Grape Expectations

by Tamar Myers

  “It’s nothing serious—just a little sisterly love. Pow! Right in the kisser.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “On more counts than one, dear. When I said I’d be happy to teach you to drive, I didn’t mean today.”

  “Yes, yes, I understand this.” Faya Rashid’s eyes were darting around my snug little lobby as if it were the most interesting thing this side of the Museum of Bunions and Corns over in Harrisburg.

  “The inn is an exact replica of the house my great-great-granddaddy Jacob ‘the strong’ Yoder built in the 1800s. The original blew down in a tornado a few years ago. Mercifully I was spared, although I did land face-down in a cow patty.” She nodded. “From McDonald’s, yes?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “With the sesame seed bun.”

  “Not exactly. A cow patty is—well, we don’t eat that part in America.” I glanced over her head but could see no car in the gravel drive except for mine. “How did you get here, Mrs. Rashid?”

  “I walk.”

  “Wow! That’s a good five miles.”

  “I did not walk all the way. I think maybe I am, but some nice Amish peoples, they give me a ride.” She pronounced Amish as if it were “Aye-mishwhich grates on my nerves so much I’m down to my last one.

  “Well, that is very nice. May I take your coat?”

  “Thank you.”

  It was a cloth coat, but I could tell by its heft that it had cost a pretty penny. I peeked at the label while hanging it and I was unable to recognize the brand name. That confirmed my suspicions.

  Faya Rashid was altogether well turned out in a forest green skirt suit with pumps dyed to match. I know very little about gems, but enough to guess that the green stone in the pendant hanging from her neck was an emerald. If indeed Mrs. Rashid was finding Hermans slow to warm up to her, she might want to start by changing her wardrobe.

  Any store that doesn’t have “Mart” in the name is considered upscale by us locals. Natural versus man-made fabrics, we care not—although we’re quick to seize an opportunity when we see one. When Clarence Girddlesmacker first saw polyester listed on a garment, he phoned the county agricultural agent to see where he could purchase polyester seed. The agent said he’d look around. “I got me a hundred acres I want to plant in polyester bushes,” Clarence said to me at a church supper, his face shining with hope. I told him that if he had the patience to grow rayon trees, I’d be happy to give him the seeds for free. But Clarence changed his mind about farming and set off to seek his fortune in Washington, DC. Last I heard he was one of the president’s advisers.

  At any rate, I invited my elegant visitor to sit in the parlor, on the only comfortable chair. She looked around appreciatively, her gaze settling on a photo of a forebear in a simple wooden frame.

  “Is that your father?” she asked. “His beard is very nice.”

  “It’s actually my grandmother. She believed that if the Good Lord put it there, then there is where it should stay. Would you care for some hot chocolate?”

  She smiled, revealing rows of pearly whites that would be the envy of any Hollywood starlet. “Yes. I like this American hot chocolate very much.”

  “Stay right there,” I yelled as I boogied out of the room and back into the kitchen.

  “Ach!”

  Silly me. I should have known Freni would be standing in the doorway, her ear pressed flat against the lower panel. Thank heavens she’s such a stocky woman. Anyone taller and lighter would have been thrown across the room. Freni, on the other hand, was like a stubborn doorjamb; I was just barely able to squeeze my way in.

  “Sorry,” I panted. “Now be a dear and make some hot chocolate for our guest. And serve one of your famous cinnamon rolls.”

  Freni rubbed the offended ear. “They are famous?”

  “They’re only the best in the world.”

  She beamed for second and then a cloud swept over her face. “What about her?”

  “Her who?”

  “That woman.” The lack of a neck makes it hard to point with one’s chin, but Freni did her best. “The Al Qaeda lady.”

  “What?”

  “You think because I do not watch television, that I am ignorant of such things. But I read the newspaper, Magdalena. I know what is what.”

  “Mrs. Rashid isn’t what, dear. She’s a housewife from Lebanon—the same country, by the way, that provided cedar wood for King Solomon’s temple.”

  “Like in the Bible?”

  “You got it. I know she’s Arab, not Jewish, but I bet she looks pretty much like Jesus’s mother did.”

  “Yah?”

  “So will you fix the cocoa?”

  “Yah, I fix.”

  “Thanks. Oh, and if you must eavesdrop, open the door wide enough so you can see me coming. Or tuck the corner of a dishtowel through the crack.”

  Freni’s face reddened. “I was not dropping the eaves, Magdalena. I was resting my head.”

  “Whatever.” I patted one of her stubby arms affectionately. “Just bring the stuff out when it’s ready.”

  She grunted her agreement and I sailed back to the salon. You can imagine my surprise when upon reentering this somewhat Spartan space, I found it devoid of Middle Eastern women.

  “Uh-oh.” I dashed to the front door and peered through the peephole. There was no one on the porch or on the walk.

  I returned to the parlor. What in a deviled egg was going on? Was I hallucinating? Was it time for me to hang up my brogans with gum on their soles?

  As I stood there, flummoxed and contemplating the next stage of my life, the door that led from my private quarters opened, and out slipped Faya Rashid. She had her back to me as she closed the door carefully, lest it make a sound. When she saw me, she nearly jumped out of her designer pumps.

  “Miss Yoder!”

  “Mrs. Rashid. What on earth were you doing in my private quarters?”

  “I—I—I had need to use the toilet.”

  “And did you?”

  She nodded.

  “You certainly were quick about it.” Just how she had managed to reach the far end of my inner sanctum, line the toilet seat thoroughly with paper, do her business, wash her hands with soap and warm water for a minimum of thirty seconds, dry them properly, and return just after I did— well, all that was incomprehensible. A more brazen Magdalena would have demanded to inspect her hands, and pressed a tissue against the palms to absorb any remaining moisture. Alas, I am a timorous soul, which is probably why I will never amount to anything more than being a pseudosleuth.

  “Miss Yoder, I hope I do not offend.”

  “Offend?”

  “Perhaps it was not correct for me to use the toilet without permission.”

  “Don’t be silly, dear. Did you leave a tip in the bowl?”

  That gave her a start. “Tip?”

  “Someone has to clean the bathroom, dear. That someone is me. I expect others to leave two dollars in the cut glass bowl on that little corner shelf above the sink.”

  She fumbled with the latch on her Gucci bag. Okay, maybe it wasn’t Gucci, maybe it was Gnocchi. But I’m pretty sure it was Italian, and I’m ding-dong sure it was expensive.

  “That’s all right,” I said, waving her back to her chair. “The first time is on the house. My cook will be bringing us the hot chocolate as soon as it’s ready. In the meantime we can chat. Tell me again why it is you came all the way out here.”

  “There is something I did not say to you before when we talked.”

  “So spill it, dear. That means go ahead with your explanation.”

  “I came to bestow on you my gravest thanks.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “My heartiest thanks, yes? The most sincere—from my soul.”

  “I’m sure you’re very welcome, dear. But you thanked me back at your house.”

  “Yes, but then my husband called me to say that it was his wish that I should have the driving lessons. This I cannot believe at
first, but he says, ‘Yes, it is true.’ He tells me that you go to the laundry mat and speak with him. He says that he has great respect for you, and this he wants for me as well. To be like you, yes?”

  I patted my bun. How nice it is to be appreciated. Of course it wasn’t the first time someone paid me a compliment. There was, for instance, that softball game in the 1970s when I caught a fly with my knees and advanced my team to the finals. Then in the late eighties I dug a woman’s car out of a snowdrift (so I could have her parking space), and she said I was her guardian angel. The nineties were perhaps a bit slim..

  “Magdalena!”

  I focused enough to see Freni standing in the doorway with a tray in her hands. Despite the distortion of her bottle thick glasses, I could tell that she was rolling her eyes wildly, fussing up a nonverbal storm.

  “Freni, this is Faya Rashid. Faya, this is Mrs. Hostetler.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Faya Rashid said. She extended her right hand but withdrew it quickly when she realized Freni was unable to reciprocate.

  “Hello,” Freni stud, and then thrust the tray at me.

  I set the ebony tray with ivory accents on my sturdy, no- nonsense coffee table. The tray was a wedding gift to my parents from missionary friends of theirs. These friends had spent many years in what was then the Belgian Conga I remember, as a little girl, listening to some of their tales: horrible, scary, and improbable stories of headhunters, and goat-swallowing pythons, and village chiefs whose wives were buried alive. I am pleased to say that all of this nonsense has been proven untrue by modern revisionist sociologists.

  “Freni, dear, would you like to stay and have a cup as well?"

  “Ach!”

  “I’m afraid Mrs. Hostetler is a little shy,” I said pleasantly to my guest.

  “Ach!”

  “It’s a shame too, because she has the cutest stories to tell about her grandchildren. They’re triplets, you know.”

  To her credit, Faya Rashid was nodding and smiling to beat the band. “Triplets—this means three, yes?”

  “Three little angels,” I said.

  Freni beamed, her inner glow diffused as it was by a dusting of cake flour, giving her an ethereal look of her own. “Yah, they are very precious. Yesterday they help make the shnitz pies. ‘Grossmutter’, they say—that means grandmother in the dialect, yah? Grossmutter, why must we peel first the apples?’ So I say—”

  The story was not only interminable but didn’t seem to have a point. In many respects it reminded me of the dearly departed Reverend Schrock’s sermons. Nevertheless, Faya Rashid nodded and giggled and oohed and aahed and went so far as to clap her dainty hands in apparent delight. Of course, Freni drank in the attention as if it were mother’s milk. At one point, my genetically impaired cousin put her stubby arm around Faya’s slim shoulders. Frankly, that sickened me.

  What kind of cousin, not to mention friend, is incapable of expressing herself physically to her own family but is a virtual slut with strangers? Well, I guess that answers my question. There certainly was no point in me hanging around. While I won’t admit to pouting, I will confess to staying clear of Freni as much as possible the rest of the day.

  22

  I awoke the next morning refreshed and eager to grill the biggest weenie of them all. The fact that Ed Gingerich was old and a gentleman didn’t mean he was innocent. Plenty of nice old men are killers. Okay, maybe they’re not so nice, but you get my point.

  After staying with me a few days, a very distraught Ed moved in with the Zooks, then the Mullets, then the Speichers, and last I heard the Litwillers. Belinda Litwiller is the world’s worst living cook (a dubious honor previously held by Lizzie Mast), so it was quite possible Ed had already moved on, ahead of the gossip chain. Needless to say, I was pleased to find him still ensconced at the Litwillers, bundled up in a quilt and sitting in a rocker in front of a roaring fire.

  “He doesn’t say much,” Belinda said, leading me to her guest. Thank heavens she hadn’t noticed my fading bruise. “His lawyer calls every now and then—his stockbroker too. He talks then, but that’s about it. Doesn’t eat much either. Say, would you like something to eat? There’s loads of stuff left over from lunch.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “You sure? John always used to say there’s nothing quite like my cream of pigs’ feet.”

  “I’m sure he did, dear.”

  “I used to serve it directly over toast, but now John wants it on the side. Except that he barely touches it that way. Says he’s on a diet I tell you, Magdalena, dieting is an unnatural activity, The Good Lord is going to punish us someday if we don’t stop turning up our noses at food. Maybe send us a phantom.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A phantom—you know, when people starve.”

  “I thought that’s what you said. Well, not to worry; I don’t think there’s a ghost of a chance that would happen. Oh, hi, Ed!”

  Ed Gingerich was smiling, clearly happy to see me. This doesn’t happen as often as one might think'.

  “Hi, Magdalena. What brings you out in the cold?”

  “Just popped in to see how you’re getting along. Is Belinda feeding you enough?”

  “More than I care to eat.”

  “Are you sure I can’t get you something, Magdalena?” Belinda couldn’t be a more considerate hostess.

  “Quite sure.”

  “I’ve got a nice pot of hog wart tea brewing.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Mama taught me how to make it. First you find a hog with lots of warts—”

  “Truly, I’m fine. Belinda, I really need to talk to Ed alone.”

  “Say no more,” she said, and like a considerate hostess, she made herself like hens’ teeth—that is to say, scarce. “Are you really all right, Ed?”

  “I’m fine. Well, to be truthful, I could eat a horse. Just not if she cooked it. Say, is there any chance I could come back and stay with you again? Freni’s biscuits are so light, you have to hold them down in order to butter them.”

  I settled into a nearby armchair. “Well, Ed, I’m actually glad you brought that up. I’ve been meaning to ask you a question, and now is the perfect time.”

  “Shoot.” His eyes glittered behind the wireless lenses. “You now have thirteen million dollars, Ed. Why aren’t you staying in a hotel over in Bedford? In fact, why haven’t you bought a hotel in Bedford?”

  Ed took so long to answer I felt the need to run over and dust him. I resisted the Amish-Mennonite curse (if you see it, clean it) and amused myself by staring at the clutter on the mantel behind him. There was the usual assortment of framed photographs, but I found these particularly endearing. The Litwiller kids had all been through my Sunday school class and were as sweet as angels on sugar drips, but—and I say this with a charitable Christian heart—they defined the word “homely.” And because I possess this charitable Christian heart, I won’t go into any details. Suffice it to say the sons looked like long-necked rabbits that had recently undergone electroshock therapy, and the daughters, lacking necks, wore their heart-shaped pendants around their chins. Frankly, I was proud of the Litwillers for being proud of their children.

  It was the knickknacks surrounding the family photos I found the most interesting. They included a ceramic castle of the kind normally found in fish tanks; a hornet’s nest, still attached to a dead branch and propped against the wall; a bowling trophy inscribed to John Litwiller, Belinda’s husband; a snowshoe with silk daisies woven through its mesh, also propped against the wall; and a plastic bust of ancient Egypt’s renowned beauty, Queen Nefertiti. To my knowledge the Litwillers had never been abroad, much less to the Middle East.

  “Sammy Litwiller won that bust at the country fair,” Ed said, reading my mind. I had to give the man credit for being able to read small print from a distance. “He gave it to Belinda for her fortieth birthday, the only bright spot of her day. John and Belinda picked up the snowshoe on their honeymoon. They found it in an an
tique store on their way to a picnic. At the time Belinda wove real daisies through the mesh. The silk ones you see now bring back memories. Like the hornet’s nest does for their oldest son, Kyle. He was stung thirty-two times while—”

  “I’m still waiting for an answer, Ed. Why are you mooching off of the generous folks in Hernia, when you should be living high on the hog with your mucho moola?”

  “You sure do know how to turn a phrase, Magdalena.”

  “Compliment accepted. Now stop wasting my time.”

  “But you see, this is the reason. Discourse. My Fiona died forty years ago. I can’t remember the last time I had a casual, extended conversation. But living with these families—it’s been Heaven on earth for me. Even talking to you is balm for my soul.”

  Perhaps that’s what my sister means whenever she tells me “you da balm.”

  “I hope you’re reimbursing these kind folks.”

  “Oh, I am. They’re being well taken care of.”

  “Like you took care of me?” Ed hadn’t even given me a wooden nickel.

  “Don’t you ever shake out your throw rugs, Magdalena?”

  “Of course I do—occasionally.”

  “I left you a check under the large braided rag rug in your parlor.”

  “You did?”

  “A considerable amount, I’d say.”

  “How considerable?” It is hard to disguise greed. After all, it is the strongest emotion in the world, propelling, as it does, most wars.

  “Magdalena, haven’t you heard? A gentleman never tells.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. “And a Mennonite farmer doesn’t use innuendo, for crying out loud. That’s a Presbyterian trait!”

  Ed smiled. “I’m—I mean, I was a farmer, not an artifact. I think you’ll find the sum I left you quite sufficient.”

  I stood. “In that case, thank you. It was a pleasure having you.”

  “You mean that?”

  “Of course. For a man, you kept your room fairly tidy, and most important you chew with your mouth shut—sadly, a virtue not practiced by many these days.”

  Ed threw off his quilt and stood as well He was dressed in an expensive ensemble of matching shoes, shirt, and pants. My knowledge of clothing labels does not extend beyond Haynes Her Way which, in the brief form, just barely qualifies as sturdy Christian underwear. I was never much interested in sewing, although I wield a pretty mean darning needle, therefore my modest Christian outerwear are all made by a local Amish woman. Now, where was I? Oh yes, I may not be skilled at brand name recognition, but I know quality when I see it Ed Gingerich’s outfit cost a pretty penny.