Butter Safe Than Sorry Read Online Free Page A

rose from the wicker rocker like a modern-day Lazarus from the dead, threw off the hideous turquoise-and-slime green afghan that had been wrapped around my shapely shoulders, and shook a slim fist at the son of a squab.
    "You come back here, you rat with wings!"
    Sister Disarticulate was temporarily at a loss for words. "You--you're back!"
    "As big as life and twice as ugly," I said.
    "Whum?" she said.
    "Nothing. That's just something my first husband used to say--except that he wasn't legally my husband, which meant that we were cohabitating without the bonds of matrimony--oh dear, this must shock you, you being a nun and all."
    "I'm not here at noon. I'm merely a cistern."
    I ran that through my awakening brain. "But nuns, sisters--they're all the same, right?"
    "Gracious, no. I'm not Catheter, nor even Despicable; I'm a Pigeon."
    I pointed to my head. "Nonsense, dear. That was a pigeon; you don't look anything like one--well, other than your eyes, which, you must admit, are rather beady and your legs . . . Honestly, dear, you should either request a longer habit, or see if Mother Grand Poo-Bah can make an exception and allow you to wear trousers. If not, the next time you're in Home Depot, someone looking for broomstick replacements might lunge for your shins. In which case, if you're not appropriately clad under there, it could be somewhat embarrassing. Delores Klinkhauser forgot to wear her bloomers--"
    "No, no," she cried, in mounting agitation, and then finally her words came out as sharp as the Devil's pitchfork and every bit as dangerous: "I have no religion; I'm a pagan!"
    "Get behind me, Satan!"
    My outburst produced a flock of curious onlookers. They pushed and shoved--in a gentle, apathetic sort of way--to get a better look at the miracle unfolding before their languorous eyes.
    But as I said, the "old Magdalena" was back: she who was half full of the vim and vigor, and half full of wit. That is to say, it was time to check myself out of the "Clooney" bin.
    "Pardon me, guys," I said, as I pointed in the direction opposite my inn, "but is that the Chattanooga Choo-choo?"
    A dozen cowled heads swiveled as one. "Where?"
    Off I shot like a hundred-twenty-five-pound bat out of Hades (the meals at the convent were completely uninspiring).

    Despite the fact that I'd sprung myself from his mother 's convent, Gabe was overjoyed to see me again--back as myself . Dear Freni nearly plotzed with happiness, and even allowed me to clasp her tightly in an English-style hug. And as for my little one--I kvelled with pride every time I saw him, and when I felt his little arms around my neck, I was in heaven. Oh, what naches (to borrow yet another term from my yiddishe mother-in-law)! We were as happy a family as could possibly be--well, barring a few minor details.
    When our daughter, Alison, came home from college on spring break, she brought the evil mutt Shnookums with her. The creature seems convinced that I'm responsible for his mistress (my sister, Susannah) being in prison, so he spent the entire week either nipping at my heels or attempting to dance with my shins--if you know what I mean. Another small irritant--both literally and figuratively--was the Babester's mother, who, in her role as mother-in-law, was not so superior.
    Understandably, she was a bit piqued that I had returned to play the part of her son's best friend, constant companion, and--horror of horrors--lover. She scrambled desperately to secure the knots in her apron strings, but I had an advantage she didn't have, and it wasn't up my sleeve either. I promised myself that if necessary I would resort to even going so far as to dance with my husband rather than let his mother win that battle.
    In the woods behind my pasture flows a small creek. Each spring beavers attempt to dam it, as is their custom, by cutting down every young tree within dragging distance. I have one heck of a time trying to stop them from doing so, and invariably I give up and the