everything in the book to get rid of them: hosing them down, borrowing a neighbor’s dog overnight—I even bought a bottle of wolf urine off the Internet. Seeing as how you know just about everything—or think you do—what would you suggest?”
“But I don’t know everything: there are two mountain dialects of Laotian that I’m struggling with, and the concept of string theory is still a little frayed in my thinking.”
“Humph. But you’re still a smarty-pants, Magdalena.” He slipped a pair of spectacles out of the breast pocket of a dingy white shirt and perched them on an almost nonexistent nose. “What’s that you’ve got balanced on your hip? A basket of some kind?”
“It’s a car seat, and inside is the cutest baby ever born in Hernia.”
“Ha! That’s a mighty provocative statement. I was born in Hernia, you know.”
“I know, Jimmy, and I was thinking about that on my drive over here. You see, it’s a scientific fact that babies have been getting progressively cuter over the years—some sort of biological necessity predicated on the Cold War and then it’s subsidence—but of course in nature there are always exceptions. So I got to thinking about you, and how handsome you are. That’s how I came to the conclusion that you must have been an exceptionally cute baby—no, undoubtedly the cutest of your generation, that so-called, misnamed, Greatest Generation. If only Tom Brokaw had been ten years younger, he might have seen that it was the leading edge of the baby boomers who marched for civil rights and fought to end racism and sexism in the workplace—but I digress. My point is that you have been officially dubbed by moi , mayor of Greater Hernia, as our second cutest baby.”
“Magdalena, you’re full of baloney, just like you’ve always been. But as long as you’re going to flap your gums, you may as well come on in. No use exposing that baby to the elements and who knows what all those wild cats carry.”
At the second mention of uninoculated cats, I couldn’t get Little Jacob indoors fast enough. Unfortunately, I had no choice but to shuffle in behind him. Once inside, I remembered with a sinking heart something I’d heard another brotherhood member say: “I’d rather hold our meetings out at the dump than in Jimmy Neufenbakker’s house.”
There are folks whose houses are merely messy, and folks with relatively neat houses where dust bunnies multiply at the same rate as their mammalian namesakes. Then, of course, some houses combine both forms of slovenliness, whilst others add food and grime to the mix. Poor Jimmy’s house, bless his heart, had both the smell and look of an exploded garbage truck—not that I’ve had a whole lot of experience with those, mind you.
“Have a seat,” he said as he gestured to a caved-in easy chair.
The crater was almost filled with a mix of pulverized crumbs and lint, so, theoretically at least, one could almost sit on it. The only other option was a sagging sofa, but it was piled high with dirty clothes, empty milk containers, and newspapers, all topped by a three-foot-long stuffed toy lion with one eye missing. There was certainly no place I would be willing to set the car seat down, not even at gun point.
“Silly me,” I said, my desperation mounting by the second, “I forgot to lock my car.”
“It would be silly if you did; no one locks their car in Hernia.”
“Yes, but times are changing. I mean, if we can have murders in Hernia, can car theft be far behind?”
“So that’s why you’re here! I should have surmised as much. You have me pegged as a suspect in the Minerva J. Jay murder. Well, let me tell you something, girlie. I don’t much care for one of my former students—and may I add, a very hardheaded, obstreperous student—accusing me of breaking one of the most important of the big ten. So take that little runt of yours and get out of my house. I don’t have to answer even one of your questions, seeing as
“But I don’t know everything: there are two mountain dialects of Laotian that I’m struggling with, and the concept of string theory is still a little frayed in my thinking.”
“Humph. But you’re still a smarty-pants, Magdalena.” He slipped a pair of spectacles out of the breast pocket of a dingy white shirt and perched them on an almost nonexistent nose. “What’s that you’ve got balanced on your hip? A basket of some kind?”
“It’s a car seat, and inside is the cutest baby ever born in Hernia.”
“Ha! That’s a mighty provocative statement. I was born in Hernia, you know.”
“I know, Jimmy, and I was thinking about that on my drive over here. You see, it’s a scientific fact that babies have been getting progressively cuter over the years—some sort of biological necessity predicated on the Cold War and then it’s subsidence—but of course in nature there are always exceptions. So I got to thinking about you, and how handsome you are. That’s how I came to the conclusion that you must have been an exceptionally cute baby—no, undoubtedly the cutest of your generation, that so-called, misnamed, Greatest Generation. If only Tom Brokaw had been ten years younger, he might have seen that it was the leading edge of the baby boomers who marched for civil rights and fought to end racism and sexism in the workplace—but I digress. My point is that you have been officially dubbed by moi , mayor of Greater Hernia, as our second cutest baby.”
“Magdalena, you’re full of baloney, just like you’ve always been. But as long as you’re going to flap your gums, you may as well come on in. No use exposing that baby to the elements and who knows what all those wild cats carry.”
At the second mention of uninoculated cats, I couldn’t get Little Jacob indoors fast enough. Unfortunately, I had no choice but to shuffle in behind him. Once inside, I remembered with a sinking heart something I’d heard another brotherhood member say: “I’d rather hold our meetings out at the dump than in Jimmy Neufenbakker’s house.”
There are folks whose houses are merely messy, and folks with relatively neat houses where dust bunnies multiply at the same rate as their mammalian namesakes. Then, of course, some houses combine both forms of slovenliness, whilst others add food and grime to the mix. Poor Jimmy’s house, bless his heart, had both the smell and look of an exploded garbage truck—not that I’ve had a whole lot of experience with those, mind you.
“Have a seat,” he said as he gestured to a caved-in easy chair.
The crater was almost filled with a mix of pulverized crumbs and lint, so, theoretically at least, one could almost sit on it. The only other option was a sagging sofa, but it was piled high with dirty clothes, empty milk containers, and newspapers, all topped by a three-foot-long stuffed toy lion with one eye missing. There was certainly no place I would be willing to set the car seat down, not even at gun point.
“Silly me,” I said, my desperation mounting by the second, “I forgot to lock my car.”
“It would be silly if you did; no one locks their car in Hernia.”
“Yes, but times are changing. I mean, if we can have murders in Hernia, can car theft be far behind?”
“So that’s why you’re here! I should have surmised as much. You have me pegged as a suspect in the Minerva J. Jay murder. Well, let me tell you something, girlie. I don’t much care for one of my former students—and may I add, a very hardheaded, obstreperous student—accusing me of breaking one of the most important of the big ten. So take that little runt of yours and get out of my house. I don’t have to answer even one of your questions, seeing as
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