The Death of Pie (19 page)

I smiled. ‘Welcome back.'

We pulled back onto the highway and had driven all of five miles when I felt another sigh blow across my neck. ‘Mom, ya know, like I'm so in love. Ya ever been in love, mom?'

‘I is now,' I said.

‘Huh?'

‘Alison, dear, your grammar is atrocious. Is that the way the other children spoke at camp?'

‘So then ya ain't never been in love!'

‘Hold it,' Gabe roared. ‘Her lover is sitting right here.'

‘Gross,' Alison said. ‘Yinz are my mom and dad; that don't count.'

‘Just for that, daughter,' Gabe said, ‘I will quote my favourite biblical passage, which I memorized when I was just about your age. It's from the Song of Songs.

“How fair and how pleasant you are

O love, with your delights!

This stature of yours is like a palm tree,

And your breasts like its clusters.”'

‘Oh, sweetheart, how romantic,' I said.

‘Double gross,' Alison said. She was quiet for all of two minutes. ‘Doesn't anyone want to know about my boyfriend?'

‘Of course, dear,' I said. ‘Tell us all about this nice young fellow.'

Alison chortled. ‘Yeah, well, he ain't so young. Sheldon is like twenty or something. Like a real adult who has to shave every day, and he doesn't forget to use deodorant either.'

I glanced over at the Babester. To his credit, he was keeping a steady foot on the accelerator, but the movement of his jaw suggested that he was chewing rocks. Also, I feared for the steering wheel, which was made of some polymer material, and therefore not good old-fashioned steel like the Good Lord intended. At any moment Gabe's grip might snap the ding-dang thing in two as he subconsciously did a number on Sheldon's skull.

‘Are you sure,' I said. ‘
Twenty?
I thought the camp was for children aged twelve to fifteen.'

‘Mom, I ain't no kid! Them counsellors called us “young adults.” And if ya gotta know, Sheldon weren't even one of us young adults, on account of he was a
real
adult. Sheldon had him an official badge and everything.'

‘You don't say,' the Babester said.

‘Hey Mom,' Alison said. ‘Dad just used sarcasm. I recognized it because you're always using it on me.'

‘And you just spoke correctly. I am pleased to acknowledge that.'

‘Whatever,' Alison said sarcastically.

I found the last number dialled and put it on speed dial. I made sure it was on ‘speaker.' Our family rule is that a passenger may use a phone; the driver may not unless the car has stopped and the engine is off.

‘Sheldon,' was the immediate response.

‘Hi,' I said. ‘This is Alison Rosen's mother. We just picked her up from camp, um, about half an hour ago.'

‘Yeah, I remember. You're the Amish lady with the little white hat and the good-looking dude for a husband.'

‘Good memory, son,' Gabe said.

Alison, who was by then rolled up in a ball like a hedgehog, groaned. ‘I'm so embarrassed, I think I'm gonna die.'

‘What was that?' Sheldon said.

‘Your summer crush,' Gabe said. ‘She thinks she's going to die.'

‘Oh
that
,' Sheldon said.

‘Yes,
that
,' I said. ‘Alison is only thirteen; I demand to know what went on.'

‘Mom,
pleeeease
,' the dying girl pleaded from the rear seat.

‘No problem, Mrs Rosen. There's no need for you to worry; I have a girlfriend whom I met at the University of Pittsburgh. She was a counsellor here as well. We're finishing up some paperwork – as a matter of fact, here's Deborah now. Would you like to speak with her?'

‘No,' Alison wailed.

‘Yes, please,' I prevailed.

‘Good afternoon,' Deborah said.

‘Hello, dear. Did you have a good summer?'

‘Umm, pretty good. Kind of busy, really. Frankly, I can't wait until classes resume – and I have a double major, so when school starts I don't have a second to spare! But that's nothing compared to Camp Hora Galore. I'm not meaning to
kvetch
, Mrs Rosen, but teens today – whew!'

‘I'll say.' I bit my tongue until my toes curled. ‘But I hear that you and Sheldon are a couple. If you don't mind me asking, how do you find time for dating?'

‘Well, we – uh—'

‘We live together off campus,' Sheldon said, getting back on the phone.

‘No way,' Alison moaned, her hands over her ears.

‘My kid's freaking out,' I said. ‘She thought that you two were an item.'

Sheldon laughed.
Laughed.
Fortunately Deborah had the good grace to take the phone from her boyfriend's hand.

‘Mrs Rosen, you didn't get a chance to meet Sheldon properly, did you?'

‘No, dear, I did not.'

‘Well, it's like this: Sheldon Epstein is very hot. Every straight girl at camp wanted him for herself. It happened last year as well. He got letters, text messages and phone calls all the way to Christmas. But he's mine, Mrs Rosen, all mine.'

‘Soon it will be “til death do us part,”' I heard Sheldon say in the background.

‘
Mazel tov
,' the Babester said.

‘Alison, dear, please quit kicking my seat so hard,' I said kindly.

It is my contention that a sullen peace is better than no peace at all, and I would have been content to count the freckles on my hands and speculate as to which ones were the likeliest to turn into bona fide liver spots – if indeed there is a difference – when I heard the sound of a cow expire in the rear seat. If you have never witnessed a head of cattle being slaughtered, then don't. If you wish to experience the sound, without the fury, then take a bored teenager with you on a road trip.

The air suddenly became impossible to breathe as our daughter sucked out all the oxygen. With that extra enrichment in her blood she let loose a bellow worthy of an elephant, much less a male bovine. It was a sound honored throughout time, and across species, as a warning to intruders that this turf, this mate, or these young were not to be violated. Stay away, a bellow of this caliber blared.

Alison, however, was prone to get her signals crossed. ‘I'm
bored
,' was what she actually said.

Gabriel and I exchanged smiles of contentment. A bored child is a healthy child in today's world of constant stimulation. It was a sign that we were doing at least something right. Needless to say, we were careful not to spoil the moment by acknowledging it.

‘Hey, you guys, didn't ya hear me? Can't ya turn on the radio, or something? Ya don't want me dying of boredom back here, do ya?'

‘Of course not, dear,' I said pleasantly. ‘That's why I packed some library books in that paper bag on the floor, in front of your brother's car seat.'

‘You're kidding, Mom, ain't ya? How am I supposed to concentrate at a time like this?'

‘Trust me,' Gabe said, ‘it's the number one remedy we doctors prescribe for broken hearts.'

‘You guys don't understand,' our dejected teenybopper wailed. ‘I'm so over that creep, Sheldon. That was then; this is now. But what am I gonna do the rest of this summer? We ain't even home yet, and I am, like, majorly bored. B-O-A-R-D!'

Then again, a bored child who is healthy enough to whine incessantly is akin to a tiny pebble in one's shoes, a pebble that can't be located without removing said shoe, and one is in a place where footwear must remain on. The very thought of having a flouncing, flopping, flailing, faux femme fatal flinging herself about the farm for the next fortnight like one of the demented film stars of the silent screen of whom the Babester is so fond was too much to bear. I just broke down and got it over with. I caved, like a politician's morals the day after elections.

‘You can help me solve the murder,' I said, throwing myself under the bus.
Her
bus.

‘What murder?' Alison asked.

‘Mags,' my husband whispered, ‘there's still time to save yourself.'

What point was there in stalling for a few hours? Grandma Ida would spill the beans by suppertime anyway, and then Alison would be sullen for having been shut out. Yes, she would stop talking – temporarily – but her door-slamming would more than make up for that.

‘Do you remember the beautiful foreign writer who stayed with us last year?' I said.

‘Yeah, and Dad thought she was really hot and couldn't hardly keep his eyes from popping out.'

‘That's enough,' the Babester said with a smile.

‘Wait a minute,' I said. ‘Just when did dad say that she was “really hot?”'

‘Hmm, well let me see,' Alison said, ham that she was, ‘could it be one of them times when that woman lay out sun-tanning with her store-bought parts rolling around like beach balls in a breeze?'

‘Those were your words, by the way, Mags,' my husband said quickly, ‘not mine. I barely noticed her store-bought parts.'

‘Yeah, ya did, Dad,' Alison said. ‘Ya even said that ya didn't see how that itsy-bitsy string bikini managed to keep 'em all containerized.'

‘Contained,' I said.

‘That's what I said,' Alison said. ‘Ya wanna know something else?'

‘Not if it has to do with her parts,' I said uncharitably. I know that the Good Lord said that we're supposed to turn the other cheek, but He said nothing that pertains to the bottom pair of cheeks.

‘Nah,' Alison said, ‘it's about Grandma Ida and the Convent of the Sisters of Perpetual Apostasy.'

‘Do tell!' That ‘apostasy' was no slip of the tongue either; the girl was far more intelligent than she let on.

‘You mean
Apathy
,' Gabe growled.

‘That's what I said,' Alison said, then leaned forward just so she could throw herself back into her seat with annoyance. Of course that meant that she wasn't buckled into her seat harness correctly.

‘Buckle up,' Gabe ordered sternly, ‘and what's this about your grandmother?'

At that point Alison played her next trump card, which was to mumble. As her father was fifty, sitting in front of her, and a man, she might as well not have spoken.

‘Now speak up!' he said.

A parent would do well to remember who is ultimately in charge. Or put another way, a wise parent picks his or her battles and then resolves to be content with the outcome. After several attempts to get Alison to speak audibly, both her father and I decided that we could live, at least temporarily, without the information concerning Grandma Ida and her flock of dropout nuns.

‘Fine,' Gabe said. ‘Have it your way. I don't have to listen to your gossip.'

That got our girl's goat! ‘It isn't gossip; it's the truth. Grandma Ida and the Sisters of Perpetual Pity were really pis— I mean, mad at that beautiful lady for the way—'

‘Do you really think that she was beautiful?' I asked as I patted my tidy bun under its attractive organza white prayer cap. The Bible says that a woman shouldn't cut her hair as it is our ‘crowning glory,' but we Old Order Mennonites also believe that we should reserve the splendour of this home-grown crown for our husbands alone.

‘Are you kidding, Mom? She looked like a movie star!'

‘I, for one, didn't notice,' the Babester said and he reached over and squeezed my knee.

‘
Anyway
,' my clueless daughter said, ‘they was all jealous of her – even old Grandma Ida, who's like a hundred years old – so they said that they was gonna tar and feather her. Ya ever hear of that?'

‘My mother is eighty-two, and yes, I have heard of tarring and feathering. Just not to anyone I know.'

‘Well, they was gonna do it, but then decided against it on account of the tar having to be hot and someone had to heat it, and they was all too pathetic to do it.'

‘You mean
a
pathetic,' I said.

‘
Whatever
. So instead they decided to rub her all over with Vaseline. Do you know that stuff is almost impossible to get off? Especially from your hair, on account of the fact that soap and water and even shampoo don't affect it none. Then after they was done with that, they was gonna bring her over here and roll her around in our cow poop.'

‘You mean manure.
What?
Oh my, that's awful! That's downright wicked. They need to change their name to Convent of the Sisters of Perpetual Punishment. If I had anything to say about it, they'd all be headed straight to You Know Where.'

‘Thank God that we Jews don't believe in your Hell,' Gabe said. ‘At least that leaves my mother out of it.'

‘I'll be biting my tongue yet again,' I said. ‘But before I do that, what changed their minds, Alison? Obviously they didn't smear Miss Sreym with that messy ointment.'

‘Well, they tried! Grandma Ida invited her over to the convent to sunbathe in the courtyard there. She told the lady that she'd have more privacy, as you wouldn't be scowling at her and Dad wouldn't be making leech eyes her way neither. So she gets there and Grandma Ida offers to rub her down with this special suntan cream that's guaranteed to turn ya brown as a toad in an hour flat, so the lady says to bring it on.

‘But when Grandma Ida starts rubbing it on the lady's back, the lady complains about the way it feels on her skin, and tells Grandma Ida to quit. Instead of quitting, Grandma Ida calls for reinforcements, and so there are five of them pretend apostates holding down this foreign lady and greasing her up like a roasting pig. But let me tell you, that woman was strong with a capital C! She done broke loose and hightailed it back to the PennDutch. Then she drove to Pittsburgh or someplace and had them folks at a spa remove that gunk.'