For Butter or Worse

by Saxon Bennett

  “Understandable,” London says. “I’ll call if I find anything. Stay out of trouble.”

  I enter my apartment to find it freezing—not like the air conditioner feels good because it’s so hot outside kind of freezing—but FREEZING. Ivan runs up to me. He’s wearing a purple down doggy coat and doggy booties. He slides into home plate and only stops when he collides with my shin. The booties are like ice skates. He slides all over the linoleum like a deranged Tonya Harding. After running into me a second time, he puts his paws on my thighs and begs to be picked up. I gather he doesn’t like his new footwear. I hug Ivan to my chest. He’s warm.

  I call out, “Travis!” I know he’s home because tonight is Me Night. Travis has a Me Night every week. He has the night off work and he doesn’t invite Michael over. It’s just himself, pretending to be alone, and contemplating the blessings of his life—only I’m usually home as well.

  “I’m in here,” Travis calls from the kitchen.

  I carry Ivan into the kitchen and set him down. He licks the floor. I look down and check out what he’s into. It’s butter. And there’s more butter on the counter, on the kitchen table, on top of the fridge, and everywhere else a stick of butter will fit. “What on earth are you doing?”

  “Practicing being a world-renowned butter sculptor. You need a certain panache to go with your carving skills. You need to visualize your audience and play to them, make them sing the butter song.” He’s obviously gotten himself all jazzed up and with Travis that can be a dangerous thing.

  “There’s a butter song?” I ask.

  “I was speaking metaphorically,” Travis says. He tosses his scarf over his shoulder in a very good impersonation of Isadora Duncan. I wonder if he knows what happened to poor Isadora and her scarf?

  “Travis, why is it so cold in here?” I ask, wrapping my arms around myself. My snake arm throbs when I do this. I let go and allow it to dangle by my side. My teeth begin to chatter. I won’t be needing an ice pack at this rate. My entire home is an ice pack.

  “We can’t practice butter carving without butter and you’ve got to keep butter cold. All the butter wouldn’t fit in the fridge, so I turned up the air conditioning. Don’t worry, I’m keeping track of expenses, so you can bill Betty. I used your business credit card to buy the butter. You would not believe how much butter costs these days.”

  “How’d you get my credit card? Oh, never mind.” Travis has his ways and there’s no scolding him. It’s not worth it. I just get the cold shoulder for several days and then I have to apologize.

  “Honey, everything I do, I do for you. Now, let’s get started.” He hands me a large knife and walks over to his laptop, saying, “I’ve found the Bob Ross of butter on YouTube. The man is a miracle worker.”

  “How wonderful,” I say flatly.

  “I knew you’d be excited. Elvis Manicotti says that anyone can learn to sculpt butter in less than an hour with his amazing new method.”

  Travis is an infomercial’s dream. He sees something on television for the low, low price of only $19.99 per month for six months and he’s on the phone getting whatever it is, despite not needing it. He has a whole closet of things he thought he wanted at three a.m.

  “I need a coat and a scarf and a hat and winter boots,” I say, hoping he’ll get the hint that we need heat in here. I don’t give a damn about the butter. My arm hurts and I need a Yoo-hoo so bad I can already taste it.

  “Sure, I’ll be waiting,” he says scrolling through his computer.

  I dig out all my winter gear that I’ve shoved in the back of my closet. I get dressed and go back to the kitchen to find Travis staring at the computer screen, horror written across his face and his fist jammed in his mouth. He looks at me and bursts into tears.

  I’m beyond alarmed. My mind goes in a million different directions. “What the hell?”

  “Penelope,” Travis says, wiping his nose on his mitten.

  “Penelope who?” I ask, walking over to the computer.

  “Penelope the python,” he says, pointing at the screen. “You killed her.”

  “What?” I stare at the screen. Dr. Roy has uploaded the video he took about Penelope and my arm to YouTube. The video is going viral. I’ve already gotten a lot of bad comments. People are hating on me big time.

  Travis clicks over to the Fox News Channel where they have already assembled a panel of pundits to discuss me. Jerry Falwell says that a snake eating my arm is God’s retribution for homosexuality. Ann Coulter says I am a lib-tard who hates reptiles. Dana Loesch from the NRA says that if I’d had a gun the snake would never have eaten my arm in the first place. She then goes on a tirade about buying snakes their own guns. Kellyanne Conway says this happened because I was trying to make a sock puppet out of a real live snake. Sarah Huckabee Sanders says it’s all fake news and none of it happened.

  Travis looks over at me. “Please tell me you didn’t do it on purpose. You’re not a murderer. I just know you aren’t.”

  “She ate my arm. Of her own volition.”

  “I think you better make a statement,” Travis says.

  “Why?”

  “To explain your side of the story.”

  “I’m the victim here,” I say as I scroll through the comments. One guy has the nerve to inform me that my arm is not appropriate food for a domesticated python. On the other side of the debate are several people from Florida who recall horror stories about pythons released by pet owners who no longer wanted them. One of the python-suffering Floridians shows a photo of a python eating an alligator. The argument rages between the snake advocates and the anti-snake people. I’ve got a lot of Floridians on my side. I might have to move there after all—I need to be with my people.

  Travis watches the video of my surgery. He gasps and looks at my arm. “Are you all right?”

  “Oh, now you care,” I grump.

  “Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry. That really did look traumatic. Need a Yoo-hoo?”

  I nod. Now that Travis feels sorry for me, I feel sorry for me. I burst into tears. Travis wraps his arms around me and pats my back.

  “I didn’t mean to kill her. She suffocated on my bicep. It was my own vanity that killed her. I’ve been doing too many arm weights. I was getting bat wings.”

  Travis pulls back and stares at me. “What are bat wings?”

  “You know when you put your arms out and shake them and your triceps jiggle.”

  Travis is horrified. He holds out his own arm and shakes it, forgetting he’s wearing a coat.

  “It’s not prevalent in men,” I tell him.

  He exhales, “Thank god. I have enough to worry about. You sit right here. I’ll get you a Yoo-hoo and we’ll watch the butter video. It’ll make you feel better.”

  I sit on a kitchen stool and feel sorry for myself. People are so cruel online. I think it’s because they get to have fake names. It’s the anonymity that makes them mean. If they had to use their own names, they’d think twice.

  Travis hands me a Yoo-hoo. I slurp greedily. It’s amazing how much better I feel with a little Yoo-hoo in me. I study the screen, checking out the Bob Ross of butter, Elvis Manicotti. He looks to be about fifty-years-old and is dressed in a pale yellow one-piece jumpsuit. I side-eye Travis who is staring at the screen with adoration. “I’m not going to have to wear a jumpsuit, am I?”

  Travis coughs nervously before answering, “Well, remember what I said about having panache? You will need to dress the part. But don’t worry, Michael is sewing you the perfect costume for your butter debut.”

  Michael is an amazing seamstress. Travis found an old Singer sewing machine, fixed it up, and gave it to Michael. He loves it. He sews everything, and I do mean everything.

  “No way.”

  “He’s put a lot of effort into it and you know how he gets when someone lets him down. It’s not pretty.”

  Don’t I know that. One time I made an admittedly callous remark about a cape he’d sewn. I said that maybe a cape was a li
ttle over the top for the community barbeque. He didn’t speak to me for two weeks. It wasn’t actually that bad except that Travis joined him in what they called the Jamie Boycott. It’s virtually impossible to live with two people not speaking to you. They even turned Ivan on me. (He only lasted an hour until I got the treats out. His resolve melted right away.)

  “Oh, all right. Please tell me it’s tasteful.” I sigh heavily.

  “He showed me the sketch. It’s gorgeous,” Travis says, swishing his hand and shimmying—a sign of true bliss in Travis world.

  I don’t even want to imagine it.

  “Okay, get ready to carve,” Travis says, hitting play on the video. Elvis comes to life and explains the wonders of what he’s about to teach us. Travis is enraptured. I’m terrified. There is no way I am going to master this in the next four days. What have I gotten myself into? I can’t believe I’m doing this. Whatever made me think I could be an undercover butter sculptor? This is insane.

  Travis is making dance moves with his knife as he follows along with Elvis. Michael has evidently taught Travis to twirl, although I doubt with a knife. To avoid a slashing move, I leap back, slip on a stray pat of butter, and fall flat on my back.

  I stare up at the ceiling. “I am not having a good day.”

  “Get up here, Jamie. You need to learn this because, in case you haven’t thought of it, if the killer finds out about you and thinks you’re on to them, you’re toast. And they’re the butter.”

  This I had not considered. “Best get carving then,” I say. He takes my hands and helps me up.

  I push a stack of butter over to him. “How about I watch you first?”

  Travis frowns, considering. He snaps his fingers, saying, “Ha! I have a butter idea.”

  “Please no more butter puns. Not now, not ever.”

  “I’m just trying to lighten the mood.”

  “Okay. What’s your idea?”

  “I’ll do it with you,” he says, beginning to stack his own butter squares until he has a Jenga tower identical to mine.

  “All right,” I say, conceding like I always do.

  “We need to make these into one solid block. I’ll heat them up and you can smooth the pieces together.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about and it must show.

  “Think frosting a cake,” he says.

  “I’ve never made nor frosted a cake. Speaking of which, what’s the difference between frosting and icing? I’ve always wondered.”

  “You are a savage. A feral keeper of the den.” Travis pulls something out from under the kitchen sink. He keeps his back to me then swings around. He has a blowtorch aimed in my general direction.

  “Why do you have that? Why do we even need one?”

  “For heating the butter. And in case I get a sudden craving for a spur-of-the-moment crème brulee,” he answers, like that makes complete sense. He lights the blowtorch and thrusts it at me.

  I make sure to turn the flame away from my face. I look at Travis for guidance. “What do I do?”

  “Run the flame along the seams of the butter sticks and I’ll smooth them out behind you.”

  I find a seam and apply the flame. The flame shoots right through the butter Jenga tower and out the other side. I quickly turn off the torch. “Whoops.” There’s a big hole through the butter tower. It looks like a butter eye socket without the eye.

  Travis bends down and peers at me through the hole. “We might need to turn down the flame.”

  “Uh, yeah.” We are not off to a good start.

  It takes us way longer than it should, but we finally manage to get the butter all put together in a smooth tower. Travis turns on the computer and Elvis begins. He’s kind and sweet and very supportive until he tries to teach us how to carve Saint Petersburg Cathedral in Red Square in Moscow. “Why did he pick this? I think it’s above our skill set.”

  “Russia is on everyone’s mind these days,” Travis says, as he carves a perfect minaret.

  I stare. “That’s really good, Trav. You should be the undercover butter carver.”

  He tsks-tsks. “It’s nothing. Now, go ahead. Your turn.”

  My minaret turns out badly. Travis studies it before going back to Elvis and the world of butter. I carve badly. I am a hack. Travis is a whiz. My sculpture looks like a nuclear explosion hit a once-beautiful city. I watch as Travis follows Elvis’s moves. He is a natural.

  I have an idea. “I’ll be right back.”

  I’m not certain it’ll work, but it’s worth a try. I dig around in my closet until I find my brown wig, my trench coat, and my fedora. I had to put them back because it’s too damn hot in August to even contemplate wearing them, even though they add to my gravitas as a private dick. (The reason for the wig is a long and boring story… okay, here’s the story: Juniper wanted to dress up as a private detective for a Halloween party and she bought the wig and I kept it. I told you it was boring.)

  I bring all the stuff into the kitchen.

  Travis has just completed his first butter sculpture and it’s frickin’ amazing. If this is what no practice creates, imagine his carving skills after four days. I’ve made up my mind: that boy is going to be carving 24/7 for the next four days and he’s going to compete in my place. He just doesn’t know it yet.

  “Voila!” he says, gesturing to his mini-cathedral. “What d’ya think?”

  “You’re perfect for the job is what I think.”

  “What job?”

  “Playing me,” I say, plopping the wig on his head.

  See, the perfect thing about Travis is that he’s the same height and build as me, only he’s prettier.

  “Oh, no you don’t. The last time I wore a wig I almost got killed.”

  That’s true. The killer, thinking Travis was someone else, went after him. I try a new tact. I appeal to his sense of adventure. “But wasn’t it fun?”

  Travis straightens out the wig and uses the microwave door to see his reflection. He primps the wig. I know I’ve got him now. I wrap the coat around his shoulders and put the fedora on top of the wig. We stare at his reflection. He is mesmerized. “I could be you.”

  Yes, you could, I think.

  “But the butter people have seen you already,” he says.

  “Not for long, and you’ll be in a booth behind glass. No one gets up that close. Besides, it’s the sculpture, not you, that they’re interested in. And you carve so beautifully. You might just win,” I add, knowing Travis is ferociously competitive.

  “You really think I’m good?” he asks.

  “No. I think you’re fantastic.”

  “Obviously,” he says pointing at his masterpiece, “I am a natural.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  I’ve got him hook, line, and sinker. I leave him to reclaim my failed sculpture and turn it into the Taj Mahal. The weird thing is—he may have found his true calling.

  Chapter Eight

  My mother called and insisted I come over for dinner. She’s making her famous eggplant parmesan. My stomach rumbled, and I complied. I tried to get Travis to come with me, but he was on his third butter masterpiece. He had moved on to human figures. His choice was our 45th president. I left him working on the tiny hands. He barely noticed my leaving. I heard him mumbling, “I can’t get his cuticles right.”

  Suddenly, going home to my mother’s excellent cooking seemed like a marvelous idea. I was done with butter. Unless I was putting it in my mouth. As I drive across town, I pass the 509 building where Veronica lives. I just happen to see her walking toward her condo with Del Hargrave. Veronica takes a quick look around and guides Del into the building. That’s odd. Since when did Veronica take clients to her condo?

  I check my watch. I have a few minutes to devote to this inquiry. I park my car around the corner and follow in Veronica’s footsteps. Luckily, the doorman is busy harassing a guest, so I slip past him. I watch as the elevator climbs to the 12th floor. I stand behind a large potted plant and wait. Either V
eronica and Del are going to be up there all night or Veronica is picking something up and they’ll be leaving soon. If they have drinks, I’ll be late for dinner. I check my watch again. I have ten minutes and then I’ll have to go.

  My time ends, and I walk out. I’ll have to quiz Veronica on it, and if she lies, I’ll know something is up for sure.

  Just as I’m turning the corner, I catch a glimpse of Del Hargrave leaving the building’s side entrance. She is accompanied by a tall, lithe, and well-dressed redhead. She looks like the same woman I’d seen at the motel with Del. Does she just happen to live in the building? On the same floor as Veronica? What are the chances of that? I’ll ask Veronica what it’s all about. I know one thing for sure, Veronica would never date a client.

  I get into Silver and drive toward Casa Bravo for some kickass eggplant. I can even have some garlic bread since I’m not dating anyone.

  ***

  Griffin nearly bowls me over when I enter the house. “You’re my superhero,” he says, jumping up and down.

  My mother, Bella, tells him to stop. “We have to be quiet, Juniper isn’t feeling well. Your video upset her and now she’s resting.” She’s holding a platter of sliced cucumbers.

  “What video? Oh, that video, the one that involves a long snake,” I say.

  “Yeah, it was romping, stomping good. I was sad Penelope died though,” Griffin says. He looked grieved.

  “I was sorry about that, too,” I say, not knowing if I really mean it or not. I did need my arm. I’ve grown rather attached to it.

  My father comes out of the kitchen holding a piece of freshly baked garlic bread. He’s got a butter sheen on his chin from eating it. I am so sick of butter. (That’s something I never thought I’d say.)

  “How’s the snake-killer?” Pop jokes.

  I hear a groan from the couch. That’s usually where Juniper takes up residence when one of her various maladies hits. “Please, let’s not talk about the snake. I’m already traumatized,” she says theatrically. She puts her left arm over her forehead and swoons like Sarah Bernhardt.