Tamar Myers: Butter Safe Than Sorry

“Gracious, no. I’m not Catheter, nor even Despicable; I’m a Pigeon.”

I pointed to my head. “Nonsense, dear. That was a pigeon; you don’t look anything like one-well, other than your eyes, which, you must admit, are rather beady and your legs… Honestly, dear, you should either request a longer habit, or see if Mother Grand Poo-Bah can make an exception and allow you to wear trousers. If not, the next time you’re in Home Depot, someone looking for broomstick replacements might lunge for your shins. In which case, if you’re not appropriately clad under there, it could be somewhat embarrassing. Delores Klinkhauser forgot to wear her bloomers-”

“No, no,” she cried, in mounting agitation, and then finally her words came out as sharp as the Devil’s pitchfork and every bit as dangerous: “I have no religion; I’m a pagan!”

“Get behind me, Satan!”

My outburst produced a flock of curious onlookers. They pushed and shoved-in a gentle, apathetic sort of way-to get a better look at the miracle unfolding before their languorous eyes.

But as I said, the “old Magdalena ” was back: she who was half full of the vim and vigor, and half full of wit. That is to say, it was time to check myself out of the “Clooney” bin.

“Pardon me, guys,” I said, as I pointed in the direction opposite my inn, “but is that the Chattanooga Choo-choo?”

A dozen cowled heads swiveled as one. “Where?”

Off I shot like a hundred-twenty-five-pound bat out of Hades (the meals at the convent were completely uninspiring).

Despite the fact that I’d sprung myself from his mother ’s convent, Gabe was overjoyed to see me again-back as myself. Dear Freni nearly plotzed with happiness, and even allowed me to clasp her tightly in an English-style hug. And as for my little one-I kvelled with pride every time I saw him, and when I felt his little arms around my neck, I was in heaven. Oh, what naches (to borrow yet another term from my yiddishe mother-in-law)! We were as happy a family as could possibly be-well, barring a few minor details.

When our daughter, Alison, came home from college on spring break, she brought the evil mutt Shnookums with her. The creature seems convinced that I’m responsible for his mistress (my sister, Susannah) being in prison, so he spent the entire week either nipping at my heels or attempting to dance with my shins-if you know what I mean. Another small irritant-both literally and figuratively-was the Babester’s mother, who, in her role as mother-in-law, was not so superior.

Understandably, she was a bit piqued that I had returned to play the part of her son’s best friend, constant companion, and-horror of horrors-lover. She scrambled desperately to secure the knots in her apron strings, but I had an advantage she didn’t have, and it wasn’t up my sleeve either. I promised myself that if necessary I would resort to even going so far as to dance with my husband rather than let his mother win that battle.

In the woods behind my pasture flows a small creek. Each spring beavers attempt to dam it, as is their custom, by cutting down every young tree within dragging distance. I have one heck of a time trying to stop them from doing so, and invariably I give up and the varmints succeed, which means that they flood my woods and destroy even more trees. Beavers might appear cuddly on television, or as stuffed toys, but in real life they are about the size of Ida Rosen, but with slightly smaller teeth. Thus it was that I chose these animals as my metaphor for my struggle with my husband’s mother.

The Battle of the Beavers, as I called it, was actually quite beneficial to revitalizing my marriage. Victory for me was keeping a smile on my Beloved’s face, and I must confess that I got to be rather innovative in that department. My matrimonial vows gave me a certain advantage, which I exercised in all six of our guest rooms, the hayloft, the corncrib, the silo (it was empty), and even the six-seater outhouse (it’s just for show). I drew the line at our solid-oak dining room table, which was made by my ancestor Jacob the Strong in the early nineteenth century. That massive piece of furniture is the only thing that survived the tornado that destroyed my inn a few years back, and while it could have held the weight of a plethora of polygamists, I didn’t believe in mixing business with pleasure.

At any rate, I was soon back to my normal, pre-bank robbery self. The “old-Magdalena” as people started referring to me. I bit my tongue-the grooves were still there-and plowed on, taking one day at a time. The irony was that the balm to healing my soul, which had been wounded by a threat to my son, was time spent with my son. And the more time I spent with my son, and the faster I healed, the angrier I became.

Three men-at least three men-had come into the bank, prepared to kill the occupants, and just to get money. So far the Bedford Police Department and the county sherriff had been unable to get any leads from the videotape. Perhaps I was reading something into the situation, but I sensed that they were mostly just happy that no one had gotten killed. The fact that the gun-men were Amish appeared to have made the police more than a mite uncomfortable. According to my sources (Freni and extended family), the interviews that they conducted amongst the local Amish community were bare-bones brief, and the officers seemed eager to believe every word they were told. In no time at all, an official conclusion was reached: the robbers were transient individuals and they had no connection to the community.

What enraged me even more is that the community accepted this verdict.

“B-b-but that’s j-just ridiculous,” I sputtered to my best friend, Agnes.

Agnes calmly wiped the coffee- flavored spittle from her face and set the newspaper on the table between us. “There’s more,” she said, “and you’re not going to like it either.”

“It’s better that I hear it from you first, dear. Believe it or not, your voice has a soothing, almost hypnotic, effect.” That was only a white fib, of the totally permissible variety, seeing as how it was not meant to hurt anyone. The truth is that I finally had reached the point where reading glasses were more than just a good idea, but I had yet to overcome the sin of vanity.

Agnes took a bite of store-bought chocolate éclair. It was a day old-given that she only shops in Bedford once a week-but so was the newspaper. Sadly, Agnes would still have eaten the éclair, had it been a week old.

“It said,” she informed me, “that in all probability, the gun would not have been fired, and that Amy Neubrander would not have been grazed by that bullet, if an overzealous customer had not tried to play the part of Indiana Jones.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s right. You don’t go to movies or watch television,” she said with exaggerated sarcasm. “Tell me, Magdalena, don’t you ever regret letting the world pass you by? Think of all the things I’ve seen and done that you’ve deprived yourself of.”

I snagged the last éclair from the white cardboard box. The score was Magdalena four, Agnes eight-not that anyone was counting.

“I hardly consider myself to be deprived, dear. After you saw that chain saw movie, you had to sleep at the inn for a week, and when you went on your singles cruise to the Bahamas, you got so seasick that you had to jump ship before it even left Miami.”

“The harbor was choppy that day.”

“You know, of course, that this leaves me fit to be tied.”

“I was afraid you’d say something like that. Does this mean what I think it means?”

I bit the end off the French pastry and savagely sucked in a mouthful of rich, thick cream before answering. “That I’m going to go off on another half-cocked, harebrained, ill-advised, foolhardy, cockamamie investigation of my own?”