by Tamar Myers
“What about Alison?” I said.
“Susannah made arrangements for Alison to spend the night at her friend Kumquat’s house. By the way, hon, what kind of parents would name their daughter Kumquat?”
“They’re actually very nice people, dear. The Kuhnbergers didn’t have Kumquat until rather late in life. She’s the apple of her father’s eye. Anyway, what about my guests? I need to be here for them. Even a quiet bunch like this can get rowdy if there’s no one here to ride herd.”
“Been there, done that, ride ’em cowboy.”
“Excuse me?”
“Freni served while I babysat. To tell the truth, they really weren’t all that bad. Miss McGee from Charleston took her teeth out at the table, which absolutely horrified Mr. Guggenheim from Minneapolis, who said he’d always heard that Charlestonians were so well mannered, to which Miss McGee replied that she was from Charleston, West Virginia, not South Carolina, and that in West Virginia it was considered good manners to take your teeth out before cleaning them at the table.” Gabe laughed heartily.
“That Miss McGee is quite a cutup, isn’t she?”
“So you’ll join me for dinner?”
He didn’t have to twist my bony arm. “Give me twenty minutes?”
“Take thirty.” He leaned over and kissed me lightly on the forehead before striding manfully from the room.
Overcome with joy, the second the latch clicked, shut I did sheet angels in bed. (For those of you who’ve lived sheltered lives, sheet angels are similar to snow angels, but without the snow, of course.) Then without a second to spare I leaped out of bed, forewent Big Bertha, my sinful Jacuzzi tub, and raced through the shower. Then came the difficult part—dressing.
A casual observer might conclude that all my clothes are the same. However, nothing could be farther from the truth. I own blue broadcloth dresses, blue wool dresses, blue wool blend dresses, blue polyester blend dresses, blue rayon dresses, blue nylon blend dresses, and for those rare times when I’m feeling a bit racy, blue mercerized cotton dresses with white rickrack along the edges.
Wearing silk, by the way, is like playing with fire, and therefore the fabric should not be found in a good Christian’s closet. This is only my personal opinion, mind you. But consider the fact that Hollywood stars wear silk, and it is common knowledge that many of them have the morals of a tomcat on Viagra. Better to wear nylon and sweat like a Swede in a sauna than be seduced by silk. And as if avoiding temptation were not reason enough for not wearing silk, then consider that fabric’s origins. What woman in her right mind would wear a dress made from caterpillar secretions?
At any rate, that evening I selected a fairly new, store-bought frock constructed of the finest mercerized cotton. My prayer cap was, of course, white; my hose tan; and my second pair of brogans (my best were still lost somewhere in the penthouse carpet) black. Although it is no one’s business, my sturdy Christian underwear were white and, although not new, expertly mended.
Feeling rather alluring, I went so far as to pat some unscented, colorless face powder on my nose. With a proboscis as prominent as mine, failure to do so can result in temporarily blinding those around me. I had a hunch that after dinner Gabe would attempt to position his own proboscis close to mine—perhaps even to engage in a little liplock—in which case it wouldn’t do to have the landing strip obscured.
With less than a minute to spare I breezed out the front door in high spirits. “Valeriee, valerah,” I sang in my not too unpleasant, albeit quavering, voice. It promised to be a memorable evening.
Dr. Gabriel Jerome Rosen opened the door before I had a chance to knock. This was just as well. Over the years my knuckles have permanently disfigured the doorjamb.
“Hi, hon.” He leaned forward and gave me a peck on the cheek.
I savored his warm masculine smell, mingled as it was with something that said loving from the oven. The Babester, when he wants to be, is a dynamite cook.
“Well?” I said.
“Well what?”
“Well, what do you think of this dress? It’s practically new.”
“Your mercerized cotton is mesmerizing.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said, and sailed past him into the living room.
It was a living room I’d seen a million times. The Millers, the former owners, had lived across from us Yoders for several generations. The last Miller to reside there was Aaron, my pseudo-husband, now happily my ex. Aaron’s parents had been consummate pack rats, with no sense of style. After their death Aaron hired a one-eyed interior decorator from Pittsburgh to turn the chaos into a manly bachelor pad. The transformation was so remarkable that locals were actually willing to pay to see it. It is a little known fact that this was the original Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. Gabe has made only a few subtle changes, honing the Pittsburgh decorator’s taste with a Manhattan sensibility.
My betrothed led me directly to the dining room, where the table had been attractively set for three. “Here, darling,” he said. “I want you to sit at the head of the table.”
“And the righteous get to sit at either side?”
“What?”
“Never mind. Why three place settings? Is the third for the Prophet Isaiah?”
“That’s Elijah, hon, not Isaiah. And it’s for Ma.”
My blood ran so cold it even froze in a few extremities.
30
Concord Bavarian
2 envelopes unflavored gelatin
1 tablespoon lemon juice
l½ cups heavy cream, whipped
1 cup Concord grape drink
l½ cups milk
1 cup Concord grape preserves
1 cup sugar
Dash salt
Sprinkle gelatin over Concord grape drink to soften. Meanwhile, scald milk. Stir in sugar and salt. Add gelatin mixture and stir until dissolved. Blend in lemon juice. Chill until slightly thickened. Fold in whipped cream. Four into 4-cup mold. Chill until firm. To serve, unmold gelatin onto serving plate. Spoon Concord grape preserves over mold.
MAKES 6 SERVINGS
31
Surely he didn’t, did he? No, even Gabe couldn’t be that dense. The Bible says the truth will set us free. Why then does it seem like all the truth does is make for upset stomachs? I would do my best to postpone the inevitable.
“ ‘Ma’ as in ‘Ma, what a lovely table’?” I said in my best fake Southern accent.
“My mother, hon. She has to eat too, doesn’t she?”
I didn’t dare tell him that was debatable; I was pretty sure demons didn’t have appetites. “I thought this was for us—to talk over things.”
“It is. But Ma has a few things she wants to say as well.”
“Gabe, this is not going—”
The door from the kitchen flew open, and Ida Rosen stood there in all her four feet, eleven-inch splendor. Perhaps she didn’t see me, given as how my head tends to perch above the clouds. If she did, it did nothing to ameliorate her behavior.
“Oy, does this shiksa give me a headache, or vaht?”
“Ma!”
“Alvays late, this one. Is it too much to ask that she should call? My knishes are burned and the brisket is like shoe leather. Gabeleh, vaht do you see in this voman?”
“Ma, she’s standing right here!”
“Vhere?”
“Up here in the clouds,” I said.
Ida scanned the room, one hand over her eyes, until she focused on my knees. Then she followed my slim proportions skyward, like Jack climbing the beanstalk. Finally ,Ida clutched dramatically at a chest ample enough for a dozen Yoder women.
“You shouldn’t sneak up on an old lady.”
“Sorry, dear. I’ll bring the marching band next time.”
“So vaht’s mit der sarcasm?”
“It just comes naturally.”
“Again mit der sarcasm. Gabeleh, a thousand good Jewish girls in New York I could have arranged for you, and not one of them has a tongue like this.�
��
“I’m actually quite fond of her tongue,” my beloved said, much to my amazement.
Mrs. Rosen mumbled something in Yiddish, which, by the way, shares some words with Pennsylvania Dutch, given that both languages have German roots. Alas, thinking my parents’ ways were quaint, I’d ix-nayed on utch-Day while growing up. Of course, I picked up a few words anyway; nothing really useful, At times like this being essentially monolingual was both a curse and a blessing.
“Gabriel! Do you vant that I should have another heart attack?”
“You never had a first one, Ma. That was indigestion.”
Ida turned to me. “My son the heart doctor, and vaht does he know about hearts? Nothing about a mother’s heart.” Her eyes gleamed as she thought of a new way to torture me. “So, Miss Yoder, vhy is it you have no children of your own?”
“I’m not married.”
“Vaht you vere, yah?”
“It lasted only a month.” In case she didn’t yet know—which was highly doubtful—there was no point in telling her the marriage was bogus.
“Ma!”
“Nu? So I don’t have a right to know these things? Look at those hips—a bar mitzvah boy has vider hips than that. Gabeleh, maybe she isn’t fertile. Vhat then vill I do about grandchildren?”
“I’m forty-eight,” I wailed. “That manure wagon pulled out of my station a long time ago. If Gabe wants children, he’ll have to get a pet—just not a cat. Alison is allergic to cats. That's why I got rid of Little Freni. Speaking of hearts, that just about tore mine in two. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t miss playing with my pussy.”
The glitter in Ida’s eyes only intensified. “Manure vagon? Vaht does this mean? So she’s meshuga too?”
“Let’s eat,” Gabe pleaded.
“Yah, so now vee eat. Never mind that everything is ruined because she talks too much.” The miserable munchkin trudged back into the kitchen to fetch our dinner. I’ll have it be known that I tried to help, but she adamantly rebuffed me.
I watched in awe as Mrs. Rosen brought twelve steaming platters and bowls to the table, none of which appeared burned or as tough as shoe leather. The Good Lord knows I didn’t dare refuse to sample any of the dishes, but by the time we were through passing things around, my plate was piled three layers high.
“Dig in!” Gabe said, and did so himself without waiting for grace.
I said a silent prayer of thanksgiving, to which I attached a silent plea for strength. But no sooner did I bring the first forkful to my mouth than Ida shot me a look that could bring a Texas Ranger to his knees.
“Vhat? You don’t like my tsimmes?”
“You’re whatsis?”
“Candied carrots,” Gabe said, his mouth full. “Jewish style.”
“I’m sure they’re very good, Mrs. Rosen, but I thought I’d start with this.” The this in question appeared to be stuffed cabbage, but I wasn’t about to make assumptions.
Ida clucked, sounding for all the world like my favorite hen, Pertelote. “You’re starting with that?"
I dumped what was on my fork and stabbed a carrot.
“Oy,” Ida said, “so now she doesn’t like my stuffed cabbage.”
“Ma!”
Clearly I was in a lose-lose situation. While I may be ' shaped like a post, I like to think I’m not quite as dumb as one. Only a certified idiot would hang around for further abuse.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I said, and stood.
“Vhat?” Ida turned to her son. “Gabeleh, she should have done that before we sat down.”
“Ma, please—”
“No, Gabeleh, your ma is right I should have taken care of business before I sat down. So now I’ll do it standing. You, Mrs. Rosen, are the third rudest woman I’ve ever met. And you, Gabriel Jerome Rosen, are the second biggest mama’s baby I’ve ever met. I’d rather have a root canal— without laughing gas—than eat supper with you two tonight.”
Ida gasped. “Vhy only the third rudest? You see, Gabeleh, how she treats me?”
“Ma, stop it!”
Ida gasped louder. “My heart.”
“Your heart is fine, Ma. But mine won’t be if Magdalena leaves now.”
I laid my napkin on the table with considerably less flare than I’d planned. “That’s all right, Gabe. Give her what she needs—attention. I’m out of here.”
“You’re not leaving, hon. Not until I’ve said what I’d planned all along to say tonight.”
“And what would that be? That after we’re married your ma and I will share the same kitchen and live happily ever after?”
“Don’t be silly,” Ida said. “You don’t even cook.”
“Shut up, Ma—please.” Beads of perspiration dotted my fiance’s forehead. He closed his eyes before continuing. “Magdalena, I’ve decided I’m going to convert to Christianity.”
“Oy veys meer! My heart! This time it really is my heart.”
I was dumbfounded by Gabe’s offer. “We need to talk outside,” I said when I could speak again.
“Vhat? And leave me to die here alone?”
“You won’t be alone, Mrs. Rosen. You’ve got all this food to keep you company.”
Gabe looked at me and then his mother, and when he turned back to me he grabbed my hands. “Yes, outside.” Ida tried to follow us, but after pushing me gently onto the porch, Gabe shut the door on his mother and held it closed with both hands. “Hon, I meant what I said inside.”
“Does this mean you believe that Jesus is the Messiah? The only begotten Son of God the Father? Your personal Lord and Savior?”
“Do I have to?”
“To be a Christian you do.”
“You sure?”
“Positive. Being a Christian is all about faith.”
“Hon, you know I love you. But I can’t force myself to believe something. I don’t know that anyone can.”
Of course, he was right. If a man pointed a gun at me and told me that he would shoot me unless I believed that Jesus was not the Messiah, I’d be out of luck—unless I lied. The fact that Gabe offered to pretend to believe for my sake, knowing how much it would upset Ida, was a testament to his love for me.
But what about the apron strings of steel? I’d need a wire cutter to sever those. And please allow me to make one thing perfectly dean I didn’t for a minute think that Ida’s possessive nature had anything to do with her fitting the stereotype of the Jewish mother. I plain, flat-out don’t believe in stereotypes, because my mother, Mennonite to the core—Well, never you mind about my mother. Any unflattering talk about her is likely to result in Hernia being visited by an earthquake, pestilence, or a swarm of penny-pinching tourists. “Gabe,” I said, “I understand your point—”
“And, hon, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. Just because Ma’s like that—”
“Don’t worry your hoary little head. Our mothers are sisters under the skin—except that my mother is dead, and yours isn’t. That, and the fact that if my mother were alive she’d stand ten inches taller than yours, and could out-guilt Ida with her tongue tied up with licorice sticks.”
“Then I’m glad you understand, hon.”
“I do. What I don’t understand is how you let her manipulate you like you da”
“But I’m her only son.”
“She has daughters.”
“Yes, but ever since Pa died—well, you know how it is.”
“I’m afraid I don’t. My parents died at the same time. Besides, call it conceit if you will, but I never could stand to let other people push me around, including Mama. Somehow I always thought that I mattered too much—to myself, if to no one else.”
“I know. That’s one of the things I love about you.” Gabe put his arms around me and held me close. I’m sure to some the gesture might have appeared obscene, like getting halfway to second base. The truth is we were keeping each other warm on a cold winter’s night.
I’m sure Gabe was about to enumerate more of my admirabl
e qualities had we not been interrupted by a pair of headlights bobbing hither and thither as a car advanced up the long gravel drive. The lane has some dips, but it’s fairly straight. Judging by the erratic driving, I decided the visitor was Doc Shafor.
Sure enough. The battered old Chevy jerked to a stop amid a spray of stones, and out popped a dapper-looking doc. Despite the frigid temperature he was minus a coat, but his weskit vest sported a pocket watch chain, and his remarkably small feet were encased in spats.
“Get a load of that,” Gabe said. “When is the last time you saw spats on anyone other than Scrooge McDuck?”
“Doc has a whole collection.” I gently extricated myself from Gabe’s warm arms. “Hi, Doc.”
“Don’t let me stop you kids.”
“We were only hugging.”
Doc slapped Gabe on the back. “You’re one lucky man, Doctor. I’ve been aching to put my arms around that lovely lady since she turned legal.”
Although I was quite used to Doc’s outrageous comments, nonetheless, I could feel myself blushing. Thank heavens the porch light was dim.
“Doc,” I said, “how would you like to put your arms around a lovely woman on an exotic tropical island?”
“Magdalena, I thought this moment would never come. Glory hallelujah, and pass the moonshine.”
“Not me, Doc! Ida Rosen.”
“Yeah. Well, I’m just an old man on a fixed income. I could take her about as far as the Maryland border— maybe a tad further if you chipped in for provisions.”
“The entire vacation would be my treat, Doc.”
“In that case, I’ve always had a hankering to visit the U.S. Virgin Islands.”
I may be a simple Mennonite woman, but I read voraciously. Besides which, I excelled at geography when I was a girl. The U.S. Virgin Islands were far too close for what I had in mind.
“I hear they’re overrun with tourists, dear. Where’s the romance in wall-to-wall people? No, I’m thinking of someplace truly exotic—like Bora-Bora.”
“As in the next island over from Tahiti?”
“That’s the one, I read someplace that there is a resort with glass-bottom huts built out over the water. One can lie in bed and look at brightly colored tropical fish.”
