Hell Hath No Curry

by Tamar Myers

  No comment from the new, and improved, Magdalena.

  “So? Am I right?”

  I nodded resignedly. It was better to let her continue to think I was a pariah than to let her know what was really going to take place in her restaurant.

  “Ha! That’s what I thought.”

  “Wanda, I know we’re not exactly friends—we’ve even had our differences—but I’d like to ask you a personal question.”

  “It’s one hundred percent natural. All me. And no, I don’t dye it.”

  I knew immediately that she was referring to her hair. Wanda wears her long brown hair coiled on top of her head, around an opening at the top that goes all the way down to her scalp. Imagine, if you will, a model of a volcano made from clay. This hideous do is held in place with thousands of hairpins and gallons of hair-spray. This is only a slight exaggeration.

  I am convinced that Wanda has neither washed, nor combed, her hair since we were in high school, lo some thirty years ago. Over the ensuing decades, new species of vermin have developed in this teetering tower of epidermal outgrowth. Should this unsightly mass ever break loose, plagues will be unleashed that could decimate this nation. In my humble opinion, it was foolish for President Bush to search Iraq for weapons of mass destruction, when all along they were hidden, in plain sight, on Wanda Hemphopple’s head.

  “No, dear,” I said with a pleasant smile, “I’m not talking about your WMD.”

  “My WMD?”

  “Yes. Wanda’s marvelous do. What I want to know is, do you think I’m pretty?”

  The coil teetered precariously as Wanda recoiled in surprise. “Magdalena, I always knew you were a bit odd, but I never thought you were gay.”

  “I’m not gay—not that there’s anything wrong with it. I just want to know if you think I’m pretty.”

  “No, I don’t think you’re pretty.”

  My hopes were dashed, like a bottle of bubble bath in Mr. Gawronski’s backyard fountain on Halloween. Not that I know about such a thing. And it could have been anyone; the geometry teacher was hated by everyone in the tenth grade.

  “Oh. Thanks for not being mean about it.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic, Magdalena. Of course you’re not pretty; you’re beautiful. Everyone knows you’re the most beautiful woman in Hernia. But just in case you haven’t figured it out, nobody likes a woman with a swollen head.”

  “You really mean that?”

  “Get over yourself. Lord knows I did.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I always thought we could be friends, Magdalena. In fact, I thought we were—until that day you purposely, and maliciously, dropped a hotdog down my hair.”

  “You knew about that?”

  “I’m not stupid. And I may not have such a good sense of smell, but even I could smell it after a week. But you see, that was the beauty of it. A little bit of Vicks VapoRub under my nose, and I could no longer tell it was there. But you kids sure could. If I recall correctly, you sat behind me in bookkeeping class.”

  “You mean you never removed it?”

  She never got a chance to answer, because my brunch party showed.

  I am an Amish-Mennonite, which is to say I am a Christian whose ancestors were at one time Amish, but who eventually became Mennonites, and one even became a Presbyterian. So you see, Mennonites and Amish are not the same thing, although both denominations stress pacifism and the belief that only persons old enough to make a confession of faith can be baptized.

  Amish generally marry other Amish, and so that part of my family tree is as tangled as any jungle. Scratch me, and my cousin bleeds. Give me a sandwich, and I am a family picnic. Freni, my best friend and cook, is not only my first cousin, but cousins number two, three, and four, as well. But I am almost positive she is not my mother.

  Speaking of Mama, she and Papa, who were double second cousins, were squished to death in a traffic accident. The car they were riding in was rear-ended by a truck carrying Adidas tennis shoes, and they were pushed into the back of a milk tanker. It happened in the Allegheny Tunnel, one of America’s longest tunnels, so there wasn’t any room for them to get out of the way.

  Upon their death, my sister, Susannah, and I inherited the family farm, which I soon converted into the PennDutch Inn. My inn, by the way, was immediately discovered by Condor Nest Travel magazine, and became an instant hit with the celebrity crowd. Starving models from New York, remodeled Hollywood stars, and fat cats from Washington all vie for my limited space, and for the right to be gently abused by yours truly. In fact, they pay big bucks for the experience, and I have become an exceedingly wealthy woman. I have also discovered that the axiom “Money can’t buy happiness” isn’t necessarily true. I’ve been poor, and I’ve been rich, and I’d rather be rich and unhappy than poor and unhappy.

  Susannah is now a wealthy woman. Her portion of the inheritance, as well as her profits from the business, are in a trust, over which I have control. The trust was originally my parents’ idea, because, sadly, they knew that their youngest daughter was every bit as responsible as a poodle in heat. I say that lovingly. My parents’ lack of faith in their youngest daughter was validated when Susannah’s husband, Melvin, turned out to be a murderer. Fortunately for them, they were both dead at the time.

  I remained a spinster, and a virgin, until a few years ago when I married a very handsome man who, in addition to being a distant cousin, was still married to another woman. I discovered this horrible fact after having given him the flower of my maidenhood, and have ever since been somewhat of a social pariah to the more devout members of our community. Whilst they refer to me as an adulteress, I prefer to be known as an inadvertent bigamist. Sort of like the Accidental Tourist—a very good book, I might add.

  Hernia’s Holier-Than-Thous, of which I used to be a charter member, were about to get new grist for their gossip mill, new fodder to fuel their righteous indignation. I, a believing Christian, was about to get unevenly yoked to a Jew.

  As I stood there wondering whether Wanda had ever disposed of her wiener, my Jewish future mother-in-law barged through the door of the Sausage Barn. Her face was so grim, one would have thought she’d just eaten there.

  “You,” Ida Rosen said, pointing a stubby finger at me, “are meshugganeh.”

  “Ma!” My beloved, Gabriel Rosen, aka the Babester, was clearly pained by his mother’s accusation. He had a firm grip on her other arm and was mouthing words to me over the top of her head—well over the top.

  I have never been much of a lip-reader, and what little ability I had vanished with the onslaught of collagen-enhanced celebrities. Take two inner tubes, smack them together repeatedly, and then try to decipher language from the experience. Now that’s meshugganeh. At any rate, I couldn’t read Gabe’s wonderful, and entirely natural, lips.

  “What did you say, dear?” I asked.

  His lips moved in an exaggerated fashion, but I was still clueless. It was even less enlightening than watching Pamela Anderson eat corn from a cob while talking.

  Gabe tried hand signals just as Ida looked up. “There was a fly on your head, Ma,” he said. Thank goodness my intended is a would-be novelist and thus quick with the words.

  “There are no flies in my restaurant,” Wanda snapped.

  “You call this a restaurant?” Ida said, rolling her eyes. “I ordered a toasted bagel last week, and it was cold in the middle. Frozen. In New York you get only fresh.”

  “Then you should have stayed in New—Welcome!” Wanda, a serious businesswoman like myself, can turn on a dime if it means adding coins to the coffer. In this case, the potential cash cows walking through the door were the Reverend and Mrs. Gerald Fiddlegarber.

  I’ll come right out and claim full responsibility for bringing the Fiddlegarbers to Hernia. I met them in a bush at a church retreat center in Goiter, Maryland. More specifically, I was in a bush by myself when they happened to walk by. Let it be said that I don’t normally spend a lot of time flail
ing about in bushes, either my own or someone else’s. At any rate, the reverend was between jobs, so to speak, and Hernia had just lost its most beloved preacher to the murdering hand of my brother-in-law. I gave Reverend Fiddlegarber a one-question interview, and when he passed it with flying colors, I hired him on the spot. Since I and myself are two-thirds of the search committee, it was my right to do this. The third person on the committee is me who, I suspected, would put up very little resistance. The question, by the way, had to do with interfaith marriages.

  But back to Wanda and the cash cows. She knew that roping in a minister and his wife could, potentially, be important to her business. A favorable mention of her establishment during the sermon, or even just at coffee hour, might well convince the holdouts at Beechy Grove Mennonite Church that dining at the Sausage Barn was not tantamount to taking supper with the Devil. Wanda, you see, belongs to the other Mennonite church in town, and has at times made disparaging remarks about our lack of progressiveness. Mrs. Fiddlegarber, however, had no intention of being roped into anything.

  “Is the rabbi here yet?” she demanded.

  “Rabbit?” Wanda asked. “We used to serve rabbit, but some of the customers complained. Said food ought not to be cute.”

  “Not rabbit,” Ida growled. “Rabbi.”

  “I’m not sure we serve that either,” Wanda said sadly, her dreams for expansion going down the drain. “Does it go by another name?”

  “Oy boy,” I said to let everyone know just how ecumenical I was.

  “It’s like a Jewish minister,” Reverend Fiddlegarber said, a twinkle in his eye. For the record, he is a warm, considerate man, not at all like his wife, Petunia. Then again, what can one expect from a woman who works as a freelance writer of instructions for enema boxes?

  “I don’t think there are any Jews here,” Wanda said, after scanning the room. “Except for youse two.”

  No sooner had the last word exited her mouth than a tall man with curly blond hair stood up near the back of the main dining room and waved. Gabe waved back.

  “Now there’s three,” he said.

  7

  Rabbi Jay Feldman from Pittsburgh was both friendly and likable, which meant, of course, that Ida Rosen and Petunia Fiddlegarber were immediately united in their intense dislike of the man. They began by tag-teaming him with trivial questions but soon turned on each other in a heated theological debate, for which neither of them was remotely qualified. It soon became clear that unless I managed to separate them, the reverend and the rabbi were not going to have a productive conversation.

  “Ida, dear,” I said, manufacturing enough charm to strangle a bracelet, “I’m going to the ladies room. Would you like to come along?”

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  “I don’t have to go.”

  “Come anyway.”

  “Vhy should I vant to see you make pee-pee?”

  “We need to talk,” I hissed. Yes, I know, one can’t hiss without an s, but if people in books can do it—books that have made it to the New York Times bestseller list—why can’t I?

  Ida wouldn’t budge. “So, vee talk here.”

  I kicked Gabe under the table. Alas, I may not have hit my mark on the first try. The rabbi’s blue eyes widened and he gripped the table with both hands.

  “Gabe,” I hissed, kicking again, “do something.”

  “Ma,” he moaned, “just go with Magdalena. Please?”

  “All right, so I’ll go already. But you make sure that this goy pretending to be a rebbe doesn’t make a Christian out of you.”

  “I resent that, Mrs. Rosen,” the rabbi said hotly. “I’m as Jewish as you are.”

  “There is nothing wrong with being a Christian,” Petunia roared.

  I grabbed Ida’s arm and dragged her to the ladies’ room. It was not a pleasant place to be, seeing as how Wanda keeps it only slightly more hygienic than she keeps the kitchen. I resolved not to touch anything and got right down to business.

  “Ida, I’m so glad you agreed to this pleasant little chat.”

  “Nu?”

  “What’s new? Well, funny you should ask.” I smiled at my reflection in a mirror so smudged, some wag had taken to carving her initials on it. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

  “Vhat?”

  “You know, attractive?”

  “For this you make me leave my Gabeleh?”

  Mama always said it was easier to catch flies with honey than with vinegar. When I asked what she planned to do with the flies, she stuck a bar of soap in my mouth. But I think I know what she meant.

  “Ida, you are a very attractive woman.”

  “Yah?”

  “Very.”

  She stood on her tiptoes to peer in the mirror that hung above the sink. Unable to get a satisfying image, she tugged at the bodice of her dress.

  “You think this shmatte doesn’t make me look fat?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “So, it’s a shmatte, then?”

  “No, it’s a beautiful dress, every bit as lovely as you are. You’re stunning, Ida. Everything about you is gorgeous. Now, let’s get back to talking about me.”

  “How long have you known?”

  I smiled modestly. “That I was beautiful? Believe it or not, it wasn’t until this morning—”

  “Enough of this silly talk. How long have you known about this gay ting?”

  “What gay ting?”

  She waggled a sparse eyebrow. “You, me. Zee horizontal hoochie-hoochie.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “For you, maybe I understand. Because, as you say, I am a real looker. But for me—vell, you are not such a hot potato.”

  “Potato?”

  “So, tell me, Magdalena, does my Gabe know you shving both vays?”

  “I only shving one way,” I wailed, “and I haven’t shvung for a very long time!”

  “The goyim and their riddles,” Ida muttered and charged out of the ladies’ room.

  I waited until a respectable amount of time had passed before trying to sneak out of the ladies’ room and, ultimately, the restaurant, unnoticed. My wedding plans would have to be made without me. Perhaps it was just as well, since large chunks of my marriage would undoubtedly be scripted without any input from me.

  I’d forgotten; there is no sneaking out of the Sausage Barn. Wanda’s talons found the collar of my dress just as surely as they would have found a fleeing hare.

  “Pay up, Magdalena.”

  “Pay what?”

  “The bill. Just because you’re chief of police in absentia doesn’t mean you can’t be arrested. I’ll issue a citizen’s arrest if I have to.”

  “Look, as far as I know, they haven’t even ordered yet, much less gotten their check. Just put whatever it turns out to be on my tab. Have I ever not paid you, Wanda?”

  Her stare softened. “Unfortunately, I have to hand it to you on that score. Of course, you can afford to pay your bills on time.”

  “I am indeed blessed. Now, if you’ll excuse me—Hey, what did you mean by ’in absentia’?”

  “Everyone knows Cornelius and the chief of police were involved. One can only assume that she would go into mourning for a few days. Has she left town? My cousin Herbert in Peoria just opened a Sausage Barn—”

  “What do you mean ’everyone’ knows?”

  “Must you always interrupt—”

  “Apparently. And what exactly is it they know?”

  “Magdalena, surely you jest. And here I thought you had a bat’s radar. I bet there isn’t a soul in Hernia over three years of age that hasn’t been gossiping about the chief of police doing the tarantella two-step with the town’s most eligible bachelor.”

  “No, no, no! You’re not getting it right; you’ve got two dances in your metaphor. You’re supposed to have one dance and one bed item—Just a minute, I’m over three, and I haven’t been gossiping.”

  “You see? You even interrupt yourself. How annoying is that
?”

  “I’m not the least bit annoyed with myself. Now, pray tell, who was your source for the rumor?”

  “It isn’t a rumor. And if you must know, I heard it from Alice Troyer.”

  “The same Alice Troyer who is a very intelligent and somewhat amusing woman, but who, and I say this lovingly, has a nose that resembles a garden root?”

  “Yes. She seemed almost jealous.”

  “I don’t doubt she was.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Of course, dear.” I clutched my purse tighter to me and barreled out the door.

  Alice Troyer lives in a gingerbread house. She is not a witch, although she does own one. Her spacious Victorian is dead smack in the middle of Hernia’s historic district and boasts some of the finest craftsmanship of the late nineteenth century. In summer she hangs baskets of ferns and flowering vines from the porch roof. In the fall she piles baby pumpkins on either side of the front steps, and a lifelike witch guards the door. In winter plastic icicles cling to the eves, reflecting the myriad of tiny, tasteful lights that twinkle on every bush and tree. Tourists invariably stop to admire Alice’s decorations, and it is said to be the second most photographed house in the county. Alas, the most photographed would be mine, due to the large number of untimely demises that have occurred on my property.

  Since it was late spring, the flower beds on either side of the walk were a riot of color and too many other clichés to mention. The fern baskets were up again, and guarding the door was a life-size ceramic goose decked out with a pink cloth bonnet and a matching bow for its neck. If you ask me, anyone who has enough time to spruce up a goose, even a fake one, has enough time to play with the Devil.

  Alice answered the door with a look of utter shock on her face. She tottered backward, and for a second I thought she would faint. Then, lurching forward, she grabbed the door jamb and steadied herself.

  “Land o’ Goshen! Won’t wonders ever cease?”

  I glanced around. “What wonders?”