Rita Lakin_Gladdy Gold_01

Gladdy's Glossary

Yiddish (meaning Jewish) came into being between the
ninth and twelfth centuries in Germany as adaptation of German dialect
to the special uses of Jewish religious life.

In the early twentieth century, Yiddish was spoken by
eleven million Jews in Eastern Europe and the United States. Its use
declined radically. However, lately there has been a renewed interest
in embracing Yiddish once again as a connection to Jewish culture.

Death by Delivery

T
he poison was in the pot
roast.

In a few hours Selma Beller would be dead. This was
regrettable because tomorrow was her birthday and she was so looking
forward to it. Her husband, Ernie, had keeled over at seventy-nine.
Having beaten him at gin rummy and shuffleboard, she had gleefully
intended to beat him yet again, this time to the big eight-oh. Alas,
poor Selma.

While she was waiting to die, Selma was dusting.

Dust was her enemy. And she battled mightily. No
fragile feather duster for her. And forget that sissy stuff like lemon
Pledge. She used good old-fashioned Lysol, confident that neither dust
nor germ escaped its lethal dose. Death to dust, she thought and then
laughed, dust to dust.

Looking up, Selma glanced at the clock. Where
had
the
afternoon gone? It was nearly dinnertime. Too bad her best (and only)
friend, Tessie, was busy tonight with out-of-town visitors. She should
have gone shopping this morning. Oh, well, there was always cottage
cheese, with a piece of cut-up peach and some sour cream. She wrinkled
up her nose. What she really craved was red meat. Bloody and rare.

There was a knock on the door.

Selma groped around for her glasses, misplaced, as
usual. Giving up, she moved as quickly as she could manage toward the
door, automatically straightening the doily on the arm of her emerald
green recliner. Glancing toward the array of grandchildren's photos on
her foyer table, she blew a kiss at the smiling faces.

"Who is it?" she trilled. She would never open the
door to a stranger.

"Delivery. Meals on Wheels."

Squinting through the peephole, Selma, though her
vision was blurred, identified the familiar shopping bags with the
Meals on Wheels logo. A volunteer wearing jeans, a windbreaker, a
baseball cap, and sunglasses stood there, arms full.

"Wrong apartment," she said wistfully.

"Mrs. Beller? Apartment two-fifteen?"

"Yes, but I didn't order--"

"Happy birthday to you from Meals on Wheels. A
special introductory order."

"Really?" Selma was feeling the beginnings of hope.
"Something smells wonderful. What's in the bags?"

The volunteer consulted a piece of paper. "Pot
roast.
Stuffed cabbage rolls. Mushroom and barley soup, potato pancakes with
sour cream, and apple strudel for dessert."

Practically drooling, Selma unlocked the deadbolt
her
son, Heshy, had installed, then the other two safety locks.

She squinted again as the volunteer entered with the
packages. "Don't I know you? You look familiar. . . ." But Selma was
distracted as she sniffed the air in appreciation. "I can't wait," she
said as she took the bags and carried them into her spotless kitchen.
She quickly unwrapped the containers and began setting them out on her
best Melmac dishes on her small white Formica dinette table.

"I just hope the soup isn't too salty. My blood
pressure, you know."

A wrought-iron chair was pulled out for her.
Smiling,
she let herself be seated.

"At your service, Mrs. Beller."

"What a way to go." Selma giggled, tucking her
napkin
in.

Those were Selma Beller's final words. The last
thing
she
saw as she was starting to lose consciousness was the logo on the Meals
on Wheels shopping bags as the killer calmly refolded them, and her
last fading thought was that the pot roast had been a little stringy. .
. .