Tamar Myers - Butter Safe Than Sorry

“ Magdalena!”

“Shhh, I’m praying.”

“Sorry, hon,” my Beloved whispered, “but the sheriff said he’s not falling for that ruse this time.”

I opened one eye and looked down the long table that my ancestor Jacob the Strong had built in the nineteenth century. The papists along its length, like their distant cousins, the Episcopalians, were not keeping their eyes closed. Believe me, a Baptist, or a Methodist, would have to have his or her eyes pried open during a prayer, lest the Devil somehow distract him or her. If, however, they prayed that the English would adopt some gender-neutral pronouns-

“Mags, hon, this is serious.”

I closed my wandering eye; I never should have opened it. I was still returning thanks for the Good Lord’s bountiful goodness, by whose hand we all were fed, and had yet to even touch on familial maladies.

“-and bless the plump little hands that kneaded this bread,” I intoned. “It is, by the way, excellent bread, even if Freni did get the loaves a wee too brown on the bottom this time around, so I fully expect that we, your grateful servants gathered here, will partake thereof. And with gusto. But as for the beef stew-Mmm, mmm, mmm, does that smell good! No need for divinely inspired gusto there, Lord.”

“Miss Yoder?”

“Yes, Lord?”

At least five out of six of my guests were rude enough to laugh at that point. One can be quite sure that both my eyes flew open in righteous annoyance.

“Over here, Miss Yoder,” said the sheriff. He was standing in the doorway of my dining room, and in so doing re- created a scene from my worst nightmare. That nightmare, of course, had to do with the day Mama and Papa died, squished to death as they were between a milk tanker and a semi- trailer truck loaded to the gills with state-of-the-art running shoes. That evening as well a sheriff had stood in the dining room of the PennDutch Inn, twisting his cap in his hands.

“I can see you,” I said as an aside to shush the lawman up. “Now, Lord, about the mashed potatoes: it really is a shame you didn’t have potatoes in ancient Palestine. You would have loved these. They are smooth-”

“Mags, hon,” Gabe hissed from eight feet away, “I don’t see any potatoes on the table.”

The sheriff cleared his throat. “Tell Miss Yoder,” he said, “that if she doesn’t join me in her parlor, I am going to arrest her for obstruction of justice.”

That was when the assemblage released their collective gasp.

“ Arrest me? You can’t barge into my home and arrest me during prayer. That’s un- American! Even a Democrat wouldn’t do that.”

“Do you have a warrant?” the Babester asked calmly.

The sheriff is not an unreasonable man. “Look,” he said, “all I want you to do is to stop harassing your cousin Pernicious Yoder III, over at the bank, so that I can get some peace and quiet.”

I, however, was still quite vexed that he had barged into my home. “He’s not my cousin, and peace and quiet are redundant.”

“What?”

Gabe put a steadying hand on my shoulder. “She means that Pernicious is not her first cousin, but as to you being redundant-Well, you know, Magdalena; she can split hairs with the broad side of an ax.”

“Thanks, dear,” I said. “Uh-I think.”

“But, hon,” Gabe said, “what’s this about you pestering Pernicious? He’s not still trying to get you to donate to the Giant Ball of String Society, is he?”

“Like I would!” That society, by the way, is about as nutty as a stroll down Hollywood Boulevard, or a jog through Clearwater, Florida -take your pick. The members are collecting bits of string from all over the world, which one unidentified woman in Charlotte, North Carolina, is supposedly tying together to form one very long string, which she keeps rolled in an ever-expanding ball. On June 17, 2019, the ball will be unrolled so that the string stretches around the world, thereby uniting all mankind in everlasting peace. Yeah, right; what a Crock- Pot full of Huafa mischt that is.

“No,” I said quickly, “this has nothing to do with string. But speaking of which, be a dear, will you? And run back into the dining room and see how our guests are faring.”

“Of course, dear. But what’s that got to do with string?”

I smiled weakly. “You know, tie up loose ends-that sort of thing.”

“I will not; I’m staying right here. Go on,” Gabe said to the sheriff. “Fill me in.”

It isn’t pretty to see a man in a uniform flinch. “It’s not just Pernicious who’s complaining. Your wife has apparently made herself such a fixture around police headquarters that they even have a nickname reserved just for her.”

I patted the white organza prayer cap atop my bun. This gesture is admittedly an affectation of mine that I engage in whenever I’ve been unduly flattered.

“They do?” I said in mock surprise. “What?”

“Rasputin.”

I recoiled in horror. “Oh, what vile things I’ve read about that man!”

The sheriff offered me a crooked grin in consolation. “I’m sure the guys at headquarters mean it kindly: that you have an indomitable spirit.”

“That you do,” the Babester said proudly. “Trust me, Sheriff, it takes a hard man to dominate her.”

“And my husband is anything but a softie,” I said just as proudly.

“Enough with the mutual-adulation society,” the sheriff growled. “You should know, Mr. Yoder, that your wife has been running a full-scale investigation of the bank robbery on her own for some time now.”

“Two corrections are in order,” I said, stabbing the air with a shapely index finger. “First of all, my husband is Dr. Gabriel Rosen, not Mr. Yoder-that was my father. And secondly, it was a failed bank robbery.”

The sheriff glared at me. “Which is neither here nor there as far as you’re concerned. This matter is only of concern to the FBI and local law enforcement authorities.”

“So then what am I, chopped liver?”

“Huh?”

“It’s a Jewish expression,” Gabe said. “What she means is-”

“My child and I were there. My son could have gotten killed. My son-not your son, not the FBI’s son.”

“My son too,” Gabe said plaintively.

The sheriff took time out long enough to blow his nose on a plain white handkerchief the size of a picnic cloth. Having relieved his not inconsiderable proboscis of its contents, he rubbed it brusquely from side to side.

“I’ll take it then that you intend to interfere at every opportunity and that I should expect to continue to find you underfoot, as I have been for the last three weeks?”

“Three weeks?” gasped Gabe. “You told me you were taking a drawing class in Bedford.”

I focused my gaze adoringly on the love of my life. “Darling,” I said, “I was in Bedford drawing on my life experience. You know that I have a tendency to swallow the end of my sentences.” I turned my watery blue eyes to the sheriff. “It’s a habit I’ve developed from having to eat so much crow.”

“I would have thought you’d have some mighty tasty recipes by now, Miss Yoder.”

“Touché.”

“Oy veys meer,” Gabe moaned.

The sheriff jerked his attention back to Gabe. “What was that?”

“Nothing, Sheriff. Really. I’m just admiring the repartee you’re have with my wife.”

“The what?”

“Our jolly banter, dear,” I said, as I gently pushed the much larger man toward the parlor door and the outer vestibule beyond.

“Uh-huh. Well, I’ve known her since she was knee- high to a grasshopper,” he said without a trace of shame.

After all, I’m ten years older than the sheriff and I used to babysit him . He was an ornery little thing too; once he put a banana up the exhaust pipe of my papa’s car, and another time he took a bite out of more than a dozen freshly baked cookies that Mama had made for the church bake sale to raise money to buy layettes for newborns in the Congo.