Just Plain Pickled to Death

by Tamar Myers

  “It’s true,” I said.

  “In a barrel of apple butter! Imagine that! Well, you tell Jonas he’s welcome to come right on over. He can stay as long as he wants. On the house. For old time’s sake, tell him.”

  “Sauerkraut, Delores. Do you know Jonas?”

  “Know him? Why, he and I were as sweet as two peas in a pod back in high school. That is, until Rebecca Miller caught his eye.”

  “Yes. I never paid much attention to her, but from what I’ve heard, she was beautiful.”

  “Well, that isn’t exactly the word I would have chosen.”

  “Gorgeous? With bodacious curves?” I couldn’t very well use the foul word Sam used, now could I?

  Delores smiled, scattering wrinkles in every direction. “Well, now, I don’t mean to be unkind, mind you, but she looked rather like you.”

  “What?”

  Delores had the gall to grab one of my hands and pat it. “Face it, Magdalena, you’re not exactly a raving beauty. Neither was Rebecca Miller. That’s my point. Had she been just another pretty face, Jonas wouldn’t have looked twice at her. But, of course, she wasn’t. A pretty face, I mean.”

  “Well, I never!”

  “And neither did Rebecca, which is my second point. Women with that kind of disadvantage have that certain special weapon.”

  “I am not loose!” I snapped.

  She raised a penciled eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

  “When I wear white next Saturday it will be for a good reason.”

  “Well, that’s exactly my point after all.”

  “It is? From what I hear, Rebecca Miller did more than her share of flirting—and did more than just flirt as well. If you know what I mean.”

  “Indeed I do, and you are absolutely wrong about that. Rebecca Miller was not a flirt. Pretty girls flirt, dear. Not so pretty girls”—at least she had the decency to look discreetly away—”marry. Some men like that, you know. Girls that will marry them at the drop of a hat. Mama’s boys mostly, I’d say.”

  “My Aaron is not a mama’s boy.”

  “Jonas was, that’s for sure. On account of that he couldn’t handle a real woman. Not like yours truly. Oh, no, my Jonas had to go and feel sorry for poor homely Becca and marry her.” She took a deep breath and peered intently into my eyes. “Is he married now?”

  I shrugged. “Not that I can tell.”

  She patted her dyed do with leathery paws. “You tell poor Jonas he’s welcome to stay here as long as he wants.”

  “I don’t think he’s looking, dear,” I said kindly.

  “Nonsense. Every man is looking. They just don’t know it.”

  I tried a different tack. “Well, surely you’re not looking. You’re one of the pretty ones, remember? You don’t have to get married. And Jonas—you said so yourself—is just a mama’s boy.”

  “Well, that was then, and this is now,” she said, sounding just like Susannah.

  It was my turn to grab one of her hands. “Look, Toots, Jonas Weaver is off limits. His daughter is being buried this week, for heaven’s sake. Besides which, he is still a Mennonite. A Mennonite, not a Methodist.” I didn’t mean to hiss that final word.

  The pale pupils peered peevishly at me. “Why, Magdalena Yoder, I don’t believe it. You’re jealous! You’re getting married Saturday to Hernia’s most eligible bachelor, but you still want Jonas on the side!”

  “That’s an ugly lie!” I screamed and exited quickly, with most of my dignity still intact.

  And indeed it was a lie. Aaron Miller Jr. was all the man I would ever need. Perhaps even more. I certainly didn’t need a man Jonas’s age on the side. It just irritated me that some women—my baby sister included—have got to get their claws into every available man who passes within striking distance. It was bad enough that Susannah did it, but in Delores’s case it was ridiculous, if not downright obscene. The woman was old enough to be a great-grandmother, no less, and here she was, slinking around like a vamp.

  It had to be sex that was to blame. Carnal knowledge was the downfall of Adam and Eve and has been the downfall of every generation since. It is all some people seem to think about. The human loins— to use one of Mama’s favorite words—appear to be the strongest motivational force on the planet. People are nothing but mere puppets, controlled by pubic pulses. Mama, you were right. “Loin” is a four-letter word!

  But I didn’t get it. Not yet, at any rate. Come Saturday night, however, and the mystery of life might well be revealed to me. A shudder of delicious anticipation ran through me, and for a split second I forgot to feel guilty.

  When I got back to the inn I found Freni in a huff. This, of course, was nothing new, but it was nothing to sneeze at either. If Freni quit on me, I’d have to feed that crowd myself, or recruit Auntie Leah. But, given the fact that I was about to stab Auntie Leah in the back (figuratively, I assure you), I didn’t feel right about pressing her into service as my chef, no matter how willing she seemed.

  “What’s wrong, dear?” I asked with practiced sympathy.

  “It’s that Leah woman,” she snapped. “Always popping into my kitchen and giving advice where it’s not needed.”

  I maturely refrained from reminding Freni that it was really my kitchen and that she might actually be able to benefit from some of Leah’s advice.

  “Just consider the source,” I said, quoting Mama.

  “Ach, but if that source sticks her head in here one more time, I quit!”

  “Freni, dear, you wouldn’t want to deprive these people of another opportunity to rave about your scrumptious cooking, would you?”

  She waved a blue enamel ladle at me. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Magdalena.”

  “But they are all from out of town, dear. When they get back home they won’t stop talking about what a wonderful cook you are. You’ll be famous.”

  For a mere second or two a dreamy look swept over her face. Then it was gone. She put down the ladle.

  “Pride is a sin, Magdalena. Shame on you for trying to tempt me. Besides, all your guests are from out of town. I’m probably already famous and just don’t know it.”

  “I’m sure you are, dear. But those other guests are all English. These guests are Mennonite. When these guests go back, your fame will spread throughout the Mennonite and Amish communities. ‘Freni Hostetler’ will become a household word among the plain people.”

  “Get behind me, Satan!” she said, but her eyes had glazed over.

  I knew I had Freni just where I wanted her, and I was about to sew things up with one last compliment when the source did indeed stick her head back into the kitchen.

  “How are things coming in here?” Leah boomed.

  Freni looked like Lot’s wife turned into a pillar of salt. “Magdalena,” she grunted through gritted teeth.

  “Leah!”

  I raced to head her off. But despite her great size, the woman could indeed move like a freight train. By the time I reached her, she had breached Freni’s holy of holies and was peering into the oven.

  “That pork roast looks a little dry,” she said. “You might want to add a little water and tent it with aluminum foil.”

  Without another word Freni threw down her apron, and without another word Auntie Leah picked it up and put it on. Of course it didn’t fit, but that mattered naught. The mantle of chef had been passed, albeit unpleasantly, and Auntie Leah knew a trophy when she saw one.

  Perhaps I should have run after my cousin, pleading with her on bended knee to come back. But I was tired, and Freni, I knew without a doubt, would reappear bright and early the next morning. There would be plenty of time to eat crow then.

  “When did you say supper was?” Leah demanded.

  “Six. Will the roast be done in time?”

  Leah’s laugh is more curious than it is unpleasant. It is reminiscent of the fireworks they shoot over in Bedford on the Fourth of July, but without the bright colors, of course.

  “Done?” she finally rasped
. “Five more minutes and we could chop this thing into charcoal briquettes.”

  “But Aaron and his father are joining us tonight,” I wailed.

  “Not to worry. Tell everyone that supper has been postponed until seven and promise them a meal they won’t forget.”

  I did what I was told, little realizing that the promise could come true in more ways than one.

  The entire herd, along with their cowboys, assembled for supper, so along with Jonas, Susannah, and the two Aarons, we had a full house. True to her word, Auntie Leah had managed to turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse. Well, not literally, of course. But she had managed to turn the dried-out pork roast into something she called barbecue.

  “It’s Southern,” she explained, almost loud enough to break the sound barrier. “Sol and I took a trip down south last year. We stopped at a place called Bubba’s Carolina Barbecue and they served us this.”

  “South Carolina has some wonderful golf courses, and big-bass fishing—”

  “Can the travelogue, Sol,” Auntie Vonnie snapped. She looked at me accusingly. “You said supper would be something special. I was expecting at least a nice prime rib. This looks like shredded pork in sauce.”

  “It is. You eat it on a bun, like Sloppy Joes. The sauce is different, though. It’s something special. I made it myself from a recipe I brought back with me.”

  “It’s good,” Auntie Lizzie declared, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

  If it was good enough for Auntie Lizzie, who had class, then it was good enough for the rest of us. Besides, in addition to the barbecue, there was enough Swiss-German hot potato salad on the table to feed an army. With the fresh sweet peas, homemade applesauce, and shoofly pie for dessert, no Mennonite worth the heritage was going to go hungry.

  “Putrid, pupa, puke,” Susannah mumbled.

  I kicked her deftly under the table. I’m sure my sister didn’t mean to be rude. A generous person would call her behaviorally challenged.

  It was clear from the way folks had arranged themselves at the table that a battle was brewing. A very lopsided battle, if you ask me. The Beeftrust and their herders, including Aaron Senior, were keeping themselves as far away from the bereaved father as possible. Susannah sat to my immediate left, Aaron Junior to my right. As a gesture of respect, and as a means of extending my condolences, I had placed Uncle Jonas at the end of the table opposite me. The Beeftrust, however, were leaning heavily toward my end of the table, like corpulent palms caught in a hurricane. Either they felt that death was contagious or they had it in for the poor man. Given what I already knew of them, it was a toss-up.

  “So, Uncle Jonas, how was your flight?” I asked for everyone’s benefit.

  My Pooky Bear beamed at my diplomacy skills.

  “Bumpy,” Uncle Jonas said. He looked like he was about to bolt.

  “Was it? I’ve never flown, you know. I’d love to, of course. I’ve just never had the opportunity. Mama never saw the sense in it, and then after she died—well, I’ve just been too busy.”

  “Travel isn’t what it’s cracked up to be,” Auntie Vonnie said, her mouth full of bun. “We went to Europe last summer, and it was boring. If you’ve seen one museum, you’ve seen them all, if you ask me. Did you know they actually put broken statues in them?”

  “Really?”

  “With no arms and legs! Some of them don’t even have heads. It must be their economy, Rudy says. All this talk about how weak our dollar is and how strong their currencies are—well, it’s all stuff and nonsense. Just look at their museums.”

  “You don’t say!”

  “Oh, yes. But I will admit that the little foot baths they put in all the hotel rooms are mighty soothing after walking on those cobblestones all day.”

  “Well, I’ve always enjoyed traveling,” Auntie Lizzie said sweetly. “Manasses and I keep talking about a trip to the Holy Land. Where would you go, dear, if you had the chance?”

  I graced her with a warm smile. “Well, I’m not sure. I’d have—” I was reaching to pass the platter of barbecue buns when I noticed the word “Japan” stenciled on the bottom. “Japan,” I said quickly.

  Auntie Lizzie nodded approvingly. “Good choice. That’s where I’d go. After the Holy Land, of course. These days Asia is a much more chic destination than Europe. And Japan, I hear, is the place to be.”

  “Definitely,” Uncle Jonas said.

  “Moo goo gai pan,” Auntie Magdalena whimpered.

  “No, that’s Chinese, dear,” I informed her kindly.

  “She said, ‘You knew Diane.’ She said it to him.” Uncle Elias, having translated his wife’s garbled verbiage, nodded in the direction of Uncle Jonas.

  “Who is Diane?” I asked politely.

  “Diane Lefcourt, a friend of Becca’s,” Leah boomed. “As far as anyone knows, she was the last person to speak to our sister—besides you-know-who.”

  “Really?” I presumed that the you-know-who in question was the murderer, not Uncle Jonas.

  Uncle Jonas squirmed. “Of course I knew Diane. She was my wife’s best friend, damn it!”

  “You know what she means,” Uncle Elias said. “You knew that Diane was a bad influence on Becca.”

  “Amen,” Aaron Senior said.

  “Amen,” everyone chorused, except for Susannah, younger Aaron, and me.

  “My Becca was a grown woman, and I didn’t pick her friends,” Uncle Jonas growled.

  “Birds of a feather flock together,” Auntie Lizzie said primly. “And there was always trouble following that Diane woman.”

  “Ah, yes, that Diane woman,” Uncle Rudy said, sounding wistful. We all looked at him and he shrugged.

  “Did you tell her?” Uncle Jonas said suddenly to me.

  “I didn’t even know this Diane person, dear.”

  He gave me a knowing look. “Not that. I’m talking about Leah and my condition.”

  “What condition?” Auntie Leah sat bolt upright in her seat. “And what’s it have to do with me?”

  “Mucus, membrane, melanin,” Susannah mumbled. I kicked her sharply again. She was acting strange even for herself.

  “Well?” Auntie Leah demanded.

  “Nothing dear,” I said quickly. “She’s just talking gibberish.”

  “Not her—him!”

  “A deal’s a deal,” Uncle Jonas said calmly. “If you don’t tell her, then I will.”

  “Tell me what?” Lacking a proper neck, Auntie Leah had to turn her torso to look at Uncle Jonas. All of us, Susannah included, stared in the direction indicated.

  “Oh, it’s just something about a diary,” I said casually. “I’ll tell you after supper.”

  “Diary?” my sister asked.

  I patted her arm. “You know, Susannah, Sarah’s diary.”

  All faces turned my way.

  I took a deep breath. When the cat is out of the bag already, you have only two choices as far as I can see: pretend you let the cat out on purpose or put the bag over your head and hope you suffocate. I wasn’t about to do the latter, not with Pooky Bear about to be mine. I mean truly mine.

  “Uncle Jonas has Sarah’s diary. In it Sarah mentions that she knows who killed her mother. Jonas and I thought it would be a great idea if we showed it to the police. Don’t you all agree?”

  There was a chorus of “yes’s.” In retrospect there weren’t as many “yes’s” as I might have expected, but I was too distracted by that damn cat to notice who abstained.

  “It isn’t yours to show,” Uncle Jonas said quietly.

  Nine heads and one torso swiveled to face the opposite end of the table.

  “Well, she was my niece,” Leah boomed.

  “Here, here,” someone said.

  “Ah, you,” Uncle Jonas said accusingly to Leah.

  “Me what? Out with it, Jonas! What is it you’re accusing me of this time?”

  He sat there like a tidy little Buddha, smiling placidly, his hands folded in his lap. “Magdalena?” he said at last, hi
s voice as scratchy as Mama’s old phonograph records of gospel music. “You care to do the honors, or shall I?”

  I took a deep breath. My hands were balled into fists, something that genetics all but prevents me from doing. Clearly I was not a willing partner in this crime.

  “Uncle Jonas would prefer that it be a private burial,” I said quickly, “with none of us present.”

  “Impossible!”

  “Unheard of!”

  “Absolutely not!”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “No way!”

  The last was from Susannah. I patted her reassuringly.

  “Well, how about limited attendance at the funeral?” I felt like Abraham arguing with God over the fate of doomed Sodom and Gomorrah.

  “What do you mean, limited attendance?” My very own Pooky Bear was the first to challenge me.

  “Well, it has been twenty years, hasn’t it? I mean, we don’t all need to attend, do we? Suppose just some of us went and the others stayed home?”

  “Why?” Auntie Lizzie was now betraying me.

  “Why? Well, uh—well, suppose Uncle Jonas didn’t want all of us there?” It was a mere whisper.

  All eyes shifted to Uncle Jonas again, but he only smiled and nodded at me, so they whipped their heads around yet again. They were like observers of a miniature tennis match—all except poor Auntie Leah, of course, who had to swivel her torso. Undoubtedly the woman has a flat, tight tummy that belies her girth.

  I looked past her and fixed my gaze on a spot on Uncle Sol’s collar. “Okay, Uncle Jonas doesn’t want one of you in particular to be there. If you will all see me privately after supper, I’ll let you know if it’s you, in which case you will have time to come up with a decent excuse of your own to stay away and nobody will need to get hurt.” There, do I sound like a mean-spirited woman?

  “Why is this mystery person being banned from the funeral in the first place?” Auntie Leah bellowed.

  “Let’s just say—”

  Uncle Jonas put a hand straight out in front of him, palm out, as if to stop me physically. “Because my Sarah asked this mystery person for help, and they turned her away.”