Do Unto Others

“I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe anyone thinks you’re a killer.” “I have you on my side, though. And Candace.” Sister squeezed my hand. It was the first legitimate sign of affection she’d shown me in weeks. I think we were both just too tired to bother most of the time, too caught up in feeling sorry for ourselves, too worn down from dealing with Mama, too frustrated at our own powerlessness in the face of her disease. We’d been close once. I wanted to be close to her again. I offered to bring her some coffee in bed and she giggled. “You?” she asked. I drew myself up to my full height “I too can be sensitive and caring. We just got a book about it at the library.” I brought her milky coffee, the way she liked it. She sipped it as daintily as an English lady being gently roused in the morning by a roomful of servants. I told her about my dinner with Ruth and what I’d found out yesterday. She listened for once, and did not interrupt me. A rarity for my big sister. When I was done, Sister finished her coffee before she spoke. “Well, I can fill in one gap.

Bob Don did used to be friends with Mama and Daddy.” “When?” “Oh, when I was real little. Before you were born. He came over quite a bit. I remember he loved to toss me up in the air and catch me. I’d squeal everybody deaf. And he and Mama and Daddy played cards some evenings, I remember that. But he and Mama and Daddy had some big falling out. I think it was over him marrying that nasty Gretchen. I don’t think Mama and Daddy liked being around her. She’s a real bitch.” “Candace says that Bob Don returned a library book that’d had booze spilled on it.”

Sister huffed. “Then she’s also a real drunk bitch. Wouldn’t surprise me a bit. Have you ever seen that woman, Jordy? Course she doesn’t get out like she used to. But I know a drunk when I see one. She must just be getting worse and worse. Poor Bob Don. Maybe he really does want to help, make up for the rift between him and Daddy and Mama.” “Maybe so,” I said thoughtfully. I offered to make Sister some breakfast, but she said she’d get her own. (She wasn’t willing to take a chance on my cooking.) So I got on with my work. There were people to see and stories to be checked out. I decided to strike close to home first.

The Bavary/Mirabeau phone book listed three families named Hart. I got lucky the second time around. The lady who answered had a daughter named Chelsea. “May I ask why you want to speak with her?” the woman asked. Her voice was nasal but polite. I fidgeted. “Actually, she’s dating my cousin, Hally Schneider. I thought she might assist me in planning a surprise party for him.” I couldn’t think of anything else and hoped that I wouldn’t actually have to plan a social function for a teenager to cover my tracks. The woman warmed. “Oh, yes, Hally and Chelsea did go out the other night. Such a handsome young man.” Her voice faltered. “I-I didn’t know that he was really interested in Chelsea.” “Oh, talks about her constantly,” I chirped. Well, he’d mentioned her once. That counted for something. Mrs. Hart directed me to LuAnne’s Backerei, a little German bakery in downtown Mirabeau. I thanked her and hung up. I could stop off and chat with Chelsea on my way to see Reverend Hufnagel, Bob Don Goertz, and Eula Mae. And when I got back, down-the-street neighbor Janice Schneider and I were going to have a little heart-to-heart as well.

9

The warm aroma of freshly baked kolaches enveloped me as I stepped into LuAnne’s Backerei. Kolaches are a Czech pastry, a warm, square roll with a fruit or sausage middle and topping. Every small town in east-central Texas boasts a kolache bakery, even some left over from the earliest Czech immigrants. Kolache and coffee together are the ultimate in comfort foods; the smell alone brought back memories of my grandmother Schneider’s kitchen, a tray of hot kolaches being set before Sister and me-with a gentle warning to let them cool so we wouldn’t burn our mouths. Today’s batch smelled of apple, peach, and heaven. I didn’t know LuAnne or any of the staff; there was one stout, matronly woman in the back on the phone and a trio of young girls brewing coffee, pulling fresh kolaches out of glass-fronted ovens, and ringing the cash register. If LuAnne’s had a morning rush I’d missed it. Two plump ladies in stretch polyester pantsuits sat by the door, laughing merrily over steaming cups of coffee. A circle of older men slumped by a table, watching the women chat. One man, a Dallas Cowboys cap perched on his head, held court, talking and smoking his cigarette. The other men munched on their kolaches, and it was hard to tell if they paid the slightest attention to him. They had probably heard whatever story he was telling a hundred times already. I approached the counter, bought two apple kolaches and a coffee, laced with milk and sugar. The girl who rang up my purchase smiled prettily.