Tamar Myers: Butter Safe Than Sorry

“Shoot, Yoder,” Melvin said, a tremble in his voice, “it isn’t right; a boy growing up and not knowing about his uncle.”

“That’s why you don’t want to compound any possible charges. Look, I’ve got an idea.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t listen to her,” Carl said.

I clenched my teeth but, other than a short-lived growl of my own, said nothing offensive. “Melvin, what you do is release Ida-just dump her along the road, anywhere here is fine-and the three of us immediately head for the West Virginia border. You know I’ve got enough money to qualify for a government bailout. You get me to a bank in West Virginia, and I’ll make a series of withdrawals that will set you up for life.”

“Yeah? And then what?”

“Then you kill me, of course,” I said. “Two’s company. Three’s a crowd-isn’t that what they say? Of course this is all predicated on you swearing-on your mama’s life-that you’ll leave Little Jacob out of this.”

“Why West Virginia?” Carl said. “You have to get provisions if you’re going there, and all we have is half a roll of tropical-flavored Life Savers and a warm can of Diet Coke.”

“Because, dear,” I said, not even making an attempt to mind my spittle, “ West Virginia is a wild and woolly place. It’s got all those hills and forests and who knows what stretching as far as the eye can see. The long white arm of the law will never find you there.”

“Yeah, but it’s the ‘who knows what’ that’s got me worried, Yoder,” Melvin said. “Remember that girl in ninth grade whose father had to have a hole cut in the back of his pants so that his tail could hang out? Wauneta somebody. She was from West Virginia.”

Melvin forgot that I was eleven years older than he, but yes, I remembered Wauneta Beecher. How could anyone forget a girl with a father like hers? I read somewhere that, briefly, in utero we all possess tails at some stage of our development, and that this is a legacy of us having evolved from lower creatures. This article went on to state that in a certain percentage of the population this tail gene does not get switched off, and that’s why certain individuals are born this way. But since evolution is pure fiction, and the Devil is not-Well, what other conclusion can a reasonable person draw from this?

“Melvin, dearest,” I said, “if lasses who look like Lassies have you worried, then simply keep right on driving. Before you know it, you’ll be in North Carolina, a state that has the highest mountains east of the Mississippi, hundreds of miles of beautiful coastline, and inexplicably still finds itself in the clutches of the tobacco companies.”

“So what are you saying, Yoder? You want me to die of cancer?”

“No, no! I want you to live happily in a beautiful place.”

“Can Susannah join me?”

“She’s got a lot better chance of doing that if I stay alive,” I said, “and work it from this end-but I meant what I said before. You can kill me, if that means that you spare Ida’s hoary head.”

“Vhat? You hear how dis von talks about me?”

Melvin also gasped. “And you had the nerve to criticize my mouth! Ha, what a hypocrite you are.”

“It means ‘gray,’ ” Carl said. “Like from old age.”

“Yeah? That’s a good one, Yoder. I’ll have to remember it.” My would-be killer with the seventh-grade sense of humor turned his attention to his partner in crime. Mind you, this was while we were hurtling down a winding road at a speed so fast that the shadow cast by the SUV we rode in was now several car lengths behind. “Carl,” Melvin said, just as coolly as if he’d been discussing whether to hang up flypaper on the screen porch, “what do you think? Shall we kill her outright by throwing her down a sinkhole? Or tie her up in the woods somewhere and let her starve to death? Then again, maybe we should try to hold her for ransom.”

“Vhat about me?” Ida bleated like a little lost lamb.

“You keep your mouth shut,” Melvin said. “That’s if you want any mercy.”

“This could be a movie,” Carl said. The bizarre change of subject, coupled with his burst of energy, belied his etched features and heretofore- mature demeanor. “I see Drew Barrymore playing the part of Miss Yoder.”

“Much too young,” Melvin said. “It’s got to be Meryl Streep.”

“Und vhat about me?”

“Oy vey,” I said.

“I say we kill them now,” Carl said. “Just pull over on the first little side road, park off in the trees, and blow her brains out. Ka-boom. What a rush that would be. And then, like she said, we collect money from her the rest of our lives.”

“That’s not how it would work, dummkopf ,” I said, exercising extreme restraint. “I have to set up an automatic- payment system first. Otherwise you’ll get zilch, nada, nothing, zero. Capisce , compadre?”

“I don’t like her,” Carl whined. “Has she always been such a smart mouth?”

“Always,” Melvin and Ida answered in unison.

“Let me see that gun,” Carl said, and just like that, he grabbed it from the waistband of the mantis’s trousers.

“What the heck?” said Melvin, and nearly ran off the road again.

“Pull over and stop,” Carl said. When the mantis refused, Carl brought the gun up level to Melvin’s oversize head. “Do it, or it will be your brains scattered from here to uh-uh-”

“Eternity,” Melvin said.

“The correct answer is ‘Kingdom come,’ ” I said. “Honestly, guys-”

“Shut up, Miss Yoder,” Carl said.

Then much to my disappointment, my little, little-loved brother pulled over, first onto a dirt fire lane, and then into a small clearing in the pine trees. Waving the gun around like it was a conductor ’s baton, Carl Zambezi made us line up with our backs to him. Ida was in the middle.

“Well, well,” Carl said, walking back and forth, “now I have my choice of who to kill, don’t I?”

“Don’t be an idiot, Carl,” Melvin said. “I’m the brains of this outfit. I’m the one who brought you out of retirement.”

“Retirement?” I said. “Whereabouts? Florida?”

I’d read somewhere-as I don’t watch TV on principle; I do a lot of reading-that one should always attempt to make small talk with one’s kidnappers. To do so humanizes the victims, and thus the criminal has a more difficult time dispatching them to their final destinations, wherever that may be.

“He retired in New Jersey,” Melvin said. “But it wasn’t where that I meant; he retired from being a pickpocket in Atlantic City, on the boardwalk.”

“Down by da sea?” Ida rasped. “I vas picked der vonce!”

“I thought you looked familiar,” Carl said. He continued to pace behind us. “Okay, Melvin,” he said at last, “we can go back to bank jobs, but we have to get rid of these two first.”

“Maybe the short one,” Melvin said, “but I’m not so sure about my sister.”

“The short one is the hen who will lay the golden eggs,” I said quickly.

“Oy, the insults,” Ida said.

“Explain,” Carl barked.

“Well, speaking of retirement, not only does my husband have access to my money, but he is a rich, retired doctor. You keep the short one alive-put her on the phone now and then-you’ll be able to milk him for a huge fortune.”

“It might work,” Melvin said with far too much enthusiasm.

“All right then, it’s settled,” Carl said. Suddenly the barrel of the gun pressed against the back of my skull. It was getting to be quite a familiar feeling.

“On your mark,” Carl said. “Get set…”

Get set for what? To meet my Maker? I was set; that didn’t mean, however, that I wanted to go now . I still had a little boy to raise, for Heaven’s sake.