Gruel and Unusual Punishment

4. A teenage girl sat slouched on one of the tall kitchen stools. I vigorously discourage children as guests-if you think celebrities are the most destructive humans, think again-so I knew the child was not in residence. She did, however, have a punk look about her, one that I've come to associate with the world of entertainment. Her hair was an impossible shade of black, with hints of maroon, and had been sculpted into spikes about four inches long that stood straight out from her head in all directions. Her ears had been pierced an obscene amount of times and resembled more the spines of spiral notebooks than auditory appendages. Even her eyebrows had been pierced, and from a ring on the left one hung a small silver skull on a chain. Moving down, a plump body, not yet in the full throes of adolescent development, was clad in only a tube top and black spandex shorts. The latter barely covered the region Eve made famous with her fig leaf. But Eve went barefoot, I'm sure of it, whereas this girl was wearing black platform shoes with leather straps that snaked their way about chunky calves and tied just below the knee. The child stood when she saw me scrutinizing her. "Hey lady," she said in a flat, midwestern accent, "give those eyeballs of yours a rest." I strode over to confront her. "Who are you?" I demanded. The girl's pale blue eyes regarded me calmly. "What's the matter, Mom? You have trouble hearing, or something? I'm your daughter." "Not even in my worst nightmare, dear. Tell me who you really are, or I'm calling the police." The P word made her blink. "Ain't ya the famous Magdalena Yoder?" I'm a sucker for flattery. "Well, I guess I'm famous. I mean, Mel Gibson once referred to me-hey, let's stick with the program here! Either you identify yourself, or I dial." "Alison Miller," she said, enunciating with such exaggeration that I could see the metal stud in her tongue. "But call me Allie." "Thank you. So, Alison, what are you doing in my kitchen?" "Sheesh! You are deaf, ain't ya? How many times do I have to tell you that I'm your daughter?" I turned helplessly to Freni. "You let her in, maybe you should explain." Freni is seventy-three years old and has a figure that attests to her firm belief that green tomato pie counts as a vegetable. But when she wants to, that woman can move like greased lightning. One minute she was there, flapping about like a rooster, and the next thing I knew I felt the breeze on my face as the door to the dining room swung closed behind her. "Uptight old lady, ain't she?" I glared at the girl. "A good look at you would spook the horses, dear." "I ain't your dear. Hey, what's with that old lady's getup, any-way? And what's with that funny little hat you got on? Youse actors of some kind?" "Not hardly. She's an Amish lady, and I'm a Mennonite. I wear this funny little hat because I believe a woman should keep her head covered when she prays." "You ain't praying now." "That's what you think. Unfortunately my prayers aren't being answered." She laughed, and I could see a second stud on her tongue. I wanted to gag. "I haven't given up on calling the police," I said. "Hey, come on, take a chill pill. I told you I'm your daughter, and I guess I am, because my dad is Aaron Miller. You know, the one who used to live across the road from you?" "Aaron Miller?" If it hadn't been for the resistance offered by my thick cotton hosiery, I would have collapsed to the floor. As it was, I swayed. Like a tall, skinny tower of Pisa. "You and him was married, right?" "Yes, but-" "Then you're my mother." "But I never gave birth!" I wailed. "You sure?" "I ought to be. I mean, fathers can sometimes be surprised years after the fact, but we women-" "Hey, spare me the sex talk, lady.Myers, Tamar is the author of 'Gruel and Unusual Punishment' with ISBN 9780451205087 and ISBN 0451205081.