Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 07 - Whiskey, Large (8 page)

“Not at all. I’m saying that our families have history.”

Now I was really confused. “And that matters because…?”

Mom produced a folded dishcloth from her apron pocket to use as a coaster for the coffee thermos on my nightstand. She perched on the side of my bed.

“Helen is a people-pleaser, Whitney. A very needy girl. I don’t want you taking advantage of her.”

I didn’t know which shocked me more—Mom’s wanting to protect Helen or her calling the sixty-nine-year-old a “girl.”

“Do you feel guilty about Helen?” I said, baffled.

“Guilty? Why on earth would I feel guilty?”

“Why else would you worry about her after all these years?”

“It’s not about worry, it’s about awareness.” Mom looked exasperated. “One of these days you’re going to realize that some people require a lot more help than others. Helen is one of those people.”

I nodded. “So’s Avery.”

“Yes. Well, then, maybe you do understand. Good for you.”

Mom had trained me to thank people for compliments, but I ate my toast instead. As I chewed, I pretended to be alone in my bedroom. Privacy is what I most wanted in the world while I could still get it. Well, what I most wanted was to have my old body back and Jeb in bed with me, using our bedroom the way nature intended, more for recreational purposes than for sleep. Come to think of it, though, having all those things was what had gotten me where I was today. Now I needed a driver and a nanny and my mother. Horrors.

“Anything else I should know about Helen?” I asked finally.

“She never had any children, but she’s good with them,” Mom said, “especially babies and toddlers.”

“How would you know?”

Mom blinked at me. “She used to babysit for you, Whitney. You loved her.”

I felt my jaw drop, and I hadn’t finished chewing my toast. Mom glanced away in distaste.

“I don’t remember a sitter named Helen,” I said.

“You were a baby.”

“How old?”

Mom sighed. “She sat for you until you were eighteen months old. You called her Ella.”

Shaking my head, I failed to jar loose a single memory, but a clear question sprang to mind.

“Why would she babysit for you if she resented you for stealing the boy she loved?”

“First of all, I didn’t ‘steal’ your father. He chose me. Back in high school he barely knew Helen existed. Second of all, Helen came to me in desperation the year you were born. Arthur kept leaving her for other women. She never knew when or if he would return, and she needed money. I helped her get some babysitting jobs and hired her myself.”

“I thought she worked as a waitress and a check-out clerk and a crossing guard.”

Mom waved her hand dismissively. “Those jobs came later. Helen wasn’t good at school, so she didn’t have skills to sell in the workplace. She helped Arthur in the office at his car repair business, but he ran that into the ground. Everybody in town knew they had money problems. Everybody also knew Arthur treated Helen like a doormat. We all felt sorry for her.”

I considered this information and drew the obvious conclusion.

“So Helen stopped babysitting for me when she got a better job?”

“No. She stopped babysitting for you when I fired her.”

I nearly flipped my breakfast tray. “You fired the poor woman?”

“I had to.”

Mom’s voice lacked any trace of defensiveness. She could have been a first-class criminal lawyer, or a pool shark.

“Why?”

My imagination was running wild and not in savory directions. Did Mom catch Helen in bed with Dad? I braced myself for a deeply disturbing answer.

“It had nothing to do with your father,” she said flatly. “Helen was trying to steal from us.”

“Cash? Credit cards? Costume jewelry?”

“Food.”

I gasped. “You fired a woman who was so poor she needed to steal food?”

“Not that kind of food.”

Mom rose from my bed and walked stiffly to the north-facing picture window. With her back to me, she said, “You never knew this, dear, but in 1977 your father and I invented a gourmet dog food. We were ahead of our time.”

“What? Wait. Helen stole dog food? She must have been desperate.”

Mom turned to me, the soft morning sun backlighting her dyed red-gold hair.

“Not desperate. Helen was a corporate spy.”

I stared. “Are you off your meds?”

“I don’t take any meds.”

“Well, maybe you should. I’m sorry, but none of this makes any sense. A corporate spy? Gourmet dog food? We never even had a dog.”

“In 1977? You better believe your dad and I had a dog. We had a wonderful dog. Rosie was the best dog who ever lived.”

Rarely in my whole life had Mom sounded so passionate, except on the subject of what she would do to me if I got pregnant in high school. I moved my breakfast tray to a safe, level part of my bed and tried to think out loud.

“When I was a kid, we didn’t have a dog because you said it would be too much work.”

“No. When you were a kid, we didn’t have a dog because Rosie died in 1978, and there was no way I could ever love another dog the way I loved that one.”

“Uh, I was born in 1978.”

“Indeed, you were, Whitney. Two months after Rosie died.”

Mom used her apron to dab at her eyes. I snatched a couple tissues from my nightstand and held them out to her. She accepted them and blew her nose.

“How come you never told me about Rosie?”

My mother sat down on the bed again and gazed out the window. I knew better than to rush her.

“I never mentioned Rosie because losing that dog broke my heart. If I hadn’t had you on the way, the baby I’d always wanted, I don’t know what I would have done. Before you came along, Rosie was my baby.”

That sounded sweet if you ignored the fact that Mom was equating me with a dog.

“Rosie was a Golden retriever mix,” she added, sniffing. “She looked a lot like Prince Harry. In fact, the first time I laid eyes on him, I had to leave the room. I was overcome.”

I passed her the box of tissues.

“I was so happy when you were born, Whitney. You were my whole world.”

I decided not to wonder whether I might have meant less to her had Rosie survived. By now we were both crying. It was a sweet moment although neither of us looked good when we wept. Fortunately, though, neither of us looked as grotesque while crying as Avery always did. But now I just sound petty.

“What happened to Rosie?” I said cautiously. “Was it something bad?”

Recalling the dead dog found in the wreckage of yesterday’s fire, I steeled myself.

“Rosie got old and died in her sleep,” Mom said. “Dogs’ lives are so brief compared to most of ours. We get to love them for such a short time.”

She was right, of course, even though Abra had outlived her original human, my late husband Leo. Abra and I had both been devoted to him. His memory was the bond we still shared.

“Back to Helen,” I said. “What do you mean she was a corporate spy?”

“I caught her in our basement, trying to crack the code on the dog food safe.”

“You and Dad kept your gourmet dog food in a safe?”

“We were still tinkering with the recipe. Your father was a perfectionist, as you well know.”

“How could she even know there was dog food in the safe? I’m sure she was hoping for something valuable.”

Mom said, “Everybody in town knew we kept dog food in our safe, including the latest recipe with the latest batch. Your father made the mistake of telling a few friends about his future business, and you know how that goes. In a small town, everybody talks. Helen claimed she just wanted to give a sample to her dog.”

“Maybe she did.”

“No. She wanted to give a sample to the biggest dog food company in the world.”

My mother leaned in close and whispered the name of a very famous pet food company.

“Helen’s brother worked for them as Product Development Manager,” Mom said. “Helen was flat broke. You do the math.”

“This is a logic problem. You have a problem with logic.”

Then the doorbell rang, and we both braced for a gunshot that didn’t come.

“Let’s hope Anouk’s bullet was a fluke,” Mom whispered. “Helen’s had enough trouble. I’d hate for her to get shot.”

“Helen Kaminski
is here, and there was no front porch incident,” Jeb announced from my bedroom doorway. “She’s sorry she arrived fifteen minutes early. To make up for it, she’s stacking dishes in the dishwasher.”

“Told you she’s a people-pleaser,” Mom said.

“Invite her to sit down and relax,” I instructed Jeb.

“Already did that. She wants to work.”

Mom winked at me. “I’ll go down and talk with her while you get dressed.”

“Will she speak to you?” I said. “Even if you don’t count the rivalry for Dad back in high school, you did fire her.”

“That was more than thirty years ago.” Mom eyed me like I was dimmer than a 20-watt bulb. “Normal people move on, Whitney.”

Taking my breakfast tray and her pot of decaf, she exited.

“I don’t ever need to know what that was about,” Jeb said, “so don’t tell me.”

I explained that he might very well need to know since we were poised to hire Helen.

“Nope. Anything your mother got over thirty years ago can’t possibly matter to me.”

Jeb disappeared into the closet to fetch me
Curvy Mommy
maternity clothes that still fit. Silently I gave thanks that he and Chester had found a designer who made stylish mother-to-be outfits in beige, the only color I wore.

In the bathroom I started the shower, brushed my teeth and drank a glass of water. As steam filled the room, I gave thanks that I couldn’t study my reflection. I was feeling better already.

Today would be a good day. Odds were strongly against another shooting or explosion. Petty as it sounded, I was relieved to be on maternity leave. Whatever problems were out there weren’t mine to solve. Then I remembered that Abra was still at large with Napoleon. Okay, so maybe maternity leave wasn’t as good as a “Get out of jail free” card, but having Jeb, Mom, and Chester on hand ensured that I wouldn’t have much to do.

I shed my voluminous nightie and stepped into the Roman shower. As hot water and lavender bath gel sluiced off my abdominal slope, I felt human and hopeful once more. I couldn’t wait to meet Helen Plonka Kaminski, the “girl” who’d once had a crush on my dad. Who knew that a blast from the past might make my future easier?

Helen Kaminski may have had dimples like Betty White’s and a voice as deep as Doris Roberts’, but her similarity to those actresses ended there. Plump and dark-eyed with a beaky nose and gray hair wound into a “grandma” bun, my mother’s former classmate was all smiles and nervous energy.

“So this is little Whitney,” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together when I hove into view.

“There’s nothing little about her now,” Mom said.

“I’m six-foot-one,” I told Helen.

“And sixty pounds heavier than normal,” Mom added. “Maybe more.”

I shot my mother a hostile glare. Surely Helen recognized advanced pregnancy when she saw it, even if Chester hadn’t explained why I needed a driver.

“You used to call me Ella,” Helen said, clasping my large hands in her small dry ones. Her skin felt like warm paper.

“Whitney had a speech impediment for years,” Mom said.

“I did?” That was news to me.

“Oh, yes. It went away your first week of kindergarten, just like that.” Mom snapped her fingers. “I think hearing normal children your age talk was the cure you needed.”

I frowned at Mom. What was with her? Why did she keep referring to “normal” versus me?

Helen smiled with all the warmth currently missing from my mother.

“You turned out to look just like your father. I knew you would. He was so handsome. Did your mother ever tell you I had a crush on him in high school? I sure did.”

“Uh … ” I glanced at Mom for guidance, but she was busy wiping down the counter. “Gee, Helen, my mom and I talk about so many things, it’s hard to remember specifics. But I guess that’s just normal.”

“How would you know?” Mom said without looking up.

I wanted to scold her for behaving badly, especially since she had warned me to be good. Correction: She had warned me to be good to Helen, So why was Mom being mean to me?

Jeb entered the kitchen and immediately read my face. He put one arm around Helen and the other around Mom and pulled them toward the kitchen table.

“You both need to sit down and let me get you some coffee,” he said, “with a nice slice of strudel.”

Normal women never turned Jeb down, and he never failed to improve their spirits.

I joined the two seniors at the kitchen table and, although I’d just finished an ample breakfast, managed to gobble some strudel. Why not? In the name of pregnancy, I could justify any treat any time. My dieting days would begin soon enough.

Mom made no additional references to what was normal or not normal, namely me. In fact, she said very little while Jeb and I gently interviewed Helen Kaminski. Despite what my mother had told me, her former classmate seemed capable and likable and not the least bit like Avery, i.e., a person who required extra help. Granted, we’re all on our best behavior during job interviews, but Helen struck me as earnest. Besides, Chester liked her, and you couldn’t buy a better reference than that.

Helen had brought her resume as well as a copy of her Michigan chauffeur license. The woman was ready to transfer her skills and her energy from the Castle to our house, starting right now. Jeb clearly liked her. Despite our agreement to wait, he opened the nanny topic. I shot him an evil glare.

“We’re not ready to hire a nanny,” I told Helen.

“Really?” She stole a sidelong look at my belly. “Well, when you are ready, I’d sure like to help. I’ve taken care of twenty newborn babies and twice that many toddlers, including you.”

“We are ready to hire you today as a driver,” I said.

“Wonderful,” Helen cried.

Jeb said, “The issue’s going to be getting Whiskey into her SUV. Frankly, it’s a challenge for me, and you’re much smaller.”

“No problem there,” Helen said. “I used to help my late husband load trucks. And Chester lent me his goat prod. It’s in the trunk of my car.”