by MYERS, TAMAR
He locked his well-manicured fingers together and twiddled his thumbs as he mocked me further. “Let’s see . . . could it possibly be because you’re playing detective again, and because I was one of those serving John Q. Public at Minerva J. Jay’s untimely, but most probably deserved, demise?”
“Why, George Hooley, what kind of mouth is that for a good Mennonite boy to possess? ‘Deserved demise’ indeed!” I glowered at him only briefly, so as not to encourage permanent lines on my forehead. “Such a cold-blooded comment is not befitting someone of your professional ranking, not to mention that you are on the fast track to become a deacon in our church.”
“I am? Since when?”
“Since—well, you do know that the Lord works in mysterious ways, don’t you, George?”
He sighed and leaned back in his own comfortable chair. “And none quite as mysterious as you. Am I right? Although frankly, Magdalena, you’re as transparent as a CT scan.”
“Vous êtes très drôle,” I said, exhausting my high school French. “But I’ll overlook your insults if you’ll elaborate on why it is that you believe our poor Minerva got what was coming to her.”
When fastidious little bankers snort, it’s not unlike kittens sneezing. “Our poor Minerva? Name one person in the entire county who was sad to hear that she died.”
“Uh—Wanda Hemphopple, out at the Sausage Barn. I wouldn’t be surprised if on slow days, Minerva accounted for almost half of her business.”
“That was a business relationship. Name someone else.”
“So what if I can’t? It doesn’t matter; God loves us all. He even notices when a sparrow falls.”
“The sparrow probably caught Minerva looking at it.”
“George!” I said sharply, surprising even myself. “What did Minerva ever do to you that you should hate her so much?”
He stared at his desk miserably, then at each of his walls in turn, while I waited patiently. Finally he could stand it no longer.
“Can you keep a secret, Magdalena?”
“Of course, dear.” I pretended to lock my lips and throw away the key. It was a gesture I’d learned from Alison.
“You need to swear to it.”
“Don’t be silly; we’re both Mennonites. Just like the Bible says, our yeas should be yeas, and our nays should be nays. But speaking of neighs, what did one horse say to the other when—”
“Magdalena! This is no time for riddles. I need you to give me your word as a woman of the cloth that you will not breathe a word of this to anyone.”
A woman of the cloth? The poor man’s gears must have broken a sprocket or two. It was my sister, Susannah, who swaddled herself in fifteen feet of filmy fuchsia fabric, and for whom a trip to Material Girl in Bedford was more of an inducement to good behavior than the promise of eternity spent in Heaven would ever be. I know we’re not supposed to judge, but if it weren’t for the fact that we Christians are justified by faith, and not deeds, my only sibling would be on the fast track to you-know-where in a very large handbasket lined with an entire bolt of brightly colored polyester.
“You’re thinking of Susannah,” I said slowly, whilst moving my lips in an exaggerated fashion, to make sure he got the message.
“No, I’m not. Your sister’s a divorced strumpet and a lapsed Presbyterian to boot. I’m referring to you. In the absence of a regular minister, you are our de facto leader. That, Magdalena Portulaca Yoder Rosen, or however you choose to style your name, makes you a woman of the cloth in my book, just as surely as if you were an Episcopal priest, or a Reform or Conservative Jewish rabbi.”
It is said that the high tide floats all boats—well, let me tell you that flattery does the same thing. I don’t think there is a person alive whose ego can’t be inflated at least a little by the right words, delivered by the right sycophant, at the right time. Yes, on an intellectual level I knew that I could not be compared to a rabbi or a priest, seeing as how I lacked (at least) another six years of education, but to have a respected banker compare me to them got my dinghy to bobbing like a fishing cork on Miller’s Pond come spring.
I patted my bun to make sure the bit of cloth we refer to as a prayer cap was still in place. “Do you really think so?” I asked. “I mean, I’ve studied very little theology. What’s the use in raising questions, I always say, if one isn’t prepared to accept the answers—not that I couldn’t come up with a good answer if I really tried. Besides, one can always trot out the tried but true ‘When we get to Heaven someday the Good Lord will explain everything.’ ”
George nodded solemnly. “Yes. And my first question will be: why did You create someone as frustrating as Magdalena?”
I was stunned. “Moi?”
“Admit it, Magdalena; you’d rather do anything than get down to brass tacks.”
“Brass tacks hurt.”
“Enough of this nonsense. Do you, or do you not, agree to keep the following information absolutely confidential on the grounds that you are, in effect, my clergy substitute?”
Clergy substitute was almost as good as priest or rabbi, perhaps even better: I would have a title, but none of the responsibilities. In the world of religious nomenclature, I might even be described as a sugar-free lay minister.
“I agree,” I said, perhaps with a wee bit too much enthusiasm.
George left his desk and came around to stand over me. I suppose that his intent was to express his earnestness, but his expression simultaneously brought to mind President Richard Nixon and Ichabod Crane.
“She was blackmailing me,” he whispered.
“Over what?”
He leaned so close, I could smell a MenthoLyptus lozenge on his breath. “It’s a good thing you’re sitting down, Magdalena,” he whispered, “because you’re not going to believe what I’m about to tell you.”
10
Dutch Baby with Cardamom Honey Apples
Sometimes called a popover pancake, this audacious-looking flapjack is made in a large skillet. It puffs up, rising dramatically as it bakes in the oven. It is topped with sautéed apple slices laced with ground cardamom and sweetened with honey. Golden Delicious apples are best for this recipe because they keep their shape when cooked. The pancake takes 18 minutes to bake—just enough time to put together the apple topping.
3 large eggs
¾ cup milk
¾ cup unbleached all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon sugar
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
Cardamom Honey Apples (recipe follows)
1. Preheat the oven to 400° F. Place an 8-by-10-inch cast-iron skillet or other heavy skillet with a heatproof handle in the oven.
2. Combine the eggs, milk, flour, and sugar in a medium bowl and whisk until smooth. Using a pot holder, remove the skillet from the oven and add the butter; tilt the pan to melt the butter and coat the skillet. Add the batter all at once and immediately return the skillet to the oven.
3. Bake until the pancake puffs up around the edges, 18 to 20 minutes.
4. To serve the pancake, slide it from the skillet onto a large platter. Pour the Cardamom Honey Apples into the center. Cut into wedges and serve, distributing the topping evenly.
Cardamom Honey Apples: Peel, quarter, and core 2 large Golden Delicious apples. Cut into thin wedges. Heat 1 tablespoon unsalted butter in a medium skillet until sizzling. Add the apple wedges and cook, stirring gently, until lightly browned on both sides. Sprinkle with ½ teaspoon ground cardamom and stir to coat. Add ½ cup honey and heat to boiling. Remove from heat; stir in 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice.
11
“I’m all ears, George.”
He reached out and patted my arm. “I hope you’re not offended, Magdalena, but I don’t find you attractive.”
“Ditto, dear.”
“No, really. I’m told that you have all the attributes one would normally desire in a member of the opposite sex, but they do nothing to excite me.”
“And no offense to you, George, but your
parts don’t light a fire in my loins either.”
He seemed a bit taken aback by me giving him tit for tat. “I don’t think you understand. It’s not just you I’m not attracted to; it’s all of the fairer sex.”
“In other words, you’re gay.”
“Oh, how I hate that word!”
“I’m sorry, George. Do you prefer homosexual?” We were still whispering, by the way, albeit a bit loudly.
George reared like a horse that had spotted a snake lying across the trail. “What? No! No labels, please. Call me a confirmed bachelor, if you must—or a gentleman’s gentleman. Really, Magdalena, you don’t seem a bit surprised by my revelation.”
“Hmm.”
“She could have ruined my career, you know. Who would want to trust their money to a bank managed by a—a—known—well, you know.”
“George, these days what one does in the privacy of one’s own bedroom—and I’m not saying that it’s right or wrong—is of little interest to the public.”
“Maybe in cities like Pittsburgh or Philadelphia, but here in Bedford, it most certainly does matter. This is still a Christian town, Magdalena, and here folks vote by what their Bibles say. You, better than most, should know that.”
“Yes, but trust me, George, the good folks of Bedford really don’t care about your personal life all that much.”
“You’re being cavalier,” he shouted. “I’m trusting you with the biggest secret of my life, and you won’t even take it seriously.”
I bit my tongue whilst I prayed for guidance. Although my prayers for patience usually go unanswered, sometimes, if I am able to quiet my inner dialogue, I feel that I am able to discern that “still small voice” that the prophet Elijah mentioned in the Book of Kings. To explain to George that virtually everyone in Hernia and Bedford had already guessed that he was gay would undoubtedly hurt his feelings, as well as acutely embarrass him. On the other hand, the knowledge that his personal life was not germane to his career as a banker could lift a huge burden from his shoulders and allow him to live life more abundantly.
“I do take you seriously,” I finally said. “As it so happens, I have a friend who is a banker in a town just this size, and that friend is also gay, but it doesn’t appear to have hurt his career at all.”
“Yeah, but I bet that town isn’t in Pennsylvania.”
“Oh, but it is.”
“Which town? Where?”
“I’m not at liberty to say—not until my friend comes out of the closet.”
“Aha, so nobody knows that your friend is gay!”
“Actually, I’m pretty sure that everyone does.”
“How do they know?” he demanded.
“I’m not really sure; it’s no one thing in particular. Maybe because he never married and doesn’t date. But it doesn’t matter. The point is that they know, and that they haven’t boycotted his bank on account of it. Also—and I hope I’m corrected if I’m wrong—the folks at church have always treated him warmly as well.”
“Yes, they have—I mean, they know as well?”
“Perhaps not everyone at his church; I don’t think it was ever the subject of discussion. But still, I’m sure that there have been some folks who just sort of picked up on it.”
“Picked up on what? I act just like the other men—darn, Magdalena, you were really talking about me, weren’t you?”
In a move quite uncharacteristic of myself, I grabbed his hands, which were as light and cold as yesterday’s biscuits. I couldn’t, however, look him in the eyes, which were as dark and moist as the raisins in hot-cross buns.
“Forsooth.”
“That’s a yes?”
“Undeniably so.”
He made no move to pull his hands from mine while he pondered his new reality. In the meantime, I felt as if I’d taken a child to the edge of a precipice and forced him to look down, just so he could experience the view.
“Magdalena, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“There’s no telling, dear, because I’m not psychic, and even if I was, I certainly wouldn’t admit it, given that the Bible comes down rather harshly on that subject and I personally prefer a life of hypocrisy to one of open sin, having already spent too much time in the latter ’s trenches, but were I to speculate on your current state of mind, I’d guess that you are feeling curiously relieved, although understandably concerned about your bank’s future, not to mention run-on sentences. Rest assured, however, that naught shall differ between yesterday’s deposits and today’s, unless, of course, you consumed an inordinate amount of bran for supper.”
“No offense, Magdalena, but has anyone ever told you that you’re nuts?”
“All the time.”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“Au contraire. If the shoe fits, I always say, then make sure you buy a pair. By the way, I must say that the ones you’re sporting are very spiffy. I’ve been admiring them and would like to get some for Gabe. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but were they expensive?”
“Over three, can you believe that? My dear sainted mother would have a stroke if she were alive to hear that. Of course they are Ferragamo.”
“Just three bucks for a snazzy pair like that? What they say about bankers must be true, George; you are a parsimonious lot.”
“That was three hundred, Magdalena—not three dollars.”
“Oops.” Of course I was feeling foolish, which gave me the perfect amount of adrenaline to tackle yet another thorny issue. “Tell me, George, why is your assistant such a ferocious watchdog, and why do the two of you give the impression that there is something a trifle indecorous occurring twixt the two of you?”
He beamed. “That’s what you thought?”
“Ah, so she’s your beard.”
“My what?”
“Your decoy.”
“Magdalena, that’s positively indecent of you!” He licked his thin, pale lips. “Besides, how would you know about such things?”
“Because the PennDutch Inn has catered to the rich and famous almost since it opened. You wouldn’t believe how many actors—and actresses—involve themselves in relationships that are merely for show. Why, there’s this one top-earning actor who—oops, I better stop now. This guy would sue me if I as much as whispered his name, even though everybody knows who he is.”
George’s eyes were as big and round as lemon tarts. “Would I know his name?”
I stood. “Look, dear, I really must be going. But you should know first that even though I wish you all the best, I can’t take you off my list.”
“What list?”
“Of suspects, of course.”
Forget about lemon tarts, moist raisins, and light biscuits. George’s face took on the cold, hard look of the fourteen-year-old fruitcake that Emma Kranebull gave Mama for Christmas one year. My parents used it for a doorstop until Papa stepped too close and broke his littlest piggy and two metatarsals. I was given the honor of disposing of the offending object, whereupon I threw it into Miller ’s Pond. Of course it immediately sank. Crazy Felix Neubrander went scuba diving in the same pond seven years later and brought up what he thought was a gold brick . . .
“Magdalena!”
“Yes?”
“I said, ‘Get out of my office.’ ”
“Certainly. But you could have asked me nicely.”
“I did—several times, in fact.”
“My, aren’t we snippy!”
“Good day, Magdalena.” He actually pushed me over the threshold. “And as long you’ve got your list of suspects out, may I suggest that you put the Zug twins on top?” Although worded as a question, it was most definitely an order.
There was only one person in the entire world capable of ordering me around. At that moment he was a very short—just twenty inches—bald guy who pooped in his pants willy-nilly and burped with panache. Before I put the screws to anyone else, this little man was getting his midmorning feeding, and I was getting a load taken off
my chest. I mean that literally.
Although my beautiful, semiauthentic, nineteenth-century Pennsylvania farmhouse sports a front porch replete with rocking chairs and a proper front door, I almost always enter through the kitchen in the rear. The kitchen is where one is sure to encounter my cook, and kinswoman, Freni Hostetler, and because of the warmth and pleasant atmosphere, this is where I’ve set up Little Jacob’s day bassinet.
However, I was to discover that upon this occasion the big love of my life was cradling the tiny love of my life tenderly in his arms. There is nothing sexier, in my opinion, than the sight of a man caring for an infant. I might have initiated the begetting process all over again, had I not still had a somewhat sore nether region from the act of spitting out a complete human a month earlier. Instead I extended warm greetings to everyone in the room, which also included Alison.
Upon hearing my voice Little Jacob let out a wail that could be heard as far as the Maryland state line. I must confess that my heart swelled with sinful pride at this confirmation that my son had inherited at least one of my traits, albeit perhaps not the most attractive. His cry was, of course, hunger motivated, so I flung my pocketbook on a corner stool and rushed over to perform the most motherly of deeds.
“Well,” the Babester grumbled, as his offspring latched on to me as tight as a leach, “I guess now I’m superfluous.”
“Nonsense, dear. As soon as he’s done he’ll fill his diaper. From what I’ve observed, changing nappies is something you do very well.”
“Gross,” Alison said. “Everything about this kid is gross: the way you feed him, the way he poops. This family ain’t nothing like it used to be, ya know? It’s Little Jacob this, Little Jacob that—it’s all about the stupid kid. If ya ask me—which nobody does anymore—I say send that brat back where he came from.”
“Alison!” the Babester said sharply.
“Alison!” I said in horror. The thought of Little Jacob returning the way he arrived was too awful to contemplate—especially now that he’d grown a bit.
