The Mafia Squad Car

Madame's Nightshirt
Mrs. Peperium

"Oh, do have another cucumber sandwich. They are particularly nice today." said Mrs. P handing the plate to Father M.

"I will. May I have one of the ham, too?"

"Father M. How can I say no to priest? It's just not done, is it?" said Mrs. P, laughing.

"You'd be surprised how frequently it is done. " said Father M. grimly "and with such ease too."

"Really?" said Mrs. P nervously, recalling how deftly she had side-stepped the plea last Sunday for donations to the Left-Handed Sisters of the Improbable Apparition. "Father, I need to to talk to you. Really talk to you."

Father M. and Mrs. P are friends. Being in the long line of Melchizedek has kept him from being blinded to her many faults and even more weaknesses. However, as weak as Mrs. P's character may be, she's a tower of strength when it comes to all things kitchen. So when Mrs. P asks him to trot around for tea, he always undertakes the trot willingly. It is only when Mrs. P says she "really wants to talk" that the joy fades from the next bite of whatever refreshment she has submitted for his consideration. Father M. knew he needed to work quick before whatever it was she wanted to talk about turned all of the sandwiches--not to mention the desserts--to ashes in his mouth. As he took a bite of ham sandwich, he thought of the late Mama Cass. A well-timed bit of choking and thrashing about was, he knew, the only means of diverting this inexorable conversationalist.

"Really...talk? Well then, by all means, let's talk." he responded and immediately took to fortifying his strength with cucumber.

"Yesterday, I went to my OB/GYN for my annual exam," said Mrs. P. She then paused to take a a sip of tea. "Oh, this is not as hot as it should be. Let me make another pot. I'll be right back. While I'm gone, amuse yourself with some turkey and dried cranberry sandwiches."

Given the choice between amusing himself with tea sandwiches and rehashing the latest gossip from the stirrups Father M., as one might assume, goes for the sandwiches every time. He had just devised a sort of parlor game, in its essentials not unlike dominoes, when a shadow fell over the table and he realized Mrs. P had returned.

"What's that, Stonehenge?" she asked. Then, not waiting for a response which Father M. would have been hard pressed to make, she went on. "As I was saying, yesterday I went to my OB/GYN and something most strange happened."

"Uh-huh. Is this fresh tarragon I taste with the turkey or have my tastebuds gone off?" asked Father M.

"Yes it is fresh tarragon. But please don't distract me. I'll lose my train of thought and have to start all over again." pleaded Mrs. P.

"By all means," said Father M. hurriedly, "continue."

"Father, something really strange did happen."

In the midst of a crisis, the mind fixes on the oddest details. Time seemed to slow down and, as he swallowed the last bit of turkey, Father M. realised how much a tarragon-scented mayonnaise tastes like a Northern Blue Spruce. Not, to keep the record straight, that he'd ever eaten a Blue Spruce. But the smells were remarkably similar. But back to reality. After clearing his throat, he spoke, "Ok, I'll bite. How strange?"

"My doctor apologized to me." said Mrs. P, straightening her dress and settling herself even deeper into her settee.

With that move, Father M. now knew he was definitely in for it. Abandon all hope, he mused in the original Florentine. Wherever she wanted to take him, he was bound by both duty and polite society to follow. He put down his plate and asked, "Had your doctor done anything deserving of an apology?"

"Had he? I really don't know. It depends upon how you look at things, I guess. Or which world you live in." she replied.

Father M bought time by sipping his tea. Wistfully, he recalled that pan-denominational conference on the endemic racism in the ferris-wheel industry that he had skipped in order to attend this tea. Straightening himself and taking another pass at the sandwich plate, he asked, "Hmmn....how do you look at things? Or which world do you live in?"

"I live in your world, silly. And I look at it as somewhat of an achievement that my doctor felt he needed to apologize. Naturally, I told him he needn't apologize. That I understood completely why he had done it," she said "Then I told him I felt bad for him too."

"You...you felt bad for your doctor?" asked Father M. "Can you elaborate just a bit more? I don't think I'm quite getting it.

Mrs. P smiled. "Sure, may I refill your cup first? Isn't this delightful tea? Christine sent it just before she left for France."

Suddenly recalling why he was here, Father M. picked up his plate again and passed Mrs. P his cup and saucer. "Please do."

As she began pouring the tea, she began pouring forth her story...

To be continued...

Comments

[Old Dominion Tory]

A delightful beginning! Mrs. Peperium is hot stuff with the short story genre. I am eagerly awaiting more. I also am moved to have a cucumber sandwich.
Cheers!

[Robbo the Llama Butcher]

Oh, Mrs. P, you ARE a wicked one! I know I'm going to wreck the day's productivity by clicking back over to PP every five minutes in eager anticipation of the next installment.

Also, I'm all hungry now...

[Christine]

Hmmm...

[Jordana]

Mmmm...fresh tarragon!

[quasimodo]

Cass Elliott, poor dear, died of heart failure, not of a ham sandwich. No food was found in her trachea.

But such is the power of the urban legend.

[MCNS]

I sense a McGuffin. (Not to be confused with an Egg McMuffin.) Do proceed, Mrs P.