by Tamar Myers
MAKES ABOUT 32 CREPES.
6
“Go away,” I whispered.
“What?”
“Not now, sis,” I hissed. I made shooing motions that I hoped were discreet.
Perhaps Little Freni’s loud mewing was making it hard for her to hear. Susannah paid no attention to the Hansons and prattled on.
“Mags, I’m so excited! My sweetykins is going to run a political ad and he wants me to be in it. I know it’s for Melvin’s campaign and everything, but there’s always a chance someone from Hollywood will see it and want me to star in a movie. So I was talking to Sherri Hall, who’s been on TV and in a movie—if you count that video she made for her dentist on how to brush your teeth—and she said you’re supposed to wear bright colors. Do you think this is bright enough?”
“You look like a boil in need of lancing,” I said charitably. I was still whispering, of course.
My baby sister squealed with glee. “Oh, Mags, I knew you’d say that, which means this outfit is perfect! Now about my makeup—”
“Susannah, if you go away right now, I’ll donate one hundred dollars to Melvin’s campaign.”
“Hey thanks, Mags! But do you think this eye shadow—”
“Two hundred bucks if you leave without another word.”
Susannah may be eccentric, but she’s not stupid. She clamped one hand over her mouth, but then in a move that defied centuries of inbred reserve, gave me a one-armed hug. I was so touched by this gesture that I overcame my own inbreeding, and hugged her back.
While this sisterly scene might sound touching to some, it was not amusing to Little Freni, who stopped meowing and began hissing like cold water dribbled on a hot stove. Of course, this excited Shnookums, the dinky dog Susannah carries around in her bra. I’m quite sure the miniature mangy mutt would have yipped and yapped himself into a frothing frenzy, had he not accidentally piddled.
Susannah shrieked, turned white as a crock of farmer’s cheese, and fled the inn. To her credit, however, she said nothing.
I smiled warmly at the Delaware docs. “I’ve never seen that woman before in my life.”
Dr. George Hanson’s eyes narrowed. “Thank you, Miss Yoder, but we’ll be finding accommodations elsewhere.”
I pulled Little Freni from the nether reaches of my lingerie and placed her on the counter. “You see, there really was a kitten in there. And she was hungry, that’s all.” I reached under the counter and withdrew her saucer and a box of semisoft kitty chow. I poured a serving of chow on the plate, and Little Freni immediately began to wolf it down.
Dr. Margaret Hanson put a restraining hand on her husband’s arm. “I think I’d like to stay, George.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, but I am. This really is a very charming inn, and I couldn’t help but notice as we drove in that there is a very large pond across the road.” She addressed me. “Are there fish in that pond?”
“More fish than in a Starkist factory.”
“Would my husband be permitted to fish there?”
“It’s actually a requirement.”
Dr. George Hanson frowned. “I didn’t bring my tackle. Besides, I don’t have a Pennsylvania fishing license.”
“No problem. I have oodles of bamboo poles, and you don’t need a license. That’s a private pond.”
“Hmm. I haven’t fished with a bamboo pole since I was a kid. What kind of fish are in that pond, and what would I use for bait?”
“There are bluegills and bass, and Little Freni here and I will dig all the worms you want. Won’t we, Little Freni?”
Little Freni burped.
Dr. Margaret smiled, but her husband appeared unconvinced.
“My cousin Hiram caught a six-pound bass,” I said quickly. That may have been a slight exaggeration, but isn’t that what fish stories are all about?
Dr. George Hanson glanced at the door, and then back at me. “Well—”
“And if you get tired of fishing, George, it would make a lovely spot for you to set up your easel and paint.”
Dr. George Hanson looked back at the door. Apparently what he saw outside was more tempting than I was off-putting. He excused himself to fetch the luggage while his wife completed registration. I was so relieved I decided not to even mention A.L.P.O.
“You made the right decision. You won’t regret it. You’ll love Hernia, and your stay at the PennDutch in particular.”
Dr. Margaret Hanson looked at me, her large brown eyes filled with compassion. “I’m sure we will.”
I felt the need to babble. “Lots of famous people have stayed here. Streisand, Spielberg, even the Clintons. I don’t usually let guests pick their rooms, but in your case I’m willing to make an exception. Of course, I’ll have to shuffle folks around a bit, but that’s really no problem. So which would you like, the bed Babs slept in, or the bed Bill claims he didn’t sleep in?”
She cleared her throat, softly, like the lady she was. “Miss Yoder, I would be happy to counsel you. We could begin tomorrow morning, say around ten?”
“Counsel me?” I said loud enough to make Little Freni stop eating. “You want to counsel me?”
She didn’t even blink. “Yes, I’m a psychiatrist. My husband is one as well, but he’s chosen to retire. So, is ten o’clock all right?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“We could make it in the afternoon if you prefer.”
“I mean about the counseling!”
“I’m quite serious. I think you could benefit from my services.”
“But I’m not the one who’s crazy,” I wailed.
“My usual fee is one hundred twenty-dollars an hour. However, given your—uh”—she glanced around my tidy, but simply furnished inn—“special circumstances, I’m willing to waive my fee.”
“You mean you’re willing to shrink me for free?”
The doctor laughed pleasantly. “I prefer to call it counseling, or therapy, but yes, I’m willing to do it for free.”
“Then ten it is,” I said, causing ten generations of ancestors to turn over simultaneously in their graves.
Big Freni—Freni Hostetler—was rolling pie crusts when I caught up with her in the kitchen. The woman has rolled enough dough to pave a road from here to California, yet she still manages to cover herself from head to toe with flour. Stout as she is, that Sunday afternoon she resembled a polar bear cub.
“Freni!” I exclaimed. “It’s the Sabbath! You shouldn’t be making pies.”
My kinswoman wiped the flour from her glasses with a flour-covered sleeve. “Ach! The Good Lord Himself picked corn on the Sabbath. Is baking pies so different?”
“It was His disciples who picked the corn, dear. And they were hungry. You know we serve sandwiches to our guests on Sunday evenings, and all you need to do is set things up. Why aren’t you at home with your family?”
“Family shmamily. This morning I told Barbara to bundle up the little ones for the buggy ride to church. Can you guess what she said, Magdalena?”
I shrugged.
“That’s exactly what Barbara said! Nothing!” She wiped her glasses again, leaving a fringe of discarded dough hanging from her right earpiece.
“But it is June, dear,” I said gently. “The low temperature this morning was near seventy. Your grandbabies wouldn’t have gotten cold.”
“Yah, but in my day we dressed the little ones properly, and we did not have all the sickness like we do today.”
There was no point in arguing with a woman who firmly believes that the common cold is caused by air temperature, and not a slew of viruses. Still, Freni was obviously suffering emotionally, and there just might be something I could do to help.
“Freni, have you ever considered seeing a shrink?”
“Ach!”
“There’s nothing in the Bible against it, you know. And we just happen to have one staying at the inn. Tomorrow morning I’m getting shrunk myself.”
Freni looked me up
and down, the strip of pie dough flapping with the movement. “Yah, you can afford this shrinking. Barbara too.” Then she had a thought, and suddenly I could see her beady eyes burning brightly behind the dirty lenses. “How much can my Barbara shrink?”
“Not that kind of shrinking, dear! I mean a psychiatrist.”
“Ach, Magdalena, how you talk. Your mama would be ashamed if she could hear you. There are no psychiatrists mentioned in the Bible.”
“It doesn’t mention glasses either, but you’re wearing them.”
Freni is adept at changing the subject to avoid losing an argument. “So how many carnivals do I cook for?”
“That’s carnivores, dear, and that’s what I came to tell you. There are two of those, one vegetarian, and the rest said they’ll eat anything. Oh, except that Miss Townsend says she hates lima beans. Now there is a gal who could use some shrinking.”
Freni nodded. “Yah, I saw her in the parlor earlier. She is even taller than my Barbara.” Freni clucked like a hen who had just laid an egg. “A sin if you ask me.”
“What?”
“That’s in the Bible, Magdalena. David and Goliath.”
It was time to dodge like the master, above whose floury face I loomed. “Well, I’m off to visit Joseph Mast. Will you watch Little Freni while I’m gone?”
“Ach!” Freni appeared perturbed by my request, but I know she has a fondness for my bundle of fuzz. A namesake is a namesake after all, even if it’s not a proper grandchild.
I extracted the mite from her cozy quarters and set her gently on the floor. Freni, like many Amish women of her generation, does not wear brassieres, and even if she did, there would be no room for a hankie, much less a kitten.
“Any pies ready that I can take to him?”
“So soon?”
“Well, I suppose I could wait an hour or so. When will these pies be done?”
“Not the pies, Magdalena. I mean it is so soon that you court this man, his wife dead now just a week.”
“What? I am not off to court, as you so quaintly put it, Joseph Mast. For your information, Melvin asked me to look into Lizzie’s death.”
Freni mumbled something unintelligible. I didn’t even know which language she used.
“Come again?”
Patches of Freni’s cheeks shone pink through the white mask. A godly woman, she tries not to pass judgment, but like me, she sometimes fails. This time, however, she was a saint.
“That’s okay,” I coaxed. “You and I are family.”
“I said, there is nothing suspicious about that woman’s death. It was her cooking. If you ask me, Lizzie Mast committed suicide. Accidental suicide.”
I tried not to laugh. “Bad-tasting food isn’t necessarily lethal.” And then because Freni is both family and friend, I let the cat out of the bag. “It was drugs, dear. Illegal drugs.”
I’m sure Freni blinked behind her coated lenses. Her mouth opened and closed wordlessly.
“Something they call Angel Dust,” I said. “It’s a very powerful drug I’ve read about in the newspapers.”
“Ach, but that is impossible. Lizzie Mast was the salt of the earth.”
“Who often used too much salt,” I said and clamped a hand over my irreverent mouth.
“Yah, she was a terrible cook, but our Lizzie would never do such a thing!”
“You mean take drugs? Just a minute ago you said you thought she might have killed herself. That’s a lot worse than taking drugs.”
Freni removed her glasses and vigorously wiped them on her apron. Her action served only to rearrange the smudges.
“Yah, but I was only joking!”
“You were not.”
“Maybe half-joking.”
“I’ll grant you that. After all, Lizzie Mast didn’t have the easiest life.”
“Ach, no children and married to Joseph.”
“And you had the nerve to think I liked the man!”
Joseph Mast had a reputation for being strange. Strange and silent.
“Some women get desperate,” Freni said, and trained her beady little eyes on mine.
“I resent that remark. I am perfectly happy being a single woman.” I sighed. “Anyway, I better get this visit to Joseph over with. Not that talking to him will do any good. I’ll be lucky if he says two words.”
Freni popped her glasses back into place. “Three words. The man will only say three words at a time.”
“Whatever. Freni, dear, can you keep a secret?”
“Ach! That you should ask such a thing, hurts me here.” She pounded her ample bosom with a floury fist.
“I mean it, Freni. This has to stay between you and I.”
“Yah, yah,” she said irritably. I have never kept a secret from the woman, and no doubt she found my caution offensive.
“Well, I don’t have any proof, but I do have reason to believe that Lizzie’s death may not have been accidental. It may have been murder.”
Freni’s bosom got another floury pounding. “Ach!”
I told her about Thelma Hershberger’s nocturnal visit. Freni listened intently, but began shaking her head before I was halfway through.
“Ach, that woman,” she said, interrupting me, “she is the vein of my existence.”
“Do you mean ‘bane,’ dear?”
“Yah. Such gossip she spreads. Most of it lies. My Mose,” Freni said, referring to her husband of almost fifty years, “he says that Thelma Hershberger makes up these stories because she does not have excitement in her life. Can this be true?”
I shrugged. What did Mose, or any Amish man, know about excitement? Was roofing a barn exciting? How about birthing a calf?
“So you think this warning note might not have existed?” I asked.
“Yah, that is what I think!” Freni’s vehemence was a tip-off that Thelma’s tongue had crossed her path on at least one occasion.
“So what did she say about you, dear?”
“Ach, not me! The babies. She says they are slow.”
“Slow? That’s ridiculous! They’re not even crawling yet. How can she call them slow?”
Freni rapped her head with her knuckles. “In the koph! She says they are slow up here.”
“What nonsense! Those are the brightest little babies I’ve ever seen.”
Freni beamed. “Yah, they are true Hostetlers.”
I opened the back door to the kitchen, but Freni’s stubby fingers caught my sleeve. “These illegal drugs you spoke of—this Angel powder—that’s what they do in the city, Magdalena. Not in Hernia.”
“Au contraire, dear. It’s everywhere these days.”
“But only among the English, yah?”
“Not only,” I said.
“But our people—my people,” she said, narrowing the field further, “what do they know from drugs? Who teaches them such things?”
“It’s a national sickness, Freni. I don’t know how Amish youth get started. Maybe they encounter drugs during rumschpringe.”
Freni recoiled. “Ach!”
But it seemed as logical an explanation as any. Rumschpringe literally means “running around.” When Amish youth enter their late teens they are given a great deal of personal freedom. Parents turn a blind eye to youths with boom boxes strapped to their buggies, nighttime excursions to movie theaters and other centers of sins, and in some cases, even the ownership of automobiles. Of course, the cars are carefully hidden in a barn by day so as not to shame the family. A few brave souls dare to leave the community altogether and, dressed in worldly clothes, head for the big cities. For better or for worse, some never return.
The Amish elders recognize the rebellious teenage spirit and their wisdom is to allow this spirit to express itself before adulthood. When an Amish person reaches his or her twenties, they are expected to settle down. The defining moment is baptism, whereupon the applicant renounces the ways of the world and agrees to be submissive to the Ordnung, the rules of the church. This is expected to be a lifelong commitm
ent. Often those who, for one reason or another, simply can’t conform elect to become Mennonites. This was the case for both sets of my grandparents.
My Mennonite faith has no counterpart to rumschpringe. In many instances, we are far stricter with our young folk than are the normally conservative Amish. On the other hand, we have more latitude as adults. The choice for us is not as dramatic. In fact, there are those who say we sit on the fence, with one foot in tradition, the other in the world. Only rarely does one of our number fall off the fence and into the Amish community. To the contrary, we tumble with some regularity into other Anabaptist denominations and, in some extreme cases, like that of my sister, become Presbyterians. But to my knowledge, even Susannah has managed to stay clear of drugs.
“Well,” I said, “I’ll just have to poke around. If Joseph Mast isn’t forthcoming, I’ll try my Amish contacts, such as they are.” I gave Freni a meaningful look. “Maybe one of them has heard of some kids recently back from the city.”
Perhaps the grimy glasses prevented Freni from picking up on my expression. Perhaps she was one of the many who, strange as it sounds, can’t hear as well when their vision is impaired. Or perhaps she was just being Freni, i.e. stubborn. At any rate, she made no offer to help.
“So,” I said patiently, “have you heard of any young people back from ‘outside’?”
Freni thumped her rolling pin on the table with such force that specks of plaster drifted down and dusted her dough.
“You want drugs?” she demanded. “Then try that English couple who bought the Berkey farm last year.”
“You mean the Hamptons?”
Freni shrugged. “Who knows from funny English names? But I see them in Miller’s Feed Store all the time. Her with a young woman’s face on an old woman’s body, and him—ach, he wears perfume! Now I ask you, Magdalena, what do English like that want in our store?”
“It isn’t our store, dear, it’s the Millers’. And maybe the Hamptons want garden supplies, shovels and rakes, that kind of thing.” I paused to consider any hidden agenda she might have, perhaps some rumschpringe gossip she was sitting on, but just aching to tell. “Freni, dear, you haven’t heard anything about the Hamptons giving parties, have you?”
