by Tamar Myers
“At Elvina’s.”
“Ach du Leiber!”
That was it. Freni didn’t clasp her chest, lapse into unconsciousness, or even foam at the mouth. She sat as still as Lot’s wife might have sat, had she not been standing at the moment of salinization.
I lowered my hands and took a timorous step toward her. “Freni? Are you all right?”
Her shoulders shook under the cape-like flanges of her apron. Since I believed that neither of us was genetically capable of weeping in public, it took me a moment to figure out that this was indeed what she was doing. I looked away again, lest I be turned into a pillar of salt.
“Freni, dear, Susannah’s soul is not your responsibility. Mama and Papa left her in my care.”
Much to my horror she turned a tear-streaked face in my direction. “Ach, it isn’t her soul! That’s between her and God.”
I jiggled a pinkie in my left ear to make sure I was hearing right. Either that wax problem was back, or the magazines I saw at the supermarket were right—creatures from outer space did exist. But I had yet to read of an extraterrestrial posing as an elderly Amish woman.
“Run that by me again, dear,” I said calmly.
“I said that Susannah’s soul is not my business.”
“Quick, name all fifty states, and give me their capitals!”
“Ach, you’re talking nonsense, Magdalena, and me with my pain!”
“What pain is that, dear? Your bunions acting up again?”
“The pain in my heart,” Freni wailed. “Susannah didn’t invite me!”
I jiggled pinkies in both ears. “You want to go?”
“I’ve known Susannah since the day she was born! I knew your mother since the day she was born! Of course I want to be there.”
“Who were the fifth and sixth presidents of the United States?”
“Ach, Magdalena, more games at a time like this?”
“Either you name them, buster, or I’m kicking you all the way back to your home planet.” Okay, so that remark set generations of pacifist ancestors spinning in their graves, but how would they feel about a Martian in Amish drag?
Freni’s eyes grew round behind her specs. “Thomas Jefferson and James Madison, in that order. Are you satisfied now?”
I had to take her word for it. Between John Adams and Dwight D. Eisenhower, my presidential file is blank. Yes, I know Lincoln and a couple of Roosevelts were somewhere between those two—and a Truman, I think, but I can’t name anyone sequentially. And I went to college, whereas Freni only graduated from the eighth grade.
“Okay, you pass.” I wiped my pinkie tips on my skirt. “Look dear, I’m sure Susannah is planning to invite you. I only found out about it yesterday.”
Freni removed her glasses and wiped her eyes with a corner of her apron. Funny, but without her glasses she looked ten years older. No doubt the thick lenses hid her wrinkles.
“And Elvina,” she sniffed. “That hurts me too. Why didn’t she tell me? We’re supposed to be best friends.”
“Maybe she was afraid to.”
“Afraid?”
“More like embarrassed. I mean on account of it’s Susannah’s second wedding, and Melvin is—well—”
“An ox short of a plow team?”
I stared at her. She seemed to be staring, only half-seeing, back at me. We burst into laughter simultaneously. We didn’t laugh for very long, of course, seeing as how we are both wary of intimacy.
“So what do you think of this group of English?” I asked when it was time for us to stop laughing. “They’re not like that Hollywood crowd, are they?”
“Yah, not the same.” Freni sighed. No doubt she was thinking of Mel Gibson. She had never been to a movie, never even watched television, so she had no idea her precious Mel has been a killer on screen.
Leaving well enough alone seems like a waste of potential to me. “Did you know that in the movie Braveheart your precious Mel hacked people to death with a sword?”
“So did Moses and Joshua,” Freni said, without batting an eye.
I can stop and turn on a dime, if that means I get to pick it up. “Exactly, dear. So the fact that our guests may have blown a few German tanks into oblivion is no big deal, right?”
“Ach!” She looked like Miss Muffet when she realized that not only was a there a spider beside her, but there had been one in her whey as well.
“Give me a break, Freni. It’s hard to imagine these gray-haired men as killers, isn’t it?”
She nodded reluctantly. “Yah, they’re just old, like me. But they’re very strange, Magdalena. Maybe they’re spies.”
“Spies?”
“Did you know they locked themselves in the parlor this morning?”
“I gave them permission to use it, Freni. It’s their conference room.”
“But they wouldn’t even come out for lunch. I had to leave a tray outside the door!”
Confidentially, that hiked my hackles as well. I’d had to run into Bedford to do some banking and had grabbed a bite there. But normally I eat with my guests, and the meals are at fixed times.
“They’ll come out for dinner,” I growled. “And they’ll be there on time, or they’ll do without.”
Freni smiled approvingly. Our ancestors are Swiss, after all. We eat on time, we sleep on time, we even go to the bathroom on time. It was the good Lord who invented schedules when He created the world in six days, and it is our Christian duty to follow his example.
“You go, girl,” she said, demonstrating that I had hosted one too many Hollywood guests. “But I need you to do me a favor, Magdalena.”
I frowned. “I will not talk Barbara into giving her triplets up for adoption. You’re too old to be their mother. I thought I made that perfectly clear the last time you brought it up.”
My kinswoman colored. “Ach, not that! I just need you to run to the market for me. I decided to serve this SPAM® luncheon meat for dinner.”
“But I just came back from town,” I wailed. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“I hadn’t tasted it then, that’s why. So, what do you want—fried calves liver or SPAM® Jambalaya?”
That was a no-brainer, as Susannah is fond of saying. I high-tailed it off to Hernia in search of SPAM®.
Five
SPAM® Jambalaya
1 (12-ounce) can SPAM® Lite luncheon meat, cubed
1 cup chopped onion
2/3 cup chopped green bell pepper
1 cup chopped celery
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 (14 ½-ounce) can tomatoes, cut up
1 (10¾-ounce) can lower-sodium chicken broth
1 teaspoon dried leaf thyme
6 to 8 drops hot pepper sauce
1 bay leaf
1 cup long-grain rice
2 tablespoons chopped parsley
In large nonstick skillet or 3-quart nonstick saucepan, sauté SPAM®, onion, green pepper, celery, and garlic until vegetables are tender. Add tomatoes, chicken broth, thyme, hot pepper sauce, and bay leaf. Bring to a boil; stir in rice. Cover. Reduce heat and simmer 20 minutes or until rice is tender. Discard bay leaf. Sprinkle with parsley.
Serves 6.
NUTRITIONAL INFORMATION PER SERVING:
Calories 261; Protein 13g; Carbohydrate 32g; Fat 8g, Cholesterol 45mg; Sodium 850mg.
Six
Before high-tailing it into town I did the polite thing and checked on my guests in the parlor. Okay, so I didn’t knock, but what’s the big deal? It is my inn, after all. “You gentlemen need anything?” I asked graciously. Four elderly men stared at me, their expressions every bit as frozen as the figures on Mt. Rushmore.
“You know, pencils, paper, breath mints”—I looked pointedly at Scott Montgomery—“low-fat snacks.”
The men said nothing.
I smiled. “Well, how about some gun powder? Maybe a few sticks of dynamite?”
Bob Hart stood slowly. “Beg your pardon, ma’am?”
“For your cons
piracy.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, aren’t you trying to overthrow the government? I mean, this isn’t your average army reunion. You’ve got to admit that. Even I know that you’re supposed to be singing war songs and swapping stories of courage under fire. But it’s quiet as a tomb in here.” Then I noticed that the shades were pulled. “And dark as a tomb, too. Well, I can easily fix that.”
Scott stood, which put him shoulder to head with Bob. “Thanks, Miss Yoder, but we like it like this.”
“No problem, really.”
I started toward the nearest window, but Bob, moving with surprising adroitness, blocked my way.
“With all due respect, ma’am. This is the way we like it.”
“Nonsense. You’ll strain your eyes.”
“Ma’am, you said we could have complete privacy.”
“Oh, all right,” I wailed, “but if you pass out secret decoder rings, I want one!”
“We’ve got you on the list, ma’am.”
“And a secret spy name too.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bob said. “We’ll keep that in mind.” He didn’t seem to be kidding.
It was time to get my tail out of there and into town.
Yoder’s Corner Market is the only place in Hernia one can buy comestibles intended for the human palate—which is not to say that all the food sold there is palatable. Sam Yoder has been known to sell iceberg lettuce so old a well-aimed head could sink the Titanic. And his prices are sky high. Normally I eschew the place and do my shopping in Bedford. But there are those isolated occasions when I prefer to drive two miles instead of twelve, and to be perfectly frank, feel a need to catch up on local news. Don’t get me wrong, it is a sin to gossip, but as a pillar of the community, it is my duty to keep informed. How else am I supposed to pass an informed judgment, never mind set a better example?
Samuel Nevin Yoder is my father’s first cousin once removed, but he never gives me any sort of discount. In fact, he won’t even honor my coupons. That’s because Sam likes me, you see. Ever since we were in third grade together, and I purposely pinched his pinkie with my three-ring binder, Sam has had a thing for me. The day after I damaged his digit Sam smeared peanut butter in my braids. I retaliated by kissing him, and we have been at war ever since. Sam’s biggest victory was when he married Dorothy Gillman from New York State. She was a Methodist, for crying out loud, and Sam twisted that knife he’d plunged when he converted to her faith. I would like to think my ill-fated marriage to Aaron paid him back in spades, but on the eve of my wedding Sam sent me a bottle of alcohol-free Champagne. When my Pooky Bear ditched me in favor of his legal spouse in Minnesota, Sam asked that I return the bottle. Alas, those are hardly the actions of a man still pining for my love.
But back to my mission. I was in luck. Sam had eight tins of regular SPAM® luncheon meat and seven of SPAM® Lite, all neatly stacked next to the albacore tuna. I put fifteen cans in my basket, and then had a change of heart and returned two of the regular cans. I mean, why deprive others of the joy of SPAM®?
I watched carefully as Sam rang up the SPAM®. The man has been known to overcharge me. Perhaps I was looking especially fine that morning, or Sam had had a squabble with Dorothy, because not only did he charge me the correct price, he slipped a York peppermint pattie and a bag of Reese’s Pieces into my grocery bag along with the meat. I pretended not to notice.
“So what’s new?” I asked breezily. Our little war does not prevent the exchange of information, and Sam likes to dish the dis as much as folks like hearing it.
“Drusilla Stucky had a bunion removed last week.”
“That’s old news, dear. She asked us to pray for her in church Sunday. The way she carried on, you would have thought she’d stepped on a land mine. Those Stuckys have always been sissies, if you ask me.”
“My mother was a Stucky.”
I gulped. “Yes, but only on her father’s side. Anything else?”
“Harriet Blough’s nail fungus finally cleared up. Apparently, she’d been soaking her toes in some sort of herbal tea. The new growth is pink and as shiny as tiddlywinks.”
“That’s nice, dear.” I meant it. Harriet took her shoes and socks off once at a church picnic and three people threw up, myself included. “Any news that is not foot related?”
Sam scratched his head. It is not nearly as handsome a head as Aaron’s, but it sports a passable amount of hair, and the infamous Yoder nose has been tamed in this in-stance by the Schrock blood.
“Peter Schwartzentruber passed a kidney stone last night.”
“Well, at least we’re moving on up!”
“Tobias Gindlesperger bought electric milkers for his Holsteins.”
“You don’t say!” The truth is, I already knew that the Gindlespergers, an Amish family, had run an electric line out to their barn. According to Freni, the Gindlespergers were on the threshold of leaving the Amish community and joining us Mennonites. Apparently, that threshold had just been crossed.
“Now it’s your turn.”
"What?”
Sam winked. “Don’t you have any news for me?”
I thought hard. As a Methodist, Sam lives almost entirely in the world, and as a consequence watches a good many movies. He even owns a large-screen TV. Back in the days when I played Hostess to Hollywood, Sam had displayed a strong interest in the personal habits of celebrities. Brands of deodorants used on famous underarms seemed to hold a particular fascination for him.
“There’s nobody famous out at the inn,” I wailed. “Just a bunch of World War II veterans and their wives.”
Sam wrinkled his nose, which, although tamed, was still considerable. “Military. And you call yourself a pacifist.”
“They’re old men now! And besides, they’re not all vets. There’s a retired history professor and his wife.”
Sam had the audacity to reach into my shopping bag and withdraw the Reese’s Pieces.
“Susannah’s getting married,” I said quickly before he could get my pattie.
“I know.”
“What? Who told you?”
Before Sam could answer, two Amish women wheeled their shopping buggies to the checkout counter. They may have been wearing bonnets, but you can be sure their ears were straining against the stiff black fabric. I stepped adroitly aside with my tins of SPAM® and remaining candy.
As soon as the door whooshed shut behind them I was on Sam like white on rice. I mean that metaphorically, of course. I did not, as he once claimed, have him by the throat.
I plunked the bag of SPAM® on the counter. “Who told you?”
“Melvin himself.”
“What? When?”
“You should have heard him, Magdalena. He was in here, not an hour ago, crowing like a cock with a flock of hens all to himself. Said the ‘to-do’ was going to be at his mama’s on account you were too stingy to spring for it.”
“Why, that miserable mantis! Just wait until I get my mitts on his carapace.”
“I hope you don’t mind that he invited me and Dorothy. After all, I’m giving him a twenty per cent discount on the soda pop they’ll be serving at the party.”
“Party! What party?”
“The one Zelda is throwing them tomorrow night. Of course, Zelda doesn’t make that much money, so Melvin’s pitching in.”
“Nobody told me about a party!”
“Well, I just assumed—I mean, Susannah is your sister.”
I burst into tears.
Sam stared. I don’t believe I as much as shed a tear the time he smeared the peanut butter in my hair—even though when I got home Mama spanked me with a hairbrush for wasting food. At any rate, there didn’t seem to be anyone else in the market—or if there was, they were hiding in the dry goods aisle—so while Sam looked on, I let it all out. I bawled, I wailed, I gnashed my teeth. I complained bitterly about the inequities of life, the fickleness of fortune, and the burden of loving a sister as thankless as Susannah. When I was quite t
hrough I wiped my eyes on my sleeve, blew my nose on the hanky I keep in my bra, and squared my shoulders.
“Well, dear, I’ll see you at the wedding.”
“You mean the party, don’t you?”
“I haven’t been invited, remember?”
“Magdalena, please don’t take this out on Susannah. The whole thing was Melvin’s idea, after all.”
I reached for my shopping bag, but he was quicker and snatched it away. “I’ll tell you some real gossip if you promise to take it easy on your sister.”
“No deal.”
“It’s really juicy.”
“Martha Lichty lose her dentures in the outhouse again?”
He laughed. “Better than that. So, you promise?”
I nodded reluctantly, my fingers crossed behind my back. I hate having to lie, but it is foolish to trade one’s word for something sight unseen. Besides, taking things out on Susannah is a skill I’ve honed through the years, and it has always been in her best interest. And anyway, doesn’t the Bible warn us not to hide our talents?
“This better be good,” I growled.
Sam leaned over the counter and cupped his free hand to his mouth. “Lodema Schrock dyes her hair.”
I gasped. “She does not!”
Lodema Schrock is my pastor’s wife. She is a one- woman vigilante team obsessed with monitoring the morals of her husband’s flock. Rumor has it that she studied at the feet of the Ayatollah. I know for a fact that Lodema eyeballs our hem lengths, inspects our nails for polish, and lifts telltale lipstick stains from coffee cups in the social hall at church. Reliable witnesses tell me that the woman peeks into bedroom windows and rummages through our rubbish. When one of us is found wanting—and there is always a “victim of the week”— Lodema appears on the unfortunate person’s porch with Bible in hand and a lengthy lecture in mind.
I must hasten to add that Reverend Schrock does not condone his wife’s behavior, although, alas, he is powerless to stop her. The poor man doesn’t even know who her victims are in advance. To his credit, however, he has organized the Mennonite Women’s Sewing Circle into what he calls “the Lodema alert.” As soon as she leaves the parsonage on her righteous warpath, he calls one of us, and we in turn spread the word. Anyone with anything to hide does so, and by a series of phone calls, we are usually able to track her well enough to predict her final destination. The real sinner then high-tails it out of town for the day.
