by Tamar Myers
I found Dr. Margaret Hanson waiting alone for me in the parlor. I closed the door quickly behind me.
“How badly do you want to shrink me?”
Her look of surprise quickly changed to one of amusement. “I’ve been looking forward to it very much. Why, have you changed your mind?”
“Not at all. But here’s the deal. You do the shrinking while I drive. I thought I’d take advantage of this nice weather to show you around Hernia.”
She smiled broadly. “Sounds wonderful. What’s the catch?”
“The catch is we use your car.”
“That’s a deal.”
“Really?”
“Miss Yoder, I wouldn’t miss an opportunity like this for the world; a guided tour, and the opportunity to shrink—as you so charmingly put it—a very interesting subject.” “You think I’m interesting?”
“Exceptionally so.”
I beamed. “Then let’s hit the road, Doc!”
When we told Freni we were going out for a spin, she seemed both relieved and disappointed. On the one hand, the strange world of “English” psychiatry was not going to invade her beloved workplace, but on the other hand, she was missing a golden opportunity for eavesdropping.
“We will speak when you get back, yah?”
I looked at Dr. Hanson, who shook her head. “Freni, you know I can’t do that,” I said, but as I passed her on the way to the kitchen door, I gave her arm a meaningful squeeze.
“Tell me about yourself,” Dr. Margaret Hanson said, her voice suddenly assuming a professional tone. We had just turned out of the driveway, me behind the wheel of her luxury car, she beside me with a cassette recorder in her right hand.
“It’s only two miles into town, dear, so I’m going to have to speak fast.” I took a deep breath. “My name is Magdalena Portulacca Yoder. I was a difficult birth. Thirty-six hours of excruciating labor, Mama said. And I was a colicky baby—never slept more than an hour at a time. And stubborn too. Mama would let me lie in my crib and cry for hours. She used to say that if there ever was a crying marathon, I would win it lungs down. Anyway, for my first birthday Mama baked me a chocolate cake with chocolate icing, and I, being the little scamp that I was, slapped the top of the cake with my hands—after the candle was removed, of course—and got icing all over Mama’s new Sunday dress. I’m sure it was a Kodak moment—I was such a cute little thing—except that Mama never could get all that icing out of her dress. It was her first store-bought dress, you see, and she’d paid seventeen ninety-five for it at the Sears over in Bedford. Then just a few months later I threw up on the quilt Mama was going to donate to—”
“Any sexual issues, Miss Yoder?”
“I beg your pardon!”
“Well, in the interest of time, I thought we’d skip some of the more mundane details of your life, and get at what seems to be the core of your problem.”
“It isn’t sex!” I wailed.
Dr. Margaret Hanson raised a well-plucked brow. “Oh?”
“Well, it isn’t! I don’t even have sex, because I’m not married.”
“Really?”
“You can’t count the washing machine.”
The other brow went up. “Indeed.”
“Only during the spin cycle!” I wailed.
Dr. Hanson mumbled something into her recorder. “All right. How about religious issues? Anything particular troubling in that arena?”
“Of course not. And I hope you didn’t take Lodema Schrock seriously. The woman needs a hobby—besides me.”
“I see. Miss Yoder, do you feel repressed?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, for instance, do you think your religion keeps you from doing some things you might really want to do?”
“Of course not! If I wanted to do them, I would—well, except I wouldn’t drink, of course, because the Bible says that strong drink is a mocker, and I wouldn’t smoke, because our bodies are temples of the Lord, and I wouldn’t swear because our lips are meant to stay pure, and I wouldn’t clutter up my mind with movies, and I wouldn’t wear a sleeveless dress—but then again, no woman over forty should do that.”
“How do you feel about women’s issues?”
“Such as?”
“Women’s ordination, for instance.”
I sighed. Some branches of the Mennonite church do ordain women, but mine doesn’t.
“I’m all for it.”
“How about a woman for President?”
“Lead the way!”
“How do you feel about sex?”
“Not again,” I whined. “Is that all you therapists ever think of?”
I have great peripheral vision and I could see Dr. Hanson stiffen. “Sometimes the way we feel about sex is the key to unlocking our neurosis.”
“I am not neurotic, and just for the record, I have nothing against sex—well, not if the participants are married. Legally married.”
“I see. And if they are married, does anything go?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Are all forms of consensual sex okay?”
“Of course not!”
“Oh? Can you give me an example of a forbidden act?”
I blushed, from my prayer cap to the tips of my stocking-covered toes. “Well, one shouldn’t have sex standing up.”
“Why not?”
“Because it might lead to dancing.”
I’m positive I heard a stifled chortle. At any rate, the good doctor pulled out a folder—she must have been sitting on it—and held up a picture of some kind.
“What do you see in this, Miss Yoder? I’d like your initial reaction, please.”
I glanced at it, my hands gripping the wheel tightly. “Buns.”
She scribbled something on her pad. “And in this picture?”
“More buns.”
“Male or female?”
“What?”
“Do the buns you see belong to a man or a woman?”
“They’re Freni’s.”
“And how long have you been fixated on your cook’s buttocks?”
I pounded the steering wheel, giving Little Freni a fright. She mewed pitifully.
“Cinnamon buns!” I yelled. “I see Big Freni’s cinnamon buns.”
Dr. Hanson looked deeply disappointed. “There is no right answer, Miss Yoder. You are free to see anything you wish in these pictures.” She held up a third picture. It looked for all the world like a pair of pecan twirls. “Now what do you see in this?”
“I see the end of this session. If you’ll excuse me, dear, I have more important things to do than to look at pictures of food.”
Her mouth pressed into a straight line for a few seconds. When she spoke, each word was enunciated with exaggerated care.
“And what would these more important things happen to be?”
“Well, I have to solve a murder, for one thing.”
“I see,” she said in a tone that indicated she didn’t.
I turned in my seat and flashed her a magnanimous smile. “So, Doc, what is it? What’s your verdict? Am I sane?”
“Nuts.”
“Why, I never!”
“They’re walnuts,” she said, easing up on the diction. “These are pictures of walnut shells, side by side.”
“Hah! And walnuts are food, right? Besides, Freni sometimes puts walnuts in her cinnamon buns. So I am sane!”
Dr. Hanson nodded. “As much as the rest of uses, I’m afraid. Perhaps”—she paused, and then shook her head from side to side—“even more so than some.”
I tried not to gloat as we drove the rest of the way into Hernia.
North Elm is Hernia’s most prestigious residential street, but it has only one stop sign. I should have remembered that. I also should have remembered just who it was who lived on one of the corners. Lord only knows how many times I’ve parked there.
“Good morning, Reverend Schrock,” I said to the man raking grass clippings on the corner nearest the sign.
/> The Reverend, whom I have no quarrel with by the way, looked like he wanted to bolt. Since I am Beechy Grove Mennonite Church’s single largest supporter, and since the Reverend’s wife is my single most vociferous detractor, I understood his dilemma. Nonetheless I had a job to do, and if the good man did make a run for it, I’d tackle him.
“Good morning, Magdalena.” He nodded at Dr. Hanson.
I made the introduction and then got down to business. “I heard about the accident here yesterday. Did you see it?”
He nodded. Now how easy was that?
“It must have been horrible,” I said. I was, of course, sincere. Never mind that sympathy is a sure way to gain allies.
“It was the worst experience I’ve ever had,” he said.
“How does this make you feel?” Dr. Hanson said.
I gave her a warning. “Reverend, would you mind describing what you saw?”
“Well, I was out here mowing when suddenly this car comes barreling down the street. Thelma Hershberger was halfway across and she started to run, but the car swerved and threw her right into the sign. There was this sickening thud—kind of like if you threw a bag of potatoes at the sign, if you know what I mean.”
Not having tossed many potato bags at stop signs, I didn’t know. I nodded anyway.
“And then?”
“And then I ran inside and called the emergency squad up at the hospital.” Hernia is too small for a 911 dispatcher, but the squad boys are usually on top of things.
“Then you called Melvin?”
He nodded again. By the glazed look on his face, he was obviously reliving the gruesome scene.
“But you didn’t identify yourself, right?”
“It was Melvin. He didn’t ask, and then he hung up before I could tell him.”
“But he did ask about the make of car, etc., right?”
“Right. But like I told Melvin, I’m not good at cars. It was big, that’s all I know.”
“But you didn’t even remember the color?”
Reverend Schrock blushed. “I’m color blind, Magdalena.”
“Get out of town!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That’s just an expression, dear. I picked it up from some English. Wow, color blind! And all these years I thought it was some secret religious code when you wore two different-color socks to church. And those ties! Doesn’t Lodema help you with your clothes?”
He shook his head. “Her interests lie elsewhere.”
I wanted to throw my arms around the man, to tell him that if his wife ever left him, or died, God forbid, and if I was unattached at the time, I would be more than happy to lay out his clothes. Not wanting to throw temptation in his way, I refrained.
“Speaking of Lodema, dear, where was she at the time?”
“Uh—inside.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.” He seemed as nervous as a hen in a den of foxes.
“You sure she wasn’t tooling around in that big boat of hers?”
“Magdalena!” Dr. Hanson said sharply. “Please, the man is still in shock.”
“I have a job to do,” I snapped. The truth be told, I didn’t really think Lodema capable of murder. Not directly. She might have caused Thelma to fling herself at the sign, but she wouldn’t have hit her. Just to be on the safe side, however, I would check the front of the car the next time I saw her.
“Yes, you have your job,” the Reverend said quietly.
“Look, Reverend, it’s just that Lodema was out to see me this morning and she didn’t even mention the hit-and-run.”
“She didn’t?” He looked as happy as I must have the day I walked up the aisle. Bear in mind, however, I hadn’t an inkling I was about to become a bigamist.
“She harangued me about just about everything else.”
“I told her not to say a word to you,” he said, practically giddy. “I forbade her, in fact. Praise the Lord, she listened!”
“But she got on my case for dating a Jewish doctor—hey, what’s going on? Why did you forbid her from mentioning the accident? If indeed, that’s what it was.”
My spiritual director shrugged silently. Believe me, on a Sunday morning he is never at a loss for words.
“Come on, Reverend Schrock, out with it!”
“B-because,” he stammered, “she thought the driver was you.”
“She what?” My blood pressure soared, and if it hadn’t been for the restraining hand of Dr. Hanson, I might have shot off across the lawn in a zig-zag fashion like an untied helium-filled balloon.
“Magdalena,” the Reverend said quickly, “I’m sure you know that Lodema has her issues with you and—”
“Issues!” I roared.
“Come,” Dr. Hanson said in a firm voice and pulled me toward the car. She was remarkably strong for a woman her age.
“Magdalena, please don’t be upset,” the Reverend said. He was too embarrassed to look at me now.
“We’ll see how many issues I put into the offering plate,” I yelled over my shoulder.
I know. It was unfair of me to take my rage out on the messenger. But if you can’t yell at your pastor with impunity, then who can you holler at? Besides, there are some days when a gal just has to let it blow.
To her credit, Dr. Hanson refrained from chiding me. In fact, when I told her the first thing I wanted to do was to find a phone, she reached into a pocket and pulled out a doohickey barely the size of one of her cherished walnuts.
“Here, use this,” she said.
I gazed at the gizmo, while grazing three mailboxes and a gazebo. “It’s one of those cell phones, isn’t it?”
“Yes. You mean you’ve never used one before?”
“They’re the work of the devil,” I said with conviction. I’ve been seeing them around Hernia and Bedford for years, but had never been within touching distance. They were an evil invention, after all. In Hernia, at least, there have been more car accidents caused by chatty drivers than drunken ones.
Dr. Hanson laughed pleasantly. “Magdalena, it’s only a small telephone—without wires. If you want, I’ll even dial the number for you, so you don’t have to take your eyes off the road.”
I clipped a fourth mailbox while pondering the situation. Then because I was already feeling so much guilt that a little more wouldn’t even be noticed, I told her to dial.
“Lead me not into temptation!” I wailed as she handed me the phone.
Joseph Mast picked up on the fifth ring. He sounded sleepy.
“Hello?”
“Joe, this is Magdalena. Did I wake you?”
“Yeah, but it’s all right. I had a bad night.”
“Sorry. Look, I just have a quick question. Did Gertrude Troyer ever pay your wife a visit.”
“Who?”
“She’s Amish. Really mousy-looking herself, but married to a really hot—I mean, a good-looking man.”
He took so long to answer, I was afraid he’d gone back to sleep. I’ve been known to fall asleep in the bathroom, so I know how that goes.
“Joe, are you still there?”
“Yeah, I’m still here. I was just thinking. An Amish woman came to see her the morning she died. I was back in the shop when I saw her pull up in her buggy. I thought it was Catherine Keim at first—they were friends, you know, despite everything. Anyway, I got a closer look and it definitely wasn’t Catherine. She’s a real knockout, and this one, like you said, was kind of plain.”
“Catherine may be exotic,” I said as I swerved to miss a bantam rooster crossing the road, “but she isn’t a beauty. At any rate, what did Gertrude Troyer want?”
“Beats me. My Elizabeth rarely got visitors and I wasn’t going to intrude on this one.”
“So you didn’t speak to her at all?”
“That’s right. Look, Magdalena, like I said, I had a rough night.”
“Just one more thing! How long did Gertrude stay?”
“I didn’t keep track. But long enough
to eat craps with my Lizzie.”
“I beg your pardon!”
“Craps. You know, French pancakes.”
“Ah, you must mean crepes!”
“Yeah, that’s what I said. They had craps and coffee together. The Amish woman brought the craps.”
“Well, how nice of her.” I was going to stop judging people by their looks. “Did they save any for you?”
“Yeah, one or two.”
“Were they good?” Most Amish women are excellent cooks, and remarkably adventurous. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit to learn that Gertrude had a stack of cookbooks. If only Lizzie had.
“I didn’t taste them,” Joseph said.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m diabetic. Those things were covered with powdered sugar.”
“Oh. I thought maybe you couldn’t resist on account of—”
“No one can cook like my Lizzie,” he said defensively.
“No one,” I agreed.
He hung up.
My feelings weren’t hurt. Nothing was going to get me down that day. I’d been shrunk and proclaimed sane. What more could one possibly want out of life?
15
Scallop Mushroom Crepes
1 cup white wine
2 cups chicken broth
2 celery stalks, cut into chunks
3 green onions, sliced
2 bay leaves
10 peppercorns
1⁄2 pound mushrooms, sliced
2 pounds scallops, cut in half
4 tablespoons butter
5 tablespoons flour
3⁄4 cup milk
2 egg yolks, slightly beaten
1⁄2 cup cream
1 teaspoon lemon juice
dash salt
