by Tamar Myers
Samantha took a tentative step forward. “Really?”
“Oh, yes. The men, near as I can tell, have been huddled in there all day, and the women seem to have been banished somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“Who knows? Bedford? Somerset? They took their rental cars and fanned out across the country. Well, I’m assuming they did. Not that they consulted me before they left, although it would have been a good idea. I have some lovely and informative brochures I could have given them. Full-color, you know.”
“Miss Yoder, I have a confession to make.”
“Confess away!” I said, perhaps too gaily.
“I lied before.”
“I knew it! I knew those pitiful paws of yours couldn’t even span an octave. You’re not really a concert pianist, are you?”
“Oh, but I am! I lied to you about my husband.”
I beckoned her closer. “Do tell!”
“Miss Yoder, I think my husband is a spy.”
Nine
“Do tell, dear!”
I steered her into the dining room, which is on the opposite side of the lobby from the parlor. The vexing veterans were going to have their work cut out for them if they expected to eavesdrop on us now.
“Have a seat, dear.” I pointed to a ladderback chair adjacent to a quilt stretched cross a six-foot frame. It is my custom to keep a “quilt in progress” at all times for my guests to try their hands at. If their stitches are reasonably small and neat, I allow the work to remain. If the stitches are sloppy, or too large, I sneak out to the dining room in the middle of the night and redo them. Not only do these quilts function as a form of therapy for my clientele— many of whom are deeply disturbed—but they are a tidy source of income for me. I ship the finished quilts to Lancaster County, where they are snatched up like hotcakes by the swarms of tourists who converge on that Amish community looking to exchange cash for culture.
I threaded a needle for her. “Now, dear, tell me everything.”
“You swear you won’t breathe a word of this to a soul?”
“Amish and Mennonites don’t take oaths. But if it will make you feel any better, I promise to stick this needle in my eye and hope to die if these lips blab a single syllable.”
That seemed to satisfy her. “I don’t think my John is the kind of spy like in the James Bond movies. I mean, he doesn’t have any fancy gadgets that I know of, and as for the women—well, I already told you I thought there was no chance of that.”
I waved a hand impatiently. “I don’t watch movies, dear. Tell me what kind of spy your John is like.”
“I think maybe he’s C.I.A.”
“Really?” I learned forward. I hadn’t heard such a juicy piece of gossip since my first inn blew down.
She paused dramatically, but at least they weren’t wasted seconds because she made a couple of stitches as well.
“Well, something like that. He won’t discuss it, of course. It’s probably only for my safety, you see. But he makes secret phone calls and sometimes, like when we’re traveling, he disappears for a few days.”
“Give me details,” I begged.
Her fingers flew with the needle. “Well, there was that time I gave a concert in Vienna. No sooner had we checked into the Hoffman House—it’s a small but exquisite establishment—when he just up and disappeared. If he hadn’t done the same thing in Belgium the year before I would have been really worried.”
“Ah, so you’re used to this strange behavior of his. Why then all the concern now?”
She looked up from the quilt. “Because Vienna and Brussels, that I can understand. Those are places one would expect spies to operate—or whatever you call what they do. But Hernia, Pennsylvania?”
“I see, so we Herniatites are unworthy of being spied upon.”
“Well—”
I tapped the quilt, and it vibrated, stretched taut as it was. “Those last few stitches of yours look like the tracks of a drunken chicken, dear—and you a concert pianist! For shame.”
She flushed and reached for the stitch-ripper. “I didn’t mean to offend you, Miss Yoder. It’s just that I think my husband is an international spy, and Hernia is practically in Pittsburgh’s backyard.”
“We’re two hours away, and besides, you have no idea how many of the world’s most powerful people have stayed in Hernia.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Wrong. And every one of them stayed right here.” That was true in at least one sense, wasn’t it?
She glanced up at me, and I could tell there was new respect in her eyes. “People like Tony Blair?”
“Bony Tony, I call him.” That’s quite true, although I'd never met the man.
“Of course, there aren’t any famous people here now—besides myself, I mean?”
It still amazes me how someone so small could be so full of herself. “You, my dear,” I said, making a cross- stitch, “are in a class by yourself.”
Samantha beamed. “Maybe I’m being too concerned about John. He is, as you’ve pointed out, a grownup, and quite capable of taking care of himself. It’s just that after so many years—well, he’s a fixture of my life. Even though ours is a less than perfect marriage, I’m rather used to him.”
I ripped out the cross-stitch. There was no use tempting fate, after all. Besides, she really was right. Even if John Burk was a spy—about as likely as Susannah being a closet nun—there really was no reason for him to be snooping around Hernia. Not anymore.
“If he doesn’t show up for dinner, I’ll see what I can do about organizing a search party. Folks around here are very helpful—well, except for our chief of police. But speaking of dinner, I encourage folks to dress up, and since I like to set a good example, I’d best be going.” I anchored my needle and stood up. “Tonight’s going to be very special. We’ll be serving SPAM® luncheon meat.”
Samantha’s eyes lit up like a jack-o’-lantern with twin candles. “Oh, I adore SPAM®. I have this wonderful recipe for SPAM® Western Bean Soup. Do you think your cook would like it?”
“Oh, I’m sure she would, dear. Just be careful how you go about it. Freni can be a mite on the sensitive side.”
Samantha smiled. “Just you leave it to me. I have lots of experience dealing with sensitive people.”
“But there is only one Freni,” I muttered under my breath. “That woman is touchy with a capital T.” Truthfully, I said it so softly that a bat with a hearing aid wouldn’t have heard a thing if it was hanging from my nose. Tell me, then, why it is that Freni, who is supposedly hard of hearing, came flying through the kitchen door.
“I heard that!”
“My, my, we have selective hearing, don’t we, dear?”
“Magdalena, do you want I should quit?”
“Been there, done that,” I said, borrowing a phrase from my sister. I know, it was absolutely foolish, but I wanted to appear “cool” in Samantha’s glowing eyes.
“Yah? So then I quit! You are impossible to work for.”
“But it’s less than an hour until dinner!” I wailed. I realize it now, although I didn’t then; wailing is seldom cool.
Freni stomped one of her sturdy little brogans. “Dinner sinner,” she said, also borrowing from Susannah, “I’m outta here.”
“And good riddance.”
“Excuse me,” Samantha said, gliding sideways toward my impossibly steep stairs. “I think I may have left the water running in my room.”
“Yes, dear, go check on it,” I whispered.
Freni, who had been staring at Samantha open-mouthed, whirled. “What did you say to me, Magdalena?” “I said, ‘good riddance.’ And you mean Big Magdalena, don’t you?”
“Ach!”
“So that’s what everyone calls me, is it?”
Freni flapped her arms uselessly, like a bird with broken wings. “It’s just a nickname. It means nothing.”
“I see. That would explain why you’re called Merry Freni.”
�
�Ach!”
“Tell me, Merry Freni, how long have the Amish been calling me Big Magdalena?”
Freni hid her face in her apron and muttered something incomprehensible.
“Excuse me? I didn’t hear that.”
“Since you were three.”
I gasped. “Well!”
“Of course I saw it the day you were born. I assisted the midwife, you know. I told your mama not to name you Magdalena—that there were too many already by that name, and all the good nicknames were already taken. I told her to name you Freni Yoder—there were only three of those in Bedford County, and one in Somerset, and the one in Somerset was already named Big Freni.”
“Is that so? Well then, what nickname might I have gotten instead?”
Freni shrugged. “Slow Freni, maybe. You never were very quick at learning things.”
“You didn’t just quit,” I wailed, “you’re also fired!”
One of these days I’m going to hire a butler to answer the door for me. Of course, my butler would have to dress like an Amish man, to fit in with my Pennsylvania Dutch theme. Unfortunately, a real Amish man would not pretend to be something he was not. Perhaps there was a nice young man at Bedford Community College who desired a job in show business, and was willing to buttal, not just rebuttal. Ask and you shall receive, the Bible says. Believe me, I do my share of asking, and I’ve done a lot of receiving, but there does not seem to be a fifty- fifty ratio. At least not in my life. In fact, my last three prayers had gone unanswered. Still, I decided to be a faithful Christian and give it one more try.
“Oh Lord, please send me one young good-looking and obedient young man from the drama department at B.C.C. It would be helpful, Lord, if he already has a beard. Those fake beards they sell for Halloween at Walmart don’t look very convincing to me. And nice white teeth, Lord—guests don’t like looking at tobacco and coffee stains. And it wouldn’t hurt if he brought his own costume. I don’t have time to do any sewing now.” Before I could even say “amen” there was a knock on the door.
“Thank you, Lord!”
I strode over to the front door, caught a glimpse of an Amish face through the peephole, and flung it open.
“Ach,” Strubbly Sam squawked, clearly startled.
“You!”
“Yah, it’s me, Big Magdalena—”
“Don’t you Big Magdalena me!” I tried to slam the door on Strubbly Sam, but the man has feet the size of continents, and one of them, South America, I think, was firmly placed on the doorsill.
“Here.” He thrust a hand the size of Belgium through the crack. In it was a package wrapped in brown butcher paper.
Never turn away a man bearing gifts until you’ve had a chance to examine the offerings. I opened the door grudgingly.
“Somebody leave that on my doorstep?”
“Ach, I brought it myself. It’s fresh butter. Three pounds of it.”
I’m no fool, so I took it. “Thanks. Say, Strubbly Sam, are you trying to court me?”
He blushed, from the brim of his straw hat to the V of his white cotton shirt. “Would that be so bad? I’ve been very lonely since my Amanda, God rest her soul, passed on.”
“But Strubbly, dear, I’m Mennonite, and you’re Amish. Doesn’t the Bible warn us against being unevenly yoked in marriage?” Frankly, if I was going to be yoked again, it was going to be with someone to whom deodorant was not a worldly vice. Preferably, it would be to someone closer to my own age—like Mel Gibson or Harrison Ford. Even Brad Pitt would do in a pinch.
“Ach, Magdalena, there is such an easy solution.”
“There is?”
“Yah, I could speak to the new bishop. It would be a simple thing for you to join the Amish church.” He chuckled at his little joke. “After all, your ancestors were all Amish, weren’t they?”
“Indeed they were, dear, but they obviously took issue with some things and left that denomination. Who am I to argue with their wisdom?”
We were still standing in my lobby, and Strubbly Sam was still wearing his straw hat. A more hospitable woman would have invited her guest to take the load off his feet—not that tootsies that size couldn’t support just about anything—but the parlor was occupied, and I was afraid that if I invited Strubbly Sam into the dining room, he might invite himself to supper.
Strubbly Sam seemed quite content to stand. “And doesn’t the Bible say that God created Eve so that Adam wouldn’t have to be alone? So that he would have a helpmate?”
“You’re quite right, dear. But it says nothing about we women needing company. Indeed, had the Good Lord created Eve first, there would have been no need for men.”
“Ach!” Strubbly Sam glanced up at the ceiling, perhaps expecting to see a lightning bolt.
“You see why I wouldn’t make a very good Amish woman?”
He finally had the nerve look away from the ceiling and at me. “You believe in this—this—”
“Equality of the sexes?”
“Yah, that.”
I shook my head vigorously. “No way, dear. It is a biological fact that women are superior to men.”
He gasped.
“Well, maybe not in terms of brute strength, which, if you ask me, is the only reason we’re not in charge of things. But we live longer, are more resilient, and of course we whine a lot less when we’re sick. Oh, did I mention that we are just as intelligent, if not more intelligent, than you?”
Strubbly Sam, now the color of powdered sugar, was swaying like a birch in a thunderstorm. Had it not been for South America and Africa beneath him, he might well have pitched forward, possibly even adding to the death toll of these premises. It was clear that Big Magdalena now stood a snowball’s chance in you-know-where of ever becoming the next Mrs. Strubbly Sam Berkey.
“You don’t suppose your new bishop would agree with me?”
“Ach!”
“Well, I guess that settles that then, doesn’t it? But I hear that Anna Yutzy is already twenty-three and still unmarried. That’s a real shame, you know, because she makes the best pie crust in the county, and with hips like those—well, there could be a whole new generation of Strubbly Sams running around the Hernia area.”
Once again, duo continents kept my visitor upright. “Ach! Anna Yutzy is—is—”
“Now, be kind, dear. And don’t think you’re too old to procreate. If Clint Eastwood can, you can too. And I just happen to know that Anna Yutzy loves children.”
He mumbled something about his horse being more attractive than Anna, which normally would have offended me, but in this case, it was all too true. The poor dear has one of the ugliest faces and weirdest shapes of any filly around—and yes, I’m speaking of Strubbly Sam’s horse.
“Yah, I must always try to be kind. I will confess this sin to the congregation next meeting Sunday.”
“Don’t you dare. That will only humiliate poor Anna. Besides, you didn’t mutter your unflattering remark to another Amish person. Just to these worldly ears of mine—and believe me, what goes into one, goes right out the other. So consider your nasty little comment unsaid.”
“Yah. You are a wise woman, Magdalena.”
“Feel free to change my name to Wise Magdalena, dear. And of course spread the word. Maybe someday folks will refer to me simply as the Wise One. I’ve never been too fond of Magdalena, you know.”
Strubbly Sam looked doubtful, but having learned his lesson, held his tongue.
“Well—thanks again for the butter.” I tried edging him back to the door. It must take a lot of energy to uproot two-sevenths of the earth’s land surface, because he remained as immobile as Lot’s wife after she turned around for one last glimpse of Sodom.
“Do you need a gentle push?” I asked sensibly.
He blinked. “Ach, I was just thinking.”
“There’s a first time for everything, dear.” I don’t mean to be cruel, but Strubbly Sam has another nickname: Slow Sam. Don’t take my word for it, either. Ask anyone in Bedford and
Somerset counties. Strubbly Sam Berkey is not the fastest mare to pull a loaded buggy.
Strubbly Sam smiled. “I understood that joke about thinking. It’s because I’m from Australia, yah?” Australia! So that was it! Who would have thought there were Amish down under? Did they, perchance, hitch kangaroos to their buggies?
“G’day mate!” I said, pleased to give him a gentle push. “Take care crossing the billabong, and when you get home throw a few shrimp on the barbie for me.” Strubbly, or Slow Sam—take your pick—had grown roots. “You really must be going, dear.”
“Ach, Big Magdalena, are you all right?”
“It’s Wise Magdalena now, remember? And I’m peachy-keen. What makes you ask?”
“You seem so eager that I should leave.”
“Silly me. I guess I just hadn’t considered the possibility of a live Amish coatrack. Do you do hats as well? Of course, you must, you’re wearing a hat!”
“That was sarcasm, maybe?”
“Very good, dear, and so is this.”
I am ashamed to say that the poor man’s face looked like a soufflé after the oven door has been slammed. I hate treating anyone badly—except for the truly deserved, like Melvin Stoltzfus—and especially an old defenseless Amish man like Strubbly Sam.
“Big Magdalena, if you are in any kind of trouble—if anything is wrong—you can turn to me. Maybe there is something I can do to help.”
“Really? Well, in that case, my cook just quit, my slutty, slovenly sister is marrying a mantis, and one of my guests is missing. Now fix that!”
Strubbly Sam grinned. “I can fix all three things.”
Ten
SPAM® Western Bean Soup
1 cup chopped onion
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
1 cup sliced carrots
3 (10½-ounce) cans condensed chicken broth
1 (14 1-ounce) can tomatoes, cut up
1/3 cup chili sauce
3 tablespoons firmly packed brown sugar
3 tablespoons cider vinegar
2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce
