Grape Expectations

by Tamar Myers

  Sam picked up the phone, but his lecherous eyes were on me. “So it’s the police, is it?”

  I sighed so hard that my breath rustled the pages of a feed calendar on the wall behind Sam. “Okay, but you don’t press charges, and you don’t get to choose my outfit for the party.” (Sam dresses Dorothy.) “And you promise not to breathe one word of this to Gabriel.”

  Sam’s grin is sure to be replicated by the Devil when he welcomes sinners to Hell. “I promise.”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Alison said. “I just thought of a deal-breaker.”

  “Not now, dear,” I said. The precious child was looking out for me.

  “But, Mom, this guy—I mean, Mr. Yoder, Cousin Sam, whatever—might be a murderer. That should count for something.”

  I’d told Alison the basics about the Felicia Bacchustelli case. She’d have heard about it at school, anyway, given that in Hernia gossip travels faster , than the speed of sound. I had not, however, said anything that would implicate Sam Yoder.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, dear. Sam isn’t even on my list of suspects.”

  “Why not? He’s got a motive, don’t he?”

  “He does?” The Bible does say that “a little child will lead them.” It doesn’t say where, and of course Alison is no longer little, but what do a few details matter when interpreting scripture? Context should take a backseat to cause, if you ask me.

  “Think about it, Mom. This winery thing—who would it have hurt the most? Yeah, you, because ya own a high- priced inn. But who else?”

  “The community, of course. Most folks here are very much against spirits of any kind.”

  “Ghosts too? Wow. But I’m talking about a business. The guys at Miller’s Feed Store, they don’t really give a hoot, because them rich wine drinkers that come to town ain’t gonna buy no rakes and shovels, and the people who buy them now ain’t gonna go nowhere else. So ya see, it don’t make no difference to them.”

  “I see your point—so far. Go on.”

  “But everyone’s gotta eat, right? And that’s what Mr. Yoder mostly sells—food. Of course there’s the other stuff; Mr. Yoder sells just about everything, if you know what I mean.”

  “I think she means welcome mats for Mr. Monthly Visitor,” I said helpfully to Sam.

  My translation, however, seemed to go over Alison’s head. “Whatever. Anyhow, I heard that the winery was going to have a fancy restaurant. And ya can be sure that people would go there to eat out, on account it’s the only game in town. No offense, Mom, but the PennDutch don’t sell food to people who ain’t guests.”

  “No offense taken, dear—except perhaps at your atrocious grammar.”

  “It ain’t that bad. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, so everyone starts to eat out at the winery—maybe they call it Wine and Dine”—she giggled—“and that means they buy less groceries here. Even if they just go there for birthdays, or whatever, that would still be a lot of food they don’t buy here.

  “So ya see, Mom, it makes sense for Mr. Yoder to kill that winery woman. If she’s dead, then maybe the brother- in-law will move away, and maybe the winery won’t even be built That means no restaurant, so everybody still buys their food here, and Mr. Yoder keeps on being rich like he is now.”

  I glanced at Sam, who seemed none too happy with this theory. “I guess you have a point, dear.”

  “No, she doesn’t!”

  “Who knows, I might even like to try the Wine and Dine—just for the dine, of course. The wine would be sin.” “Magdalena, don’t be an idiot About a third of my customers are Amish. They wouldn’t go anywhere near an upscale place like that.”

  “What about the other two thirds? Most of those people do their primary shopping in Bedford. Even Oprah couldn’t afford your prices on a regular basis. They use you for convenience. Let’s say Jane Doe starts to bake a cake only to discover she’s out of baking powder. Rather than run all the way into Bedford, she pays twice as much to buy it here. But then let’s say there’s another option: she can take the family to dinner, they can have cake for dessert, and no one has to wash the dishes. How sweet is that?”

  Alison beamed. “Ya see, Mom?”

  “Indeed I do.”

  Sam squirmed. “I dipped your pigtails in the inkwell, Magdalena. Okay, so maybe we no longer had inkwells back then, but I swear I cut one off.”

  “That you did. Is this supposed to help your case?”

  “I don’t have a case. My point is that you’ve known me my entire life. And yes, I’m a lecherous old geezer who doesn’t deserve a wife as sweet and kind as Dorothy, but that doesn’t make me a murderer. Come on, Magdalena. You more than anyone have got to know what’s really in my heart.”

  “I lost my loupe. Without it, it’s hard to focus on something that tiny. But I will agree that my gut feeling—at the moment—is that you’re not a cold-blooded killer. You have cold blood, yes. You’re just not the killer. Still, Alison has made a good case for you being on the suspect list. Sorry, dear, but I’m going to keep you on it.”

  My relative with the relative morals glowered at his pseudo-cousin once removed. “I’ll waive payment for what she stole.”

  “You hear that, Mom? I don’t have to pay!”

  “Oh yes, you do.”

  “But why? Didn’t ya hear what he said?”

  “He’s trying to buy a favor, dear. What he doesn’t seem to understand is, a woman who has everything can’t be bought.”

  She stamped her foot At the rear of the store, an unstable pile of something crashed to the floor.

  “Ya don’t own me, Mom. Ya know that?”

  “Yes,” I said quietly.

  “In fact, I don’t even want ya to be my mom anymore. Go ahead and call my real mom and dad in Minnesota. See if I care!” She started crying, which made her even more angry—at herself.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” Sam said.

  18

  I slammed my checkbook on the counter and scribbled furiously. “Here’s a thousand dollars. I’m sure that’s more than enough to pay for what she stole. Use the rest of the money to take Dorothy out to dinner. Or buy her something nice. The Good Lord knows you owe her.”

  As much as our greedy grocer wanted to buy immunity from my investigation, his fingers wanted the money more. They crept across the counter like a strange hairy crab and snatched the check away while I was still signing my name. As a consequence, the R in Yoder is now permanently scrawled across his wooden countertop.

  “Mom,” Alison wailed, “ya ain’t gonna make me pay back a thousand dollars, are ya?”

  I snapped my pocketbook shut. “He’s going to send me a proper bill. You’ll pay me back whatever it is you owe him.”

  Alison sniffed loudly. I chose to interpret it as a perverse teenage way of expressing gratitude.

  “Just remember, Sam,” I said, “the law is generally more lenient on those who voluntarily confess their crimes.”

  I turned and strode away before he could respond. Alison, bless her heart, was right at my heels. The girl’s a quick thinker. Having lost the first round in the battle to escape reparations, she’d already switched to “butter up Mom” mode.

  Most of the way to the high' school Alison praised my driving skills. When I didn’t respond to this transparent tactic, she started in on complimenting my appearance. I am ashamed to say that I suddenly found myself on the slippery slopes of Mount Vanity.

  “Ya know, you ain’t nearly as old looking as most of my friends’ mothers.”

  “I’m not?”

  “Nah. I seen much worse. Corgi Wilson’s mother has this wobbly thing under her chin.”

  “A wattle?”

  “Yeah, and ya don’t got that on account of ya don’t got much chin. How lucky is that?”

  “Indeed.”

  “And Deirdre Hockcomber’s mom dyes her own hair, and it’s really fake looking near the ends because it’s so dark. But ya don’t dye your hair, ’cause ya don’t have to. They say mous
y hair like yours is the last to turn gray. How about that?”

  I turned right into the semicircular drive in front of the school. “You say the sweetest things, dear. But you’re still going to have to pay me back.”

  “Man! No fair.”

  I bit my tongue while I found a parking place and was reasonably behaved while I marched Alison into the principal’s office. I will admit to becoming slightly perturbed, however, when Mrs. Proschel, the school’s new secretary, informed me that Principal Middledorf was home with the flu.

  “The flu,” I echoed. “Didn’t he get a shot?”

  “There wasn’t enough serum to go around. It was in the news—I even saw it on TV.”

  “I don’t watch TV. Besides, Herman’s the principal of a school, for crying out loud. He’s at high risk.”

  “To get sick, yes, but not to die. It’s a matter of priorities.”

  “Priorities? You’d, think the government would see to it that we had enough flu vaccine to keep high school principals from getting sick.”

  “Miss Yoder, I think you’ll find that a majority of Americans support our country and the right of Halliburton to use American blood to safeguard its oil contracts.”

  “What?”

  “It’s called patriotism, Miss Yoder. The right to die for the American way of life. If we must force democracy on the rest of the world, so be it Those people will thank us someday, don’t you worry. Just as soon as they get essential services back, the letters of gratitude will start pouring in. In the meantime, the world is safe from weapons of mass destruction that could, and did, hit parts of Tel Aviv during the first Gulf War.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Have you considered moving to France, Miss Yoder?”

  “Mrs. Proschel, I am as patriotic as you are—Did you say France? Well, I did take two years of French in high school, and I’m very fond of French fries. Oh, and would that mean I can stop shaving my legs?”

  “Yuck,” Alison said.

  “You’re not in the least bit funny, Miss Yoder. Thousands of Americans have given their lives so that we can worship the right God and have barbecues in our backyards without having to worry about our values being subverted by pagans. I must say I am surprised at your irreverence, you being one of the strict types of Mennonites.”

  “There is more than one God?” As soon as those words came out of my mouth, I was overcome by shame. Of course, there is only one God, and that’s the one in the Holy Bible. Still, the question has nagged at me from time to time. If there are no other Gods except for mine, how can mine be the right one? And if there aren’t others, why does the Good Book bother to mention them?

  “Miss Yoder, how dare you commit sacrilege in a public school?”

  “I didn’t mean to be sacrilegious,” I wailed. “It’s just that inquiring minds wanted to know.”

  “This is a Christian country, Miss Yoder. Comments like yours erode the spiritual fabric of this great land.”

  “But it wasn’t always a Christian country. Freedom of religion was very important to the Founding Fathers, some of whom were Unitarian.”

  “Yes, they were,” Alison said. “I learned about that for a book report.”

  Mrs, Proschel was livid. “You, Miss Miller, are truant.”

  “No, I ain’t. I’m here.”

  “You may as well be; it’s the end of fourth period. In fact, I’m going to mark you absent for the entire day.”

  Alison beamed. “So I get to go home?”

  “You most certainly do not,” I said. “Now run along, dear, and let me have a word with Mrs. Proschel.”

  Alison was more than happy to obey. Before the cantankerous new secretary could open her mouth, my pseudo-daughter had fled the office and disappeared among a throng of students who were just now changing classes. Alas, my reactions were not so swift.

  “Miss Yoder!” the woman barked. “I am not through with you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “No doubt you think you’re clever, cracking jokes all the time like you do. But you’re not. It is high time that people like you face the truth: we are living in a new era. We have a mandate from the people to restore Christian principles across America and especially in the schools. That’s how we build good citizens, Miss Yoder—with pliant minds that can be trained to walk the straight and narrow path. Put God back into school where He belongs, and this country finally has a chance again.”

  I patted my prayer cap in case Mrs. Proschel hadn’t noticed that I’m a seasoned hiker on that straight and narrow path. “What about children who are Jewish or Muslim or even Buddhist? Where do they fit in the new era?”

  “I am pleased to say, Miss Yoder, that the Hernia school system is one hundred percent Christian—if one includes those three Catholic girls that moved into that new house on the end of Hesper Street.”

  “We have a Muslim family living here now. I’m sure they’ll have children some day.”

  My antagonist pursed her lips, as if consuming a particularly sour grapefruit. “Those people have no business being here. Our forefathers certainly never had them in mind. This country has enough trouble with the blacks without adding those swarthy Middle Easterners to the mix.”

  “Swarthy? Not that it makes a difference, but the Rashids have skin as light as yours.”

  Her dark eyes flashed. “My mother was Italian—from Sicily. That’s different”

  “Oh. Do you enjoy your job, Mrs. Proschel?”

  “Certainly. Mr. Middledorf says I’ve taken to this job like a duck to water.”

  “Excellent Then you shouldn’t have any trouble finding another position.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You have two weeks’ notice, Mrs. Proschel—starting today.”

  “Miss Yoder, what on earth are you talking about?”

  “Your new job. You see, dear, I just fired you from this one.”

  Her mouth opened and closed like that of a baby bird demanding food. When no victuals were forthcoming, she began speaking.

  “Y-y-you can’t do that!”

  “Of course I can. I just did, didn’t I?”

  “I don’t work for you, Miss Yoder, I work for Principal Middledorf.”

  “Did. One phone call from me, and Herman will give you the ax himself. Do you prefer that?”

  “You’re not even on the Board of Education, Miss Yoder—are you?”

  “No, but I am by far the wealthiest—some would say the most powerful—woman in town. It comes with certain privileges.”

  The dirty truth is that I once caught Herman Middledorf viewing a pornographic Web site on the computer in his office. Even though I promised never to divulge this secret— with the agreement that he straighten up his act—the man has a backbone slightly firmer than Jell-O and I felt certain he would be putty in my hands if I even hinted to go public with this juicy tidbit. The plain truth, however, is that I firmly believed that four out of five board members would be horrified to learn there was a bigot of Mrs. Proschel’s ilk working for the school system. To be honest, the fifth member—and Gloria Reiger’s identity is none of your business—was a bit iffy. Her uncle Mordecai was mugged by a gang of thugs while on a world tour. The assault happened in Oslo, and ever since the woman has harbored an unnatural hatred of Norwegians.

  The light slowly dawned in Mrs. Proschel’s brown eyes. “This is a perfect example of how far this country has fallen,” she said vehemently. “There was a time when being white and Christian meant something.”

  “Shut up, dear,” I said kindly, and took my leave.

  “Someone’s going to pay for this,” she shouted at my retreating back. “You’re not getting away with this, you know.”

  “Ooh, man, she sounds really ticked,” I heard a student say.

  I’m pretty sure it was Alison.

  I was ticked as well. It is a fact that anger begets anger. What follows therefore is an explanation—not an excuse—for what happened next.

  No
sooner did I pull out onto the highway and get up to speed then I encountered the world’s slowest driver. Theopolda Livingood is so old she played with God as a child—His childhood, not hers. She is also so short she must sit on a stack of Pittsburgh phone books just to see over the dashboard of her car. Occasionally those tricky books slip out from beneath her, forcing Theopolda to steer by leaping up every now and then in order to see the road. Eventually the old dear grows weary from leaping and resorts to steering from memory. I kid you not.

  Newcomers to Hernia have been known to call the police in alarm, claiming that there is either a runaway car or a very small child on the loose. A few less inhibited souls claim to have seen a ghost. Several drunks have been cured of booze by encountering Theopolda’s seemingly empty car tooling about town.

  Since Theopolda must expend all her energy just to peer through the windshield, checking her rearview mirror is simply not an option. As a consequence, the centenarian is oblivious to the traffic behind her. She takes the entire road as her due and wanders back and forth across the lanes in bewildered abandonment. Every now and then she toots the horn for the sheer joy of it. Sometimes by mistake she slams on the emergency brake, which, come to think of it, would explain the slipping phone books.

  At any rate, it is impossible to drive around Theopolda. As a result, the woman is Hernia’s ongoing lesson in patience, a lesson most of us habitually fail. Even the Amish (women included) have been known to pull out their whiskers when trapped behind the happy wanderer.

  Having no fuzz in need of extraction, I turned off onto the nearest side road, even though it wasn’t the direct way to my destination: home. Thus, it was without any planning—and certainly no malice aforethought—that I found myself passing by Zelda Root’s house. Except for strained greetings upon chance encounters, my “new” sister and I had not spoken since the great revelation.

  While I prefer to fret and stew about upcoming unpleasant situations, there is something to be said for impromptu problem solving: mainly that one doesn’t have the time to get nervous. Not that I’m afraid of Zelda, mind you, but the acquisition of a sibling in middle age is, well, unnerving. The second I saw her house I made the decision to stop and to approach the visit as a dispassionate, but not uncaring, observer.