Hell Hath No Curry (3 page)

HELL HATH NO CURRY

15

A smile played at the edges of his mouth. “Magdalena, could that possibly be you?”

“Possibly,” I said. “That all depends on where, and how, we met.”

“Try just about every day in sixth grade. My parents decided to try life in Hernia for a year, but gave it up when they realized they were about to drop dead from boredom.”

“
Jimmy?
Is that you?”

“Skinny Jimmy Skinner,” he said, and then, much to my surprise, threw his arms around me in an unscripted hug.

My people are Swiss-German. We don’t hug. At best we place our arms gingerly around blood relatives and pat them on the back. We slap hard if we really like a person, although in almost any situation, a handshake will suffice. But I’d been dating a Jewish man from New York for the past year, and had learned that it is possible to survive a full, gentle embrace—at least from someone you know. And Skinny Jimmy was no stranger.

I shot up like a weed the summer between fifth and sixth grades. When school started that fall I was five foot eight and towered over everyone in the classroom including our teacher, Miss Thumbernickel. Puberty brought with it a whiff of maturity, so to speak, but Mama would not hear of an eleven-year-old wearing deodorant. In no time at all I was dubbed Yoder with the Odor, then just Odor, which edged out Stretch and Pole only because of the rhyme. It would have been an even more horrible year, had not the skinniest boy on the planet moved to Hernia.

At first our friendship was based solely on the fact that we were the oddballs, the butts of most of the juvenile jokes thought up by our insensitive classmates. Eventually, however, I grew rather fond of Skinny, and was practically heartbroken when he moved back to Bedford a year later. We vowed to stay in touch forever, which lasted for almost two whole months. To be frank, I’d rarely thought of him over the years, and when I did, it was 16 Tamar

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never even with enough curiosity to look for him in the phone book.

“Jimmy,” I said, giving him the once-, twice-, and thrice-over,

“you aren’t skinny anymore.” I spoke the truth. He was wearing an expensive sports jacket, but it couldn’t hide a weightlifter’s physique.

He pretended to sniff the air. “And you no longer smell. How about that?”

“Yes, how about that. Say, Jimmy, back to the smut in this magazine—”

“You ever think about modeling, Magdalena?”

“Excuse me?”

“Not only are you tall, but you have the perfect face and figure for the job. Of course, you’d have to do catalog modeling, as opposed to runway modeling, now that you’ve reached a certain age.”

“How is life on Mars, Jimmy?”

“You think I’m joking, don’t you? Magdalena, I know that you’ve been occupied building up a thriving, successful business, but it’s time to smell the roses—no odor reference intended.

I know some catalog people in the modeling division. I could help you get started.”

“Enough is enough! How can you be so cruel?”

Jimmy must have known someone in the acting profession as well, because he appeared genuinely surprised. “I beg your pardon?”

“And what gall you have! Your patients are staring at us, for crying out loud. Does that give you the jollies? Stick-thin Magdalena with a nose deserving of its own zip code—who are you to make fun of skinny people, by the way?”

Jimmy grabbed my hand, and even though I protested, he succeeded in dragging me into one of his consulting rooms. Although I was seething, he gripped my wrists tightly and forced me to look into a mirror.

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“What do you see?”

“Steam coming out of my ears.”

“What else?”

“A beaked scarecrow in a clean broadcloth dress and surprisingly sturdy sandals.”

“Take a better look,” he growled.

“Well, I see you, someone who has somehow managed to grow into a hunk—I mean a hunky-dory-sort-of-looking person.”

“I’ll tell you what I see. I see a woman who has a body most of my patients would kill for. I also see a woman whose striking good looks should be the envy of every woman in the Common-wealth of Pennsylvania.”

“Since you’re not wearing glasses, I’d have to say it’s your contacts that need changing.”

“So, what are you, Magdalena? A full B cup? Almost C?”

“
Excuse
me?”

“Your bra size. I’m a doctor; I think I can handle it.”

“For your information, although I wear a B cup, it’s only so that when I stuff it with tissues, my bosom looks almost normal.

Once I even had room for a pussycat in there.”

He smiled. “And now?”

“Now the darn thing—oops, pardon my swearing—has shrunk.”

“Has your dress shrunk as well? It seems to be hugging your hips a bit snugly.”

“It’s the funniest thing; everything I own has shrunk. I don’t do anything different with the laundry, except that I got rid of the washer with the wobbly leg. The loads always ended up being unbalanced, so I had to sit on it, which led down a path of sin—

uh, never mind.”

“Magdalena, have you ever heard of body dysmorphic disorder?”

“I don’t listen to rock and roll.”

He grinned. “It’s when one’s body image doesn’t match up 18 Tamar

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to reality. It can go both ways, but usually it involves a man or a woman thinking that they’re ugly, or have some very unattractive feature, when virtually everyone else sees them quite differently.

Some very beautiful women, as well as handsome men, think they’re ugly.”

“Like in the
Ugly Duckling
?”

“Exactly.”

“Why, that’s just silly. If I was a beautiful woman, you can bet I’d have no trouble seeing that.”

“Oh, but you do.”

“What?”

“When is the last time you looked in a mirror—I mean
really
looked in the mirror. With an open mind.”

“This morning.”

“And what did you see?”

“An extremely tall, skinny woman with a horsey face. Neigh-hhhhh! When the Good Lord made me, he put a saddle on my back and hollered giddyap.”

“That isn’t funny. You’re a damn—now it’s your turn to pardon my swearing—good-looking woman, Magdalena. Honestly, you have a classical face and a killer bod.”

“But my nose—”

“You’ve grown into your nose, Magdalena. It is in perfect proportion to your face. Everything about you is in perfect propor-tion. Trust me, I’m a plastic surgeon. I try to make people look like you for a living. A mighty good living at that. I redo what God has done, but only when I honestly think the patient could use some improvement. If you came to me requesting any procedure—more extensive than removing a bunion—I’d throw you out of my office. No, I’d kick you to the nearest psychiatrist, that’s what I’d do.

Come to think of it, I should do that anyway.”

Pride is the worst of sins. That said, I’ve always been proud of my mental prowess. I may have the face of a mare and the body of a scarecrow, but at least I have a top-notch brain. That brain now HELL HATH NO CURRY

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asked me to consider what the doctor was saying. Could it possibly be that I wasn’t as ugly as I believed myself to be? I mean, Jimmy had been a good buddy in the sixth grade, but I didn’t for a second doubt that he would be happy to fix any of my many flaws, and charge me an arm and a leg for the privilege. What was in it for him to make me feel good about myself? Absolutely nothing; zilch; zero.

Again I looked at my image in the mirror, this time with open eyes—well, one open eye. “Oh, my heavens, oh, my stars,” I said, feeling faint.

4

Jimmy stood over me, fanning me with his filthy magazine. “You fainted, Magdalena; you’ll be all right in a minute.”

“Fainted? I think not. I was dreaming, and one doesn’t dream whilst fainting—does one?”

As always, Skinny Jimmy was easily amused. “What were you dreaming about?”

I could feel myself blushing. “That is for me to know, and you
not
to find out.”

“That you’re not ugly, but beautiful?”

I struggled to my feet. “How did you know that?”

Jimmy grabbed my shoulders and turned me to face a full-length mirror this time. “You weren’t dreaming; you were in shock. I can’t imagine what you’re feeling. I worked out forever to beef up, so the change was gradual for me.”

If allowed, I think I would have stood there staring at my reflection in the mirror until I turned into a pillar of salt. Fortunately the intercom on Jimmy’s desk buzzed.

“Yes?” I heard him say, although he sounded a mile away.

“Dr. Skinner, your first patient is ready in cubicle nine.”

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“Thanks.” He turned to me. “Sorry, Magdalena, but I’ve got to go. Duty calls.”

“Sure thing, Doc.” My voice still sounded like it belonged to a homely woman. Would that change as well?

“Before I go, just one quick question. What brought you here today? You weren’t actually thinking of having a procedure, were you?”

I shook my head. “I came to speak to Priscilla Livingood.”

“What about? Is this personal?”

“It’s police business.”

“That’s right; I heard you solve their difficult cases—which seem to be just about all of them lately. Then you know, of course, that her fiancé died the day before yesterday.”

“Yes. I also know that she came to work yesterday. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

He shrugged. “We all have a right to grieve in our own way.

Priscilla is a hard worker. Coming in yesterday and today is how she copes.”

“Is she in now?”

“Yes, that’s who I just talked to.”

“May I speak with her?”

“You can use my office. I’ll send her in.” He picked a folder off his desk and started for the door. Halfway there he stopped.

“Please go easy on her.”

“I will.”

“And enjoy your new self. You’re a knockout, Magdalena. Remember that.”

“Aye, aye, sir. And thanks, Jimmy. From the bottom of my heart.”

But it wasn’t easy to remember Jimmy’s words. When Priscilla walked through the door, doubt was close on her heels. Yes, I knew that the woman owed a lot of who she was to petroleum 22 Tamar

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by-products and Jimmy’s skillful fingers, but nonetheless, she was the epitome of what society now regards as female beauty.

The cantaloupe bosoms, the batwing eyebrows—I’d seen them a thousand times on covers of the magazines in the checkout line of Pat’s IGA. Surely my homegrown assets, if indeed I really had them, seemed bland by comparison.

Priscilla appeared resigned to see me. “Magdalena Yoder, what took you so long?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I was expecting to see you yesterday. Don’t you usually pounce on your victims almost immediately?”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, at a loss to say anything else.

“I’ll just bet you are. I’m sure you and every other hoochie in Hernia have been crying buckets.”

“
Excuse
me?”

“Oh, did I step on a nerve? Magdalena, you have a reputation for being blunt, straight to the point. Are you going to beat around the bush, or are you going to come right out and confess that you too had an affair with my Cornelius?”

“Ew!” I could feel my face take on a life of its own; it was as if I’d just tried to suck a slice of rotten lemon.

“What was that all about?”

“No offense, dear, but Cornelius Weaver never did a thing for me. Not that there was anything wrong with him, but I have my own fiancé.”

“So this is strictly police business?”

“Strictly. I just need to ask you a few questions.”

There were two chairs in Jimmy’s office. A straight-back with a plastic seat, intended for anyone other than him, and the leather swivel behind the desk. Priscilla had the chutzpah to slip into the latter and offer me the plastic chair.

“Shoot,” she said.

I consulted my list. “Were you and Cornelius living together?”

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“I slept at my own house. Sometimes he did too, but more often not.”

“Was yours an exclusive relationship?”

It surprised me that such a beautiful woman, albeit a man-made one, should have such an unpleasant voice. It was like the sound of toenails scraping on a chalkboard. I’ve heard enough of that to be a good judge, by the way.

“Exclusive, my eye. Cornelius knew he was the most illegible bachelor in town.” Priscilla Livingood is syntaxically challenged, to coin a new word.

“Come again?”

“You know, he has the most to offer, so every woman wants him.”

“I most certainly do not!” I shuddered just at the thought. I’d rather eat a plateful of boiled eels.

“That’s because a woman with your looks can reach far beyond Hernia to get a man. Bedford too. That handsome doctor of yours is from where? South Carolina?”

“New York. And he came here; I’ve never been to the Big Apple.”

“All the same, he wouldn’t have looked twice at a girl like me.”

I’m sure Gabe would have looked several times, but I wasn’t about to point that out. “Tell me, Priscilla, if Cornelius was a lothario, why did you agree to marry him?”

“Because he was rich, handsome, and single. Sounds shallow, doesn’t it? I don’t care. I’m forty-three, Magdalena; my eggs are getting old. I want to have babies, lots of them. I only need two more procedures; then I’m through. After that Cornelius would have had eyes only for me.”

“I didn’t realize Dr. Skinner did brain transplants.”

“What? Was that a dig?”

It was. And I should have been ashamed of myself. But what woman in her right mind would put herself under the knife so 24 Tamar

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many times? Why couldn’t she just suffer in silence like I did all these years?

I cleared my throat. “What I meant to say is, I wouldn’t think Dr. Skinner would agree to do so many surgeries on the same patient. Is there a code of some sort?”

“You mean the Hypocrite’s oath. Yeah, well, Dr. Matthews is going to do it, not Dr. Skinner. But I still get my twenty percent discount, because they have this Episcopal thing.”

This one took me a minute. “Ah, reciprocal.”