I tapped my knee
impatiently. It was too early for bed and likely too late for another helping
of coffee. Well, for a sane person, anyway. I stepped over to the coffee maker,
grabbing some beans from the cupboard. I’d missed the 6pm news. At that time
they were probably still trying to piece their story together, but they’d
doubtless mentioned something about the explosion. I wondered if I shouldn’t
call my mother and reassure her I wasn’t dead or something.
As if summoned by the thought, there
was a sudden violent pounding on the screen door. I jumped from my spot beside
Mr. Coffee, showering coffee grinds over my socks. My heart practically
hammered a hole in my chest before I realized it was my mother and not a
sociopathic serial killer banging on the door like, well, an overly caffeinated
sociopathic serial killer.
I brushed coffee grounds from my
clothing and traipsed over to the door. I pried it open, bracing myself for a
battalion of frenzied cries.
“Are you alright?! I saw the news! I
tried to call, but your phone was turned off!”
“Oh?” That’s right. I had turned it
off at the coffee shop like a good little worker bee. Sure enough, a quick
check of the screen informed me my mother had left me a voicemail earlier. And
approximately ten missed calls. “Sorry.”
She wrapped me in a hug. Mrs. Nimsby
cuts a very motherly image: bushy short blonde curls cover her head, thick
glasses sit atop her nose, and her 5’ 5” figure is rather pear-shaped and always
clad in mom jeans and cardigans. Currently, she was squeezing me so tightly I
was likely to die…or at the very least pee my pants.
“Mom, I’m fine!” I exclaimed with a
slight shove.
“Oh, my God, what kind of world do
we live in?” She moaned with her arms thrown over her head. Her eyes filled
with tears as she shuddered in concern and horror.
“One where strip malls in the middle
of nowhere burst into smithereens apparently...”
“Oh, Jordy, you were at work when it
happened, weren’t you? Right next door? Are you sure you’re okay? Was everybody
okay?”
“Yes, Mom, I’m fine. I mean, we
heard it from the coffee shop, of course, but our building is totally fine. I
talked to some witnesses—er, some people outside the coffee shop, and they
seemed alright…” I crossed my fingers behind my back, hoping she hadn’t noticed
my slip. My mother wasn’t exactly thrilled when I told her I wanted to be a
private investigator. In fact, she was positive death and destruction lurked
around every corner of my life. Like Martha, she probably watched too many
crime dramas.
“Witnesses?” Oops. “Jordan Prudence
Nimsby, tell me you are not investigating this explosion! Whoever did this is
crazy!” She thrust her flailing hands at me, pointing accusingly. She was also
pacing, which made me dizzy. Or maybe it was the undercooked chicken again…
“Exactly! He, or she, is crazy!” I
said. “I’ve already reached that conclusion.”
“Now there you go again with your
private-eye talk!”
“What? You mean ‘conclusion’? How do
you know I’m not becoming an essayist?”
“What?” The blonde curls fraying
about her face made her look frazzled as she came to an abrupt stop with both
hands on her hips.
“Essayist? You know, they write
essays. ‘In conclusion’, like at the end of an essay…okay, never mind, it
sounded funnier in my head…”
My mother shook her head and resumed
her pacing. “Jordan, this sounds dangerous! Can’t you just let the local cops
handle it?”
“Yeah, guys who, on an average day,
don’t deal with anything worse than a car versus deer accident or a lost dog.”
I really had nothing against the resident fuzz, but my mother always managed to
bring out the best in me (commence sarcasm).
“Jordan. You know it’s their job.”
“Yeah, and it was supposed to be
mine, too.” I hadn’t meant for things to get too serious, but the sting of her
last comment brought tears to my eyes. I guess I did miss my old job, my dream
job. “Maybe coming up here was a mistake.” I slipped into the comfy armchair,
wiping at my eyes with a sweatshirt sleeve.
My mother’s voice softened, and she
hurriedly wrapped her arms around me. “Aw, honey, you know I think you’re a
wonderful investigator. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Am I, though? Mr. Klienderstern
never seemed to think so.”
“Well, Mr. Klienderstern is a
horse’s ass.” The phrase “horse’s ass” coming out of my mother’s voice was so
unexpected a snort burst out of me.
“Mom!”
“Well, he is!” She stepped back and
threw her arms about for emphasis. “If he didn’t realize what an excellent
investigator you are, then that’s what he is.” My mother sighed. “Fine. I give
my blessing.”
“Wh-what?” I was still giggling over
the “ass” comment.
“You can take the case. Figure this
whole bombing thing out. You have my blessing. Just…be careful.”
“You do know I was going to do what
I wanted regardless of any blessings. As per usual.”
“Jordan.” Her voice now carried that
warning tone it nearly wore out during my high school years. “Take the freaking
blessing and be glad for it.”
“Yes, Mother dear. I love you.” I
stood up and wrapped her in a hug, hoping she would leave before she got any
ideas about retracting her blessing.
“You are okay, right? I mean, with
everything you’ve been through this year?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Don’t want to
talk about it, Ma…
She gave a slight intake of breath,
as though suddenly recalling something important. “You do know your old friend
Samantha is a cop here in town? I think she’s a detective, actually…”
“Really? Samantha Orwitz? Wow, I
never saw that coming...” Of all the ironic career paths after high school,
this one took the cake. Samantha had been breaking laws since middle school.
“Yeah, why don’t you get a hold of
her? Maybe you could work together or something..?”
“You know what, Mom? That’s actually
a brilliant idea.”
“Well, where did you think you got
your smarts? Your father?” She giggled as she made her way out the door.
“Goodnight now, hon.”
“Wow, Mom, you’re really hitting the
zingers today.”
“I know. It’s weird! I think it’s
this new beer your father brewed…it’s a bit stronger than I’m used to…”
