.
Quickly realizing Anita wasn’t by herself the woman pointed a scrawny finger at me. “Who’s this?”
“Roseanne Harsh,” Anita said, “meet Mary Malone. It’s her first day on the job.”
Roseanne Harsh? Why, that’s the name Butch asked Aunt Zoe to pass on to me.
“Roseanne’s been trucking in cucumbers from farms in Minnesota and Mexico for the past twenty years,” Anita hurriedly explained.
“Going on twenty-two years to be exact,” she corrected, without offering a hint of friendliness to me.
“Hi.” I offered a cold hand to her, but her leather-gloved-fingers continued to grip her hat.
A few seconds of awkward silence followed, allowing the trucker to scrutinize me. Could it be she’s worried this younger body of mine might draw the attention of men folk away from her?
Roseanne finally shifted her gaze to another spot. “That truckload of cucumbers I’m dropping off ought to keep you gals out of mischief for quite some time,” she said, and then she plopped her rodeo-style hat back on her head.
“You’re right about that,” my mentor answered.
Roseanne pointed to the truck behind her. “Well, I’d better unload these suckers so they can get weighed and sorted. Anita, I’ll catch you later for a cup of the plant’s watered down version of coffee.”
“Okay, see you then.” After Roseanne was out of sight, Anita turned to me and said, “I don’t know why all the men at work have the hots for her. She’s no Miss America. I’ve seen better looking women at the beauty salon.”
“I don’t know. I rarely get there. I usually trim my hair.”
Anita glanced at my head. “Mmm hmm. I can tell.”
My teeth clacked together, making noises only a dentist should hear. “Are we finished out here?”
“Sounds like someone’s freezing. Are you sure you’re from Minnesota, girl?”
“That’s what my birth certificate says.”
“Tell you what. The sorting process will start any second. As soon as you understand how it works, will skedaddle and find the coffee machine. Is that a deal?”
I stomped my feet for the umpteenth time. “It’s a deal.”
~20~
My head felt like mush. Not only had too much cold air passed through it, but it had been filled to the brim with info I already knew about grading pickles, and new stuff. Supposedly, it was Don Hickleman’s sole decision this past year to set aside a specific number of vats for fermenting organic cucumbers. According to Anita that decision didn’t sit well with all the board members.
The moment we reentered the building I was ready to warm up with a double chai tea latte, but that wasn’t going to happen. I was working at a pickle plant, not Starbucks.
Not a big fan of coffee, I was leery of sampling what the company provided. More than likely it was an off-brand that smelled as bad as it tasted. Of course, feeling like an icicle wasn’t great either, so I finally succumbed and took a cup of the hot java.
After drinking two free cups of burnt coffee supplied by the plant’s outdated electric coffee pot, I had to ask the inevitable question, “Where’s the nearest restroom?”
“Straight back, honey, and to the right,” Anita said. “You can’t miss it. Oh, and remember to wash your hands thoroughly; we don’t want to spread germs around here.”
No kidding. It’s a shame adults have to remind other adults about cleanliness, but I wasn’t one of them. People who work with kids know enough about germs they could write a book on the topic, including me. But I didn’t dare share that with Anita. I had to keep my previous job a secret.
Roseanne Harsh finally showed her face, but her timing stunk. I’d already committed myself to visiting the ladies room and had put my body in motion.
“Sit down, Mary. You don’t have to leave on my account.” Roseanne whipped her sunglasses off and exposed her big round hazel eyes with flecks of gold.
Anita lifted her empty Styrofoam cup in the air. “Leave the girl be, she has to pee.”
The truck driver snickered. “Well, you’d better hightail it to the powder room then. We don’t want you having an accident. Oh, and, Mary, make sure you don’t end up in the men’s room by mistake. It happens a lot around here, if you get my drift.”
Her message came in loud and clear. There’s no way this gal intended to end up in the men’s room unless I was forced to, which I doubted she was. I wonder how many men she’s met up with in the bathroom over the years.
When I reached the door labeled WOMEN, I didn’t go in right away. Instead I leaned against the wall, crossed my legs, and listened to the conversation going on between Roseanne and Anita for a few minutes. Recipes and remedies for aches and pains flowed from their lips at first, and then old man Hickleman’s name came up. Yahoo.
“The police haven’t broadcast this yet, Roseanne, so keep it under your hat. When Don’s body was pulled out of the pickle vat, the cops found a cucumber lodged in his throat.”
That’s it? Big deal. Disappointed with the gossip, I succumbed to Mother Nature’s complaints.
~21~
When I returned, I found Anita hanging outside the lunchroom door; legs crossed, resting her broad back against the wooden door frame. “I thought you got lost, Mary. Everything okay?”
“Just peachy.” I peered in the lunch room. No one was there. “Where’s Roseanne?”
Anita fussed with the pocket of her lab coat as if it hid a secret message. “She’s gone. That woman flits in and out of here like a ghost. Knowing her she’s probably picking up another delivery somewhere nearby.” She uncrossed her legs.
Yeah, like one of the men from the plant. “Darn. I wanted to ask her which North American country supplied the U.S. with more cucumbers.”
“Roseanne has never brought it up as many times as we’ve chit chatted over the years, but I do recall one of our sales reps saying the U.S. gets over a million cucumbers a year just from Mexico.” She stepped away from the door frame. “Well, girl, I think we’ve dawdled long enough.” I didn’t comment. My mentor didn’t press it. She simply whisked down the hall to the left and chatt
ed on about the plant again.
“You’ve already seen the sorting process and the vats where the cucumbers sit in salt brine to ferment for six weeks. But it was too cold outside for me to explain that the fermented cucumbers aren’t taken out of the vats the minute the six week period ends. They actually stay in them two extra days so agitation (desalting) can take place.”
“Then they’re brought into the building,” I chirped, while trying to keep up with her long strides, “and made into slices, chips, or relish.”
Anita stopped in mid-step and spun around, causing her braids to fly in all directions. “Whoa, girl. You’re putting the cart before the horse.”
I knew I was, but I did it deliberately. The woman had no idea I’d visited the plant with younger children before taking the job here. She was only aware of the quick walk-through Sharon Sylvester provides for potential employees, which doesn’t amount to much. “Oh? Sorry.”
“It’s all right. People who don’t work here usually assume that.” She advanced a few more steps, raised her hand, and pointed to the different machinery surrounding us. “After the fermented cucumbers come inside from the vats they spend five more days being desalted in this room.”
For the sake of acting interested in the info being fed into my head, I studied the equipment for a full six seconds.
Anita continued on. “The next step in the pickle making process is the washing and rinsing of the cucumbers, which takes place in the wet hopper and brush washer, directly in front of us. Once that’s finished, then the cucumbers get cut into chips or slices, depending on the demand, and slide down a chute onto the conveyor belts in front of those employees over there, where they inspect and keep the best to be put in jars for consumption.”
Seeing bad cucumbers tossed every which way by the quickness of workers hands gave me serious doubts about my ability to carry out the task if assigned. Sure my mouth moves at motor speed, but the hands don’t. The dexterity isn’t there. I can’t tell you how many times my fingers got stuck between the keys of an Underwood manual before the first computer keyboard came into our house.
Worried that this klutz’s undercover future wouldn’t last long if it began in the inspection department, I quizzed my mentor. “Is this where I’ll be spending my days?”
“No, not this week, honey. We don’t throw you into the lion’s den that soon. After the sliced cucumbers are inspected, they come along another conveyor belt waiting to be picked up by us and packed in empty jars.”
Oh, joy. Trying to squeeze slices of cucumber into a jar is tantamount to me getting a roll of fat in a pair of pantyhose.
~22~
After an eight-hour shift at the pickle plant, every joint in my thirty-five-year-old body screamed bloody murder. Of course, sitting an additional thirty minutes behind Fiona’s steering wheel on the stressed-filled drive back home only added to the severe pain.
By the time I arrived home I could barely manage to muster up the energy to rid myself of wet tennis shoes and the enormous purse slung over my shoulder, let alone alert my aunt that a person had entered the apartment.
Despite how I felt, common sense prevailed in the end. Without Gracie here to inform her of another presence, the job fell to me. If I didn’t carry it out, I’m afraid Aunt Zoe would leap out of her skin like she did two days ago when I returned from an errand sooner than she expected. Besides that, I didn’t want to bear the burden of sending my dad’s sister off to greet St. Peter at the pearly gates before her time.
I sucked in stale air and forced the needed words to finally flow. “Aunt Zoe, I’m home.”
A swift reply floated my way. “I’m in the kitchen, Mary.”
Those weren’t the melodious words I wanted to hear after an exhausting day of doing work this teacher had never dreamt of doing.
Instead of conjuring up what a state the kitchen is normally in after Auntie’s been let loose in it, like I usually do, I remained calm as a cucumber and sniffed the air. “Hmm? Something smells mighty good.” Could my aunt be surprising me with takeout from Mancetti’s Italian Restaurant? Although I don’t know how she would’ve gotten there, it isn’t a simple hop, skip, and a jump from the Foley. She’d need a car, which she didn’t have. And, even if she had a car, I wouldn’t want her out on the streets without a license.
Since smoke wasn’t pouring out of every crevice in our abode and my aunt wasn’t yelling for assistance, I allowed myself a few moments to hang up my coat and put on slippers before proceeding to the kitchen to find out what was cooking.
When I finally came face to face with Aunt Zoe, I found nothing out of place on the stove or counters. Even so, I completely forgot to ask about supper. No, I’m not getting senile. Seeing the intensity of Auntie’s bright orange jogging suit dragged me back more than a dozen years to a pumpkin patch and a funny-looking kid called Charlie Brown.
Mystified by my aunt’s choice of clothing, I barely heard a soft voice speak to me from another part of the room. “Hello, Mary.”
In a flash the memory lane I’d been strolling down disappeared into oblivion. I quickly glanced in the direction the greeting had come from and found Margaret Grimshaw sitting at the kitchen table holding a cup in the air, offering me a warm, motherly smile. Finding her here and the table set for three melted any anxiety felt a few seconds earlier concerning supper. I permitted my lips to curve upward for Margaret’s benefit.
The elderly woman took a second to straighten her granny glasses before explaining her presence. “I hope you don’t mind, Mary, but I’ve invited myself to supper. I made enough lasagna this afternoon to feed an army.”
I yawned. “Do I mind? Of course not. Not when you’ve had a hand in the meal.”
Aunt Zoe had moved to the stove to set a pot on a burner and turned slightly to speak to me. “Margaret’s not exaggerating. She really did make a huge batch of lasagna. By the way, I suggested we invite Rod over to join us.”
Oh, God. Rod’s the last person I want to see. I smell like pickles. My hair is as flat as a pancake thanks to the hairnet employees at Hickleman’s are required to wear. My heart raced. “Did you?” I asked.
My aunt pulled out a couple pot holders from the small drawer next to the stove. “No. Margaret said you might be too worn out to have that much company and suggested I ask you first before calling anyone.”
I strolled over to Margaret and gently squeezed her shoulder. “I’m glad you waited. The only people I want to be around tonight are you two.”
After hearing my thoughts on additional guests, Aunt Zoe inspected the pot on the burner and retrieved the lasagna from the oven, giving me ample opportunity to let Margaret know with a simple expression how grateful I was for her words of wisdom.
She saluted me with her cup, signifying she understood. “Mary, I know you’ve had a long day, but I hope you’re not too tired to share how it went at the pickle plant. Zoe and I are dying to know.”
“No. Just let me get something in my stomach first. What little I packed for lunch didn’t stay with me that long.” I glanced over my shoulder to check on my aunt. “Do you need any help?”
“Yes,” she replied, as she headed to the table with the huge pan of lasagna. “You can turn the burner off and empty the warmed peas into a serving bowl. Oh, and get something for yourself to drink.”
After I took care of the peas and got a glass of milk, I joined the women at the table and said a short dinner prayer with them before eating. When we finished, I offered to dish up the lasagna since the pan was too heavy to pass.
When I gave Aunt Zoe her plate back, she opened her mouth as if to share something, but I didn’t wait to find out what it was. I jumped right in and asked her about Matt’s dog instead. “Has anyone called about Gracie?”
She stared at her brightly polished nails and sighed. “A few people.”
The news cheered me up but not for long. “Anything concrete?”
“You mean was it worth answering the phone?” she asked. I
nodded. “Nope. It was the same as all the other calls. As soon as they described the dog they’d seen in their yard or along the street, I knew they hadn’t spotted Gracie.”
I clinched my fist and tapped the table. “Darn. Why do people bother calling if it’s not the dog we’re looking for?”
“Human nature, dear,” Margaret said. “People are so anxious to get the reward, they don’t care if the description posted fits the bill or not.” She frowned at the plate of food sitting in front of her now as if it wasn’t worth eating after all the work she put into it.
“Is anything wrong?” I timidly asked, hoping a strand of my hair hadn’t gotten away from me undetected. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s finding something in my food that didn’t belong there. That’s so gross.
“Si, there’s too much lasagna on my plate. I’ll never eat it all.”
Whew. No hair on her plate. “That can be easily remedied.” I scooted my chair back. “I’ll get you a saucer so you can take off what you don’t want.”
Margaret waved her fork over her plate. “Don’t bother, dear. What I don’t eat I’ll take home with the rest of the leftovers.”
“Are you sure? It’s no trouble to get a small plate for you.”
She lowered her fork to her food. “I’m quite sure. Eat your lasagna before it gets cold.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I moved my chair closer to the table and took several bites of our supper before setting down the fork and wiping my messy lips with a paper napkin. “This is delicious. I wish I could cook as well as you, Margaret.”
Margaret’s pale cheeks looked like she recently added rouge. “You can, dear. All it takes is many years of practice.”
Aunt Zoe’s eyes widened. “Yes, Mary, remember the old saying ‘practice makes perfect.’”
This from a person who doesn’t have a penchant for tackling anything more than once.
Death of the Pickle King Page 11