Tamar Myers - Batter off Dead

Gabe’s response to Alison’s answer was to get up and put his arms around her neck. “Just think, honey, in only two more months Mom and I will be able to legally adopt you.”

Ida hoisted her bosoms onto the table so that she could lean forward as much as possible. “Nu, bubbeleh, den vill you be a Rosen, or a Yodel?”

“That’s Yoder,” I roared.

At that, Little Jacob decided his dinner was over and it was time to kvetch big-time. His sudden cry of distress was so loud that even I, the one who’d been holding him, was startled. It was almost as if he’d popped out of nowhere and yelled, “Boo.” Naturally I whipped off the blankie that had been covering him, popped his dinner container back into its holster, and proceeded to burp the little fella.

Poor Ida turned white, then pink, then white, and then pink again, all in slow motion. Observing her reaction was a bit like watching a chromatically challenged lava lamp, except that lava lamps generally do not possess the power of speech.

“Oy gevalt!” she finally managed to say. “Und dis you do in front of your family?”

“Don’t you eat in front of this family?”

“Yah, but-dis-dis mitt de breast, und in front of de child yet!”

“Don’tcha worry none, Grandma Ida,” Alison said. “I seen this a million times, so I’m used to it now. And it ain’t gonna pervert me any, ’cause I’m already perverted. Ain’t I, Mom?”

“What?”

“Don’tcha remember that at Cousin Freni’s farm I seen that bull and a cow make themselves a calf?”

“Yes, dear. But Ida-”

“Und my poor little Gabeleh? You do such a ting in front of him?”

“Ma, get off her case,” Gabe said, much to my surprise. “I’m a doctor; I think I can handle it.”

“Besides,” I said, perhaps a wee bit cruelly, “how do you think Little Jacob came to be?”

“Funny that you should bring up that subject,” Alison said, “because I’ve been meaning to ask you about that.”

“Oy veys meer,” I said just as Little Jacob let out an enormous burp.

Alison merely wanted to know if there were parallels to be drawn between the mating cows and what humans did behind closed doors. She’d already concluded as much; she just wanted an adult to confirm it. My intent was to tell her that a loving, committed relationship was a lot different than livestock breeding, but I made the mistake of beginning my explanation with the word yes, which sent her gagging from the room. The next morning, as I drove her to school, she declared that she would never, ever have sex, not even if she lived to be a million years old, and if at some point she should decide she wanted a child, she would adopt one just like we did. Silently, I thanked the Good Lord for the amorous bull, and wisely, I said nothing.

Usually Alison rides the bus, which stops at the end of our driveway, but on this particular day I had an unscheduled parent-teacher meeting to attend. The victim of my visit was Merle Waggler, a soft, sloppy, but perpetually smiling young man who teaches Alison eighth-grade math and earth science. Merle is a lifelong member of Beechy Grove Mennonite Church and has been a member of the brotherhood ever since he married about ten years ago. Most important, he was near the top of my suspect list.

It may seem odd to save one of my biggest suspects for last, but I’d been out of practice for the length of Little Jacob’s gestation, and I needed to get my size elevens wet again before jumping back in up to my neck. Besides, I’ve always found Merle’s perpetual smile a bit off-putting. I know it’s a smile because he’s a Christian and attends my church; if I was a stranger, however, I would be sorely tempted to interpret his upturned lips as a smirk. Maybe it’s because what goes on in his eyes simply doesn’t match what comes out of his mouth on a good many occasions.

Alison used to adore Mr. Waggler until he started reading, in a loud voice, the class’s math-test scores. He said that he did it to reward the good students and encourage the middling ones, but Alison believes, as do I, that he wasn’t above humiliating the poor students. I don’t think he did it to be mean (Alison does), but to shame his pupils into studying harder. I base my interpretation of his motive on the fact that shame was a huge motivator for me while I was in school. Not only was I “Yoder with the Odor,” but because of one D on a spelling test (I was out with the flu the week the words were assigned), I was dubbed Dumbdalena for an entire semester-and that was by a teacher: Mrs. Regier.

At any rate, I found Merle Waggler in the teachers’ lounge, in his usual sloppy attire, having a cup of coffee and chatting with a very pretty-and unnaturally blond-student teacher from over by Somerset. I was hoping that my unexpected appearance would put the fear of Magdalena in Merle, because he is a good ten years younger than me, if not more, but he merely smiled. Or smirked, depending on one’s interpretation.

“Mmm,” he intoned, as per his usual way of beginning to speak. “Let me guess: she’s held up a gas station, and you’re on your way to bail her out of jail. You want me to know that I shouldn’t delay class on her account.”

The student teacher twittered while I raged silently-well, for all of five seconds. “Excuse me? Was that supposed to be funny, Merle?”

“Mmm, Magdalena, you must admit that your-ah, how shall I put this-protégée? Anyway, she has all the makings of a juvenile delinquent.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. This from a teacher who wore sweatshirts to school? Never mind that when he was in high school-I forget which year-Merle and a buddy were arrested for spray painting near obscenities on the bridge over Slave Creek. The only reason the judge dismissed their cases was because the boys had been clever enough to employ euphemisms instead of outright vulgar expressions. Personally, I find the use of innuendo just as offensive.

“She is not a juvenile delinquent!” I ejaculated angrily.

“Mmm, I didn’t say she was; I said she had the makings of one. Really, Magdalena, you do jump to conclusions.”

“At least I get my exercise-oops, that wasn’t very nice of me. Sorry.”

“Mmm, I’ll take it as you meant it. So, what do you want?”

No beating around the bush for me. “Did you like Minerva J. Jay?”

“Did I what?”

“You dropped the mmms.”

“Huh?” He looked at me like I was the crazy woman I’ve sometimes been made out to be.

“You do say it a lot,” the student teacher said, and then, realizing that she’d placed a fledgling foot in her mouth, made a sudden exit from the room.

“Back to Minerva, dear,” I said. “Did she get on your last nerva?”

“You’re so droll, Magdalena, that sometimes I forget to laugh. And yes, she did get on my nerves; she got on everyone’s nerves. Didn’t she? Can you honestly name one person in this town who liked her?”

“Reverend Richard Nixon-he of the church of thirty-two names. He probably liked her; he likes everybody.”

“Yeah? Well, he doesn’t like Roman Catholics; he told me that once himself.”

“Just because of their religion?”

“Mmm, you got it. Anyway, now that your little survey is finished, I need to be getting to my homeroom; the bell is about to ring.”

“Bells, shmells; the kids can wait. Let them throw paper wads like we used to do. You see, Merle, this isn’t a survey. I’m investigating Minerva’s murder, and you’re one of the suspects.”

Yes, the Germans came up with the word schadenfreude, but one must admit that it describes a very universal condition: that of taking pleasure in the misfortune of others-although a great many pious and/or enlightened folk will hotly deny they have ever felt this way. What I’m getting at is that Merle’s smirk dried up like a rain puddle on a cloudless August day, as his tiny eyes flickered from side to side. After all, there were several other teachers in the lounge, and my accusation had not been delivered in a whisper.