Deviled Eggs
by TJ Abba
AWARDED FLORIDA WRITERS FIRST PLACE PRIZE FOR FLASH FICTION
Ida Jane stared down at the egg in her hand. There was no other choice: She had to call FBI Headquarters. She took a deep breath. She shook so violently she had to put her left hand on top of her right wrist to hold the receiver steady. The voice on the other end of the phone was a no-nonsense white male who sounded real young, and worse, he sounded like a New Yorker. What was he doing in Savannah? How old did you have to be to join the FBI? Twenty-one?
These young guys think the world is all black and white, she thought. She needed someone who would be sympathetic—someone older and southern. A woman would understand. Ida Jane couldn’t bring herself to report her discovery to a mere kid. She’d call later in the day, she told herself. Maybe a more mature, kindly agent would answer the phone.
Where could she hide the egg, so no one would happen on to it? Ida Jane looked around the kitchen desperately.
In her brother Johnnie Clarence’s bedroom, the little black and white TV blared out the top story of the day, as it had all morning. Priceless Faberge Egg among the loot stolen from Savannah’s Mercer Museum of Antiquities.
The same small egg she held in her hand now, carefully wrapped in a clean dishrag.
The knock on the door was deafening. She snuck a peak around her ancient kitchen’s Dutch doors. Her heart pounded as she recognized the large, dumpy shape standing on the wide veranda with his straw hat in his hand, worn black bible tucked under his arm. Bill Archie Avon.
Ida Jane had clean forgotten the preacher was coming to collect covered dishes for today’s charity buffet at the Bible First Baptist. Her famous red devil’s food cake was ready to go, and she’d managed to make an appetizer tray with deviled eggs as well. She only needed to put them in the Tupperware. She nearly jumped out of her skin when the preacher pounded again.
“Ding-Dong. Avon calling,” he sang out as he always did. His favorite joke.
His ham-like fist would come right through that door one day, she thought. The whole house was falling down. The hardwood floor creaked as she moved down the hall. She slid the small, jewel-encrusted egg inside her worn apron pocket. It was hard as a rock and bounced against her ample thigh as she rushed to the door. Then it bounced onto the kitchen floor.
Should she tell him? Confess everything? No. Catholics confess, Baptists get called on the carpet.
“Reverend! How good of you to come,” she said in a shrill voice. Liar’s Throat, her mother always called it. She sounded like the good witch from the Wizard of Oz. Ida Jane practically trilled.
The Reverend pumped her hand. “What’s new?”
“Nothin,’ she lied. “Nothin’ new here. Not a thing.”
The appetizer tray made his face lit up. “My favorite. And look how pretty—fresh parsley all around them eggs.”
She was glad to think of something beside the stolen egg inside her flowered apron pocket. “I saw Paula Dean do it on TV. Instead of cutting them halfwise, you slice the tops off, stuff ‘em then put the caps back on.”
Ida Jane talked at warp speed. It seemed her voice was high enough to circle around the ceiling and fly on out of the chimney. She was sure he’d notice her hands shaking, her averted eyes—her nose growing longer. She fully expected Reverend Bill Archie to shout, “Liar, liar pants on fire,” but he seemed intent on admiring the appetizer tray, smacking his lips.
“Ida Jane, you’re an angel. Forgive my weakness. I can’t resist testing one out. You mind?”
“No, course not, Reverend. But now we’re one short of a dozen. Never mind. I see one here on the floor I can add to the Food-Taker. You can take that cake on out to the car, if you’ve a mind to.”
The preacher picked up the cake as he continued to chew. “How’s that brother of yours? He like his new job? I don’t never see him at church no more.”
“Johnnie Clarence loves that job. Not a lot of work around for a forgetful old coot pushing eighty. I’m forever finding a ballpoint he’s shoved into his pocket—he never knows where it came from. He’s like a squirrel storing up nuts for the winter.”
Ida Jane practically collapsed with relief when the door closed behind Bill Archie, and silence enveloped the house. The ticking clock was unnerving, so she turned on the little television just to hear some sound beyond her beating heart.
She was having a migraine. Her head spun like a whirling dervish. There was nothing to do but lie down and hope her head would clear. Where on earth would she get the money to hire a lawyer?
It was hours later when Ida Jane awoke with a start. Good lord. She recognized that voice. The TV was still droning on about the robbery. She sat up and stared at the “News at Four on Four” as the picture rolled and jumped. There on the screen was her worst fear incarnate. Her little brother being interviewed by a child-like FBI agent on Channel Four. Next to him stood the behemoth reverend Avon.
The youth with all the blow-dried hair and impossibly white teeth was saying that a fingerprint was traced from the Faberge Egg to the guard at the museum. It was a nightmare. Her brother a criminal mastermind?
“Well,” Johnnie Clarence said, “I was sweepin’ up when I saw this little egg thing laying amonst all that broken glass and I picked it up meaning to give to the boss, but I forgot about it in the excitement.”
The reverend smiled a wicked smile, “Funny thing how it got mixed with the Bible Baptist’s deviled eggs. An angel musta put it there.”