help him you’re putting your life on the line. And now you have more than just yourself and me to think of; you’ve got our little man here. Do you honestly want our son to grow up without a mother?”
There are times when arguing with the Babester is like trying to stop global warming by scattering a tray of ice cubes on the lawn. “I’m already committed to this case,” I said. “But just as soon as I’ve—we’ve—arrested a suspect, I’m turning in my nonexistent badge and hanging up my metaphorical spurs.”
“What does this mean?” Freni demanded.
“It means she’s feeling guilty,” the Babester said. “This is her last case.”
Freni nodded, an action that caused her entire body to shake. “Yah, we shall see.”
“So what will you do about the baby?” Gabe said. “Express your milk?”
I’d heard somewhere that breast pumps were not entirely comfortable, that they were not unlike the electric milk pumps Mose uses on my two dairy cows, Matilda Two and Prairie Queen. Perhaps they didn’t hurt at all. I didn’t care, because I wasn’t about to find out. The times I’d spent with Little Jacob at my breast had been the most fulfilling hours of my life, bar none.
“I’m taking him with me,” I said.
“The Hades you are,” Gabe said. Of course he didn’t use the Greek word.
“I know that you’re his father and that you’re concerned,” I said, “but I’m the one who carried him for almost nine months inside me and then had to expel him through my pelvic region without an epidural. For now, my vote trumps yours.”
“Yah,” Freni said, and nodded even more vigorously than before.
Yes, it was unfair of me to play the birth card—on second thought, no, it wasn’t. Like I’d said, I wasn’t taking him to a play date with Eliot Ness; I was merely going to question upstanding members of my church. Believe me, I would never, ever intentionally use my son for nefarious purposes, but as long as he was along for the ride, would it be so bad if the oochy-goochy-goo factor kept the pharmaceutical killer a little off guard? I think not. (Please bear in mind that I’m the head deaconess in my church; ergo, my opinions should count for something.)
My first victim was James Neufenbakker. I’ve known Jimmy since I was a mere lass in pigtails and flour-sack dresses, except that back then he was known to me as Mr. Neufenbakker, the little kids’ Sunday school teacher. During the week Jimmy worked as a coal miner, a grueling job that he held for forty years, but somehow he still managed to outlive two wives. Jimmy has been retired for the past ten years or so, and although he no longer teaches Sunday school, he’s very active in the brotherhood. Oh, and for what it’s worth, I currently teach the adult Sunday school class that Jimmy attends.
One can be kind to a fault when describing someone, or one can choose to be honest. That said, to put it kindly, Jimmy Neufenbakker looked very much like the male sea lion I once saw at the Pittsburgh Zoo. His small bald head featured watery brown eyes, and his upper lip sprouted bristles that were too sparse to be called a mustache. He appeared to lack shoulders (although he did have functioning arms), and his body expanded exponentially to an enormous rear end—even by Mennonite standards. Alas, I cannot claim that he had flippers instead of legs, but he did walk with a shuffle, and his feet were exceptionally wide.
Because of the mass he had to move, and his peculiar gait, it took Jimmy a good two minutes to answer his doorbell. Meanwhile, I waited patiently, tapping my foot whilst singing children’s hymns to keep Little Jacob quiet in his car seat.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said, suddenly opening the door. “I thought it was that pair of feral cats that’s been hanging out under my front porch lately. They screech and holler just like that before they get down to mating, and then they start right back up again. I’ve tried
There are times when arguing with the Babester is like trying to stop global warming by scattering a tray of ice cubes on the lawn. “I’m already committed to this case,” I said. “But just as soon as I’ve—we’ve—arrested a suspect, I’m turning in my nonexistent badge and hanging up my metaphorical spurs.”
“What does this mean?” Freni demanded.
“It means she’s feeling guilty,” the Babester said. “This is her last case.”
Freni nodded, an action that caused her entire body to shake. “Yah, we shall see.”
“So what will you do about the baby?” Gabe said. “Express your milk?”
I’d heard somewhere that breast pumps were not entirely comfortable, that they were not unlike the electric milk pumps Mose uses on my two dairy cows, Matilda Two and Prairie Queen. Perhaps they didn’t hurt at all. I didn’t care, because I wasn’t about to find out. The times I’d spent with Little Jacob at my breast had been the most fulfilling hours of my life, bar none.
“I’m taking him with me,” I said.
“The Hades you are,” Gabe said. Of course he didn’t use the Greek word.
“I know that you’re his father and that you’re concerned,” I said, “but I’m the one who carried him for almost nine months inside me and then had to expel him through my pelvic region without an epidural. For now, my vote trumps yours.”
“Yah,” Freni said, and nodded even more vigorously than before.
Yes, it was unfair of me to play the birth card—on second thought, no, it wasn’t. Like I’d said, I wasn’t taking him to a play date with Eliot Ness; I was merely going to question upstanding members of my church. Believe me, I would never, ever intentionally use my son for nefarious purposes, but as long as he was along for the ride, would it be so bad if the oochy-goochy-goo factor kept the pharmaceutical killer a little off guard? I think not. (Please bear in mind that I’m the head deaconess in my church; ergo, my opinions should count for something.)
My first victim was James Neufenbakker. I’ve known Jimmy since I was a mere lass in pigtails and flour-sack dresses, except that back then he was known to me as Mr. Neufenbakker, the little kids’ Sunday school teacher. During the week Jimmy worked as a coal miner, a grueling job that he held for forty years, but somehow he still managed to outlive two wives. Jimmy has been retired for the past ten years or so, and although he no longer teaches Sunday school, he’s very active in the brotherhood. Oh, and for what it’s worth, I currently teach the adult Sunday school class that Jimmy attends.
One can be kind to a fault when describing someone, or one can choose to be honest. That said, to put it kindly, Jimmy Neufenbakker looked very much like the male sea lion I once saw at the Pittsburgh Zoo. His small bald head featured watery brown eyes, and his upper lip sprouted bristles that were too sparse to be called a mustache. He appeared to lack shoulders (although he did have functioning arms), and his body expanded exponentially to an enormous rear end—even by Mennonite standards. Alas, I cannot claim that he had flippers instead of legs, but he did walk with a shuffle, and his feet were exceptionally wide.
Because of the mass he had to move, and his peculiar gait, it took Jimmy a good two minutes to answer his doorbell. Meanwhile, I waited patiently, tapping my foot whilst singing children’s hymns to keep Little Jacob quiet in his car seat.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said, suddenly opening the door. “I thought it was that pair of feral cats that’s been hanging out under my front porch lately. They screech and holler just like that before they get down to mating, and then they start right back up again. I’ve tried
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