From Bad to Wurst
us?” asked the man in the red waistcoat. “When do we get to play the Oktoberfest tent?”
    â€œI’ll make those arrangements through the mayor’s office. But when do you want to play? As early as tomorrow or later in the week?”
    Otis fondled the handle of Astrid’s case, his face glum. “If we could find another accordion player, the Guten Tags would be able to make an appearance too. I was all set to be happy about watching everyone else play, but now that her instrument has found its way back to us undamaged, I’m thinking it’s some kind of sign from beyond the grave. I think Astrid wants us to play.”
    â€œI think so too,” agreed Wendell. “Our other decision might have been premature.”
    â€œDo any of you musicians have expertise with more than one instrument?” I called out.
    â€œI play the piano,” said the woman with the nasally voice. “But I couldn’t learn the nuances of the accordion in time to be of any help.”
    Otis made a plea to the rest of the room. “Can you folks help us out? Do any of you play an instrument?”
    Lucille Rasmussen raised her hand. “Are spoons considered an instrument? My Dick used to play the spoons on his bare belly, but he died on his very first trip to Europe with Emily, so we’re spared the embarrassment of having to listen to him.”
    â€œDo you suppose we could rent a musician?” suggested Gilbert. “Maybe they have stores here that are like Ace Rental back home, only instead of renting out generators and power washers, they rent out accordionists.”
    That started a buzz that grew so loud, we nearly missed the voice from the back of the room. “I might be able to help you out.”
    Otis whipped his head around to ferret out the mystery voice. “What’d you say?”
    â€œI said, I might be able to help you out.”
    I froze mid-breath, too stunned to finish inhaling.
    Dad ?

four
    â€œWhy is your father offering to help?” asked Mom as she squinted toward the back of the room. “He doesn’t even know how to whistle.”
    Dad stood up. “It’s been a long time, but if you’re in a bind, I might be able to pinch-hit for you.”
    Gasps. Hoots. Clapping.
    â€œHallelujah!” whooped Otis. “Come on up here and have a look at this thing, then. This is unbelievable. It’s gonna happen, folks! Astrid is pulling strings from above.”
    â€œGood Lord,” Mom wheezed as Dad marched to the front of the room. “What is he doing? He doesn’t play the accordion.”
    â€œAre you sure?”
    Her eyes narrowed to slits. “We’ve been married for forty-one years. If he played a musical instrument, don’t you think he would have mentioned it by now?”
    â€œMaybe he’s been waiting for just the right moment to spring it on you.”
    â€œYour father does not play the accordion.” She buried her face in her hands and slumped forward over her lap. “He’s going to make a fool of himself, and I’ll be the one who’ll have to bear the stigma and humiliation.”
    â€œC’mon, Mom. Nana has always preached that no one can embarrass us except ourselves.”
    â€œYour grandmother obviously told you all sorts of stupid things when you were growing up.” She bowed her head lower. “I have to warn you, Emily, I’m praying for God to strike me dead, so if you don’t see me in the morning, you’ll know what happened.”
    I gave her shoulder a sympathetic pat. “Wouldn’t you be better off praying for Dad to be granted the ability to play the accordion?”
    She squeaked out a sound not dissimilar to the one Tosca might have made before she flung herself off the battlements of Castel Sant’Angelo.
    Poor Mom. The anguish…the strain…the burden. No doubt about it: this would probably go down on record as the most

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