Silenced by the Yams

CHAPTER Four

I’d only finished reading the headline and taking my pulse when Howard appeared in the doorway. “Hi, Peg,” he said. “Barb, I’m heading to the airport.” He spotted the paper in my hands. “What’s that?”

I folded it fast and slipped it into the pocket of my shorts. Howard would learn about the headline eventually, but I didn’t want him getting upset and being late to pick up his mother. “Just a recipe. Something Peggy thought I’d like to try.”

What is it about men? They love to ask questions, but rarely have the attention span to wait for an answer. He was already grabbing his keys from the counter and heading for the door. Under ordinary circumstances, I’d be ready to grab his Brazil nuts and crack them for not paying full attention to me, but this time I was only too relieved to be ignored. “Bye, Sweetie!” I said with a wave.

“Dad!” I heard Callie call after him. “Can I drive?”

“Sure, Cal. Come on,” Howard answered.

A few bangs and thumps were followed by the sound of our side door slamming shut.

“Callie’s driving?” Peggy asked with wide eyes.

I nodded. “She got her permit two weeks ago.”

“How’s that going?”

“After our first time out together, she announced she’d only drive with Howard. Says I ‘freak out’ too easily.” I made finger quotes in the air for emphasis.

“Did you?”

I bit my lip. “Maybe.”

In truth, I might have gone a little overboard. When she’d rolled through a stop sign instead of coming to a complete stop, I ordered her out of the driver’s seat, then drove her to the Rustic Woods Police station, marched her up to an officer at the front desk and asked him to give her a lesson on why traffic signs weren’t optional. She was, of course, mortified. I thought the keepers of the law would be impressed that a mother cared enough to teach her teen good driving habits. Instead, I’m pretty sure I heard a group of blue and whites snickering when we left.

“Okay, Signora,” Peggy sighed, “I need to get over to Roz’s. Sorry to be the bearer of that bad news.”

“Yeah,” I rolled my eyes. “I’ll read the article once I’ve put all these cleaning supplies away. I’m afraid Howard may regret renewing our wedding vows.”

She patted me on the back and headed out. I quickly finished the oven cleaning, stashed the supplies, and checked out the rest of the house. The girls had done a beautiful job. The carpets were free of cat hair, the toilets sparkled, and all fingerprint smudges had been removed from the kitchen cupboard doors.

I was just tucking fresh sheets under the guest bed mattress when the phone rang. I called downstairs for someone to pick up or at least see who was calling, but none of the girls answered. They were probably in their rooms stuffing their faces with Danny’s Donuts and avoiding another set of grueling chore assignments. Since our upstairs phone was on the fritz, I had to take the stairs three at a time, thinking it might be Howard with a delayed plane update. Caller ID said “unknown” was attempting to reach me. I hate to be caught off guard by telemarketers. I considered ignoring the call so I could finish tidying the guest room, but clicked the talk button just in case.

“Hello,” I answered warily, readying for some man or woman to roll out a mile-a-minute monologue touting the benefits of superior grade vinyl windows at never-before-heard-of, all-time-low rates.

Silence. I wondered if Mr. or Mrs. Unknown had hung up.

“Hello.” I waited a beat. “Anyone there?”

“Yes,” a male voice whispered.

Even though I suspected a phone prank, I inquired further. “Who is this?”

“Is this Barbara Marr?” the voice whispered again.

My safety circuits kicked in. “You’ve got three seconds to tell me who you are or I’m hanging up.”

“Clarence.”

“I don’t know a Clarence.”

“You don’t know me, but I saw you last night. At the screening. If you are Barbara Marr, that is.”

“Why are you whispering?”

“Can we talk?”

“We are talking.”

“In person.”

“Listen, I’m going to be honest—you’re creeping me out. I’m going to hang up—”

“No!” Clarence whisper-shouted. “Don’t hang up! I’m a projectionist at the ACL. Your friend Frankie didn’t kill Kurt Baugh. Somone else did.. Are you still there?”

“You have my attention.”

Silence again.

“Clarence?”

“Gotta go. Meet me tomorrow at noon—the reflecting pool by the Lincoln Memorial. I’ll be on a bench wearing a red baseball hat. Password is Casablanca.” CLICK.

The dial tone buzzed in my ear.

Flim Flam!

I slammed the phone into its cradle. Great balls of fire. Howard would kill me if I even considered meeting this Clarence person. He could be a serial killer. Or a lunatic.

But Frankie needed help, and this Clarence guy might be for real. Of course, I was about to have a guest in my home—was I just supposed to take off tomorrow and forget about Mama Marr? This would all take some serious thinking, and that required serious thinking food.

Donuts would have been the junk food of choice, but ravenous, overworked young women had consumed the full dozen. Instead, I grabbed three Oreos from the cupboard, pulled the newspaper article out of my pocket and sat at the table for a snack and a dose of masochism.

The article, flanked by a head shot of Kurt Baugh, was short: “Movie director, Kurt Baugh, died last night at the local reviewer screening of Hell Hath No Fury, a new action adventure directed by his brother, Andy Baugh. While police have not revealed details of his death, they have announced the arrest of the mafia boss, Frankie Romano. Sources say that Romano was hired by the American Cinema League (ACL) to cater the pre-screening dinner at the request of web movie reviewer, Barbara Marr. Witnesses on the scene tell DC Daily that Romano and Marr fought violently with Baugh prior to his suspicious death. A hearing will be held this week to seek Romano’s indictment. Meanwhile, he’s being held without bond. The Baugh family did not wish to comment on the circumstances of Kurt’s death at this time.”

I banged my head on the table three times. It didn’t help. The article was still there. Could this nightmare get any worse?

And of course, the author got the facts all wrong. Frankie was never a Mafia boss. He was just a soldier. And we didn’t fight violently. Frankie was a gentleman defending my honor. I looked at the byline—Gina King. I felt like picking up the phone and giving Gina a piece of my frazzled mind. Right. I could only imagine the subsequent headline: Suburban Soccer Mom with Friends in Mafia and Personal, Inside Understanding of Crime Syndicate Structure, Threatens Local Washington DC Reporter.

I was beginning to wonder when Howard would return when the phone rang. Howard’s cell number showed on the caller ID.

I took a deep breath and put on a happy voice. “Hello, Handsome. Do we have a Mama Marr yet?”

“She wasn’t on the plane!” Howard yelled into the phone. Howard never yells. He’s an FBI agent and they’re trained to be cool under pressure.

“What do you mean?”

“Her name wasn’t even on the passenger list.”

“You mean she didn’t have a ticket?”

“Not for that flight she didn’t. I’m heading to National Airport right now. There’s another American flight from Philly coming in at 2:35. Maybe she gave me the wrong information.”

And just because my life can’t ever be easy, a crash from upstairs was followed by Bethany’s shrill scream. “Mommy! Come quick! Amber’s hurt! There’s blood everywhere!”

*****

After picking my heart up from of the floor and flying up the stairs, I quickly determined that Amber was injured, but not dying of blood loss. She was, however, losing a good amount of it from a cut on her lip. Through sobs, she explained that she had been pulling a box of Barbies from a high shelf in her closet when a plastic Barney toy on top of the box slipped off and cracked her in the mouth. A closer inspection with my finger told me Barney had not only cut her lip, but had also broken two teeth.

“Thtupid Barney,” she said, her tears drying.

We cleaned up the blood, put an ice pack on her lip, and I called Dr. Horner’s office. They told us to come right away and they’d slip her in between patients. I thanked my lucky stars I’d worked so hard to be extra nice to her all these years.

I had Amber by the hand and Bethany trailing behind me when I pulled the front door open to head out.

Usually, when I open my front door, there isn’t a four foot nine, white-haired lady with two suitcases standing on my stoop. But then again, today was proving to be unlike my more usual days.

“Mama Marr!” I exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“What?” she asked with an innocent look on her plump face. “You weren’t expecting me?”

“Howard went to the airport to pick you up, but you weren’t on the plane.”

She shook her head so hard I thought the glasses on her nose would fly off. “No plane. They wouldn’t take Pavarotti.”

That was when I noticed the bird cage. Canary.

I took a few deep cleansing breaths. There was no time to ask Mama Marr why she brought her feathered companion, Pavarotti, or more importantly, why she didn’t tell us that she’d changed her travel plans. After a round of hugs, we moved the suitcases and Pavarotti up to the guest room, being sure to close the door behind us. I wondered how long it would take Indiana Jones and Mildred Pierce to smell him and start making dinner plans.

We loaded ourselves into my mini-van, Amber still holding the ice pack to her lip, and tore to Dr. Horner’s dental office. Mama Marr gripped the armrest with white knuckles while she explained how she’d had her next door neighbor cancel her plane reservations and drive her to the bus station instead. I asked why she didn’t tell us that she’d changed her plans. She shrugged and said, “Barbara, I’m an old lady now. Who can remember all these little details?”

Along the way, I dialed Howard to let him know that he and Callie could turn around and meet us at Dr. Horner’s office—I had his mother safe and sound.

At the dentist’s office, Bethany and Mama Marr waited while Amber and I went back to see Dr. Judi Horner. She was her usual friendly self and made Amber very comfortable while she looked at the broken teeth. Luckily, they were her two bottom baby teeth that were already loose anyway. She applied some topical anesthetic and popped them out. Amber didn’t feel a thing and she was ecstatic that she had two teeth to give the tooth fairy that night.

Judi walked us to the front desk and handed Amber’s file to the receptionist. “Please take care of Mrs. Marr,” she said to the young woman.

“As soon as I finish with Mr. Stevens,” the assistant responded.

“Barb, it was good to see you again,” Judi said.

I nodded. “You too. Are you going to be at Roz Walker’s farewell party?”

She tidied the brochure and business card holders that sat on the desk. “Hopefully. It’s the same night as Emily’s brownie troop meeting and since I’m the leader, I just have to see if another mom can cover for me.”

Inwardly, I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs: “How do you do it woman? Full-time job, two kids, Brownies, Academic Boosters, Band Boosters, and Drama Boosters?! Are you human?”

Outwardly, I smiled. “I hope it works out. I’d love to see you there. And thank you, again for seeing Amber so quickly today.”

She assured me that it was no problem at all and mentioned that we should get Amber and her daughter Emily together for a play date soon.

The tall, nicely-suited man standing next to me, who I assumed to be Mr. Stevens, spoke up. “Pardon my interruption, but are you Barbara Marr?”

“Um . . .”

“ChickAtTheFlix.com?” he pressed.

“Yes,” I admitted, hesitantly. “That’s my site.”

He grabbed my hand and shook it vigorously. “Thank you,” he said with a large smile growing across his face.

“For what?”

“My wife would never watch action movies with me until I introduced her to your website. Now, not only does she watch them, she loves them, and I have to admit, I’m finding that chick flicks are pretty fun as well.”

I smiled. “Wow. I’m so glad. I never thought my website would help save marriages, too.” Mostly I was relieved that he didn’t mention the morning’s news item since that was my first fear when he recognized me.

The receptionist handed him his invoice. “You’re all set, Mr. Stevens. We’ll see you in six months.”

He handed me the piece of paper and a pen. “Here,” he said, “would you mind autographing this for me? So she’ll believe me?”

Judi seemed surprised and pleased that I had a fan.

I’d never thought that my first autograph would be on the back of an invoice for a dental cleaning and fluoride treatment. It wasn’t very glamorous. “Sure.” I took the pen from him. “I guess. What should I write?”

By now, Mama Marr was standing behind me, curiously observing my moment of fame.

The man said, “Just say, ‘To Liza’ and sign your name.”

I did as he asked. He shook my hand again and left, leaving me stunned and a little embarrassed by the attention. The entire waiting room had witnessed our exchange.

“Wow, Judi,” I said. “I’m going to have to come to the dentist more often. You have patients with very good taste in websites.”

“He was nice,” Amber said sweetly as the door closed behind him.

“Yes, he was,” I agreed and patted her soft head of curls.

Her face was angelic as she gave a nod and added with great sincerity, “He’s well-hung, too.”

Uh oh.

Here’s the thing: scientists really need to get to work on inventing that beaming transportation device from Star Trek. Not so we can explore brave new worlds and boldly go where no man has gone before. No. We need it for mothers whose child has just unleashed the most embarrassing comment of the century before an entire room of people with perfect hearing. Every mother on the planet would carry a communicator, and when the unbearable moment occurred, we’d calmly flip it open. “Scotty,” we’d say. “Beam me up.”

“Where?” Scotty would ask.

“Anywhere but here,” we’d say.

But alas, science hasn’t progressed that far yet, so there I stood on planet earth—pale, wide-eyed, and speechless.

The sudden silence in Dr. Judi Horner’s dental office was deafening.

And I still had to pay my bill.

Mama Marr broke the awkward moment by piping up. “What does this mean, well-hung?” She said the last two words so loud that I’m sure the CIA picked it up on satellite.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, one of the women in the waiting room had to get judgmental and vocal at the same time. “Where on earth would such a young girl hear that kind of language?”

Amber pointed to Judi. “Dr. Horner’s house.”

Judi Horner gasped and Mama Marr asked it again. Louder, this time, if that was possible. “Tell me what this means, ‘well-hung’?”

By now, mothers were evacuating their children out of the office with the speed of Olympic runners racing to the finish line. Soon the only people left were Judi, her stunned receptionist, me, Amber and Bethany, and poor, uneducated Mama Marr.

“Judi, I’m so sorry,” I stammered.

Judi had the same look on her face as that mother in The Exorcist when she saw her daughter’s head turning 360 degrees. “I . . . I . . .” Sadly, she never finished that sentence.

The door swished open and Howard stepped in with Callie right behind him. “Mom,” he said, his arms outstretched for a welcome hug. His stride stopped suddenly when she planted a frown on her face and her hands on her hips. “Sonny. No beating around the rosy bush. Tell me what this means, ‘well-hung’.”

That definitely wasn’t the reception Howard was expecting. Behind him, Callie’s face blanched and I realized I had a culprit. Callie and Brenna Horner were best buds. It didn’t take a giggly teenage rocket scientist to figure out who had introduced Amber to nearly x-rated slang.

Amber tugged on my shirt. “Don’t worry, Mommy,” she said, “I’ll tell her.”

Judi yelped, “Oh, dear!”

Amber’s blue eyes were sincere. “Well-hung means that he wears really nice clothes, Mama.” She sniffed. “Geez. Everyone’s acting like it means something dirty.”