Suture Self : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

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Mary Daheim

Stinkers Preschool or whatever it’s called. Dumb. Why

can’t kids stay home and play like they used to?”

“I don’t entirely disagree with you,” Judith said.

“Today’s parents seem in such a rush to get them to

grow up. Maybe that’s why when they hit twenty, they

suddenly stop maturing until they’re almost middleaged. They’re making up for all the lost years when

they should have been carefree kids.”

“Well.” Gertrude chortled. “Maybe I haven’t raised

such a nitwit after all. When was the last time you

agreed with me on anything?”

“Come on, Mother,” Judith said. “I agree with you

on many things. Um . . . Who are you putting on the

family tree?”

“Family,” Gertrude retorted. “Our side. The Grovers

and the Hoffmans. You can do Lunkhead’s.”

Judith wasn’t sure which husband Gertrude was referring to. Her mother referred to both Dan and Joe as

Lunkhead. In fact, Judith had never been sure if

Gertrude knew—or recognized—that Mike wasn’t

Dan’s son. Over thirty years ago, a baby conceived out

of wedlock was a shameful thing. At least by

Gertrude’s strict, old-fashioned standards. While Judith believed that her mother knew, deep down, she’d

been in denial for the past three decades.

“That’s good,” Judith said, aware that her mother’s

memory, like those of most elderly people, recalled

more from the distant past than the immediate present.

“I mean, you can remember all those relatives who

were dead before my time.”

“You didn’t miss much with some of ’em,” Gertrude

declared. “Take Uncle Kaspar. He thought he was a pencil. My grandmother was always pretending to sharpen

him. The funny thing was, his head did come to a point.”

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“I never heard you mention him before,” Judith said.

“Maybe I forgot till now,” Gertrude said. “Then there

was my father’s cousin, Lotte. Big woman. Lotta Lotte,

my papa used to say. She sat on his favorite mare once

and the horse fell down, broke a leg.”

“Did they have to shoot her?” Judith asked.

“Yep,” Gertrude replied. “The mare was fine,

though. Fixed her up good as new.”

“Mother,” Judith said severely, “you’re not telling

me they shot Lotte!”

Gertrude was chuckling. “Why not? It was the old

country. They did a lot of queer things over there. Oldfashioned stuff, like wars and bombs and all that other

goofy stuff.”

“Mother,” Judith said stiffly, “I don’t want you making up information. It’s important to Mike and Kristin.

In fact, I’d like to know more about our family tree myself.”