by Tamar Myers
“Oh, no, she didn’t already give it to you, did she?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Besides, you’re just wasting time.”
“I am not! Earl! Earl! Are you here?”
“You see what I mean? You keep calling for Earl, and he’s not one of the two presences.”
“Earl is the real estate agent,” I snapped, “and anyway, how do you know he isn’t one of the two missing people? You haven’t even asked their names.”
“He wasn’t in my dreams.”
“Well, who was?”
“I don’t know—but I’ll recognize their names when I hear them.”
“I can’t believe I’m here,” I moaned. “For all I know you abducted poor Irma Yoder.”
“Ah, Irma! Of course. She has a very strong aura. I can feel it everywhere.”
“Sit by her in church on Sunday morning and you can smell it, too,” I said matter-of-factly. “It’s enough to make you pass out, especially if it’s summer. Why is it that so many older folks think they no longer have to bathe?”
Diana wasn’t interested in Irma’s hygiene habits. “Now tell me the other name.”
“Arthur.”
“What? Magdalena, are you playing games with me?”
“That’s one way of putting it, dear. I prefer to think of it as a little test. For all I know, you have no psychic skills.”
“Okay, Magdalena, if that’s the way you want it. But it’s just another waste of time. I’ll know the right name when I hear it.”
Maybe she would, or maybe she wouldn’t. “Horatio.”
“That’s not it.”
“You’re right. It’s a woman’s name—Dorothy.”
“That’s not it, either.”
“Mr. Burk?”
“Yeah, that’s it. I can feel his aura too. He’s been in this room.”
A chill ran up my bony back. We were in the smaller of Rebecca’s two parlors then, ringed by foothills of worn-out shoes, which in turn were surrounded by mountains of empty cereal boxes, lampshades, and cheap vinyl clothes hampers. Mr. Burk could well be hiding—or stashed as a corpse—behind any of the refuse piles.
“Is he alive?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Magdalena. The dead don’t have auras.”
“So where is he? Is he still in this room?”
Black flaps of faux hair swung from side to side. “I’m not picking it up strong enough for that. Here”—she stepped out into the main hall, catching her heel on a wire coat hanger—“and there.” She pointed to the stairs.
I shook my head, but my damp bun didn’t budge. “Don’t look at me, dear. I’m not going up there. It’s spooky enough down here. Besides, Mr. Burk is a big guy. He can take care of himself.”
“Magdalena, you must go up there.”
“That’s what you think, dear.” I turned and headed for the front door. At least, that was my intention. And while I do not, for a moment, ascribe any special powers to the demented Diana, I found myself inexplicably turning again and heading for the stairs.
“Why me?” I wailed as my feet carried me up two treacherous flights. The Miller stairs, while not as impossibly steep as mine, were an obstacle course of precariously stacked junk and slippery surfaces.
“Don’t worry, Magdalena. Like I said, in my second dream you survive.”
“What if your dreams mean nothing?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. And besides, I’m right behind you.”
Those were the last words I heard before the lights went out in my head.
Nineteen
I moaned, I groaned, and I phoned.
“Nine-one-one? This is Magdalena Yoder. A 747 just landed on my head.”
“She’s coming around now,” an angel said. “Nine-one-one? Forget I called. I made it up there after all.”
“Miss, are you all right?”
I gazed up at the angel through a fine mist. Brown eyes, dark curly hair—okay, so he wasn’t your typical Renaissance angel, but in heaven anything is possible. Even a male angel. And this angel was definitely male; he was wafting male pheromones like pollen on a spring breeze.
“What happened to your wings, dear? Did you send them out to be cleaned?”
“You see? She talks nonsense.”
I tried to focus on the second speaker who, while not the devil, was certainly his female counterpart. “Get behind me, Satan,” I moaned.
“Ach, such nonsense! Didn’t I tell you?”
“Freni? Freni is that you? Did you make it to Heaven too?”
Before my fickle cook could answer, the mist cleared and I found myself staring into the eyes of Irma Yoder. “Oh, no,” I wailed, “not the other place!”
“Stop it, Magdalena! Stop it this second!”
I tried to sit up, but a second jumbo jet came in for a landing, flattening me in the process.
“Where am I?”
The dark-haired angel laid a well-manicured hand on my forehead. “Lie still, Miss. You may have had a concussion.”
“Concussion, my eye! Can’t you feel the tread marks?”
Irma Yoder snorted. “She always was as fruity as a plum pudding.”
I ignored her and concentrated on the angel. He was a superb specimen of celestial manhood—tall, lean, broad shouldered with narrow waist and hips. He was even around my age, which frankly struck me as rather odd, considering he was an angel. I mean, according to the Bible angels have been around for thousands of years. Assuming they had a choice in the matter, and didn’t want to look several millenniums old, why would an angel pick forty-six? Why not twenty-six? Or more sensibly, sixty-six? If you’re shooting for character, why not go all the way?
“What’s your name, dear?”
“Gabriel.”
“Of course. How long have you been around?”
“About ten minutes. Look, Miss—”
I struggled into a sitting position. Let another plane hit me. I could have been sitting on Runway 1 at Pittsburgh International Airport for all I cared.
“Just ten minutes?”
Old Irma stuck her craggy face between Gabriel’s and mine. “And he wouldn’t have come at all, if I hadn’t screamed. Isn’t that right?”
“The Lord works in mysterious ways, dear.”
“It wasn’t the Lord who screamed, Magdalena. It was me.”
“Is that so? Now be a good girl, Old Irma, and wait your turn in line to register. You’ve had oodles of chances to go to Heaven, and you couldn’t be bothered.”
“Why, I never! Such a tongue you have, Big Magdalena.” She turned to my angel. “Her tongue can slice salami, you know.”
“It cannot!”
Gabriel seemed as amused as he was confused. “How does your vision seem?”
“Never been better, dear.”
“How many fingers do you see?” he asked, holding up a victory sign.
“Four very handsome tanned fingers, dear.”
“Four?”
“Well, not including a very handsome tanned thumb.”
Gabriel smiled and laid two of those handsome fingers on my pulse. “Now just relax, if you can.”
“The last man who said that to me is living in Minnesota with his real wife. You’re not married, are you? Of course not—how silly of me! Angels don’t get married.”
Gabriel frowned. “Your pulse is a little fast. Maybe I should run you into town. We can run an MRI and see if there’s a hairline fracture.”
“Run me any place you like, dear, but not back down to earth. I’m not saying I’ve had an especially hard life, but it hasn’t been a picnic either. Besides, I’ve covered all the bases I’m ever going to cover. My papa used to say that”—my pulse raced—“hey, is he here? And Mama? Again, those are such silly questions. Of course they’re here. Mama’s probably driving God crazy telling him what to do.”
“Nuttier than a squirrel’s pantry,” Old Irma said, shaking her ancient head.
The angel smiled again. “Miss—uh
, Magdalena—I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but you’re not in Heaven.” For the first time I looked past God’s messenger and at my surroundings. They looked remarkably similar to the Miller house. Perhaps God also loved to collect and had hired a straight decorator.
“Please don’t tell me I’m in a musty Mennonite museum. Because it’s either that or I’m you-know-where.”
Old Irma cackled. “I’ve got to agree with her on that one. Those Millers have always been packrats, and Rebecca never did have an ounce of taste.”
I blinked rapidly, hoping to erase the house and Old Irma, but keep the angel. Alas, it didn’t work.
“Okay, so I’m still here in this horrible gray house. But where’s Diana Lefcourt, and what’s he doing here?” Confidentially, I was afraid to look at Gabriel now that I knew he was all man. It’s one thing to lust after an angel, since, as everyone knows, they are above carnal needs, but a man—no way! Never again.
The sharpest tongue east of the Mississippi wagged at the speed of light. “Diana’s gone for help. A pity how that woman’s turned out—a sin even, pretending to be Potiphar’s wife. But what else can one expect from the product of a mixed marriage? I told Diana’s mama not to marry a Methodist. They’re just one step away from Presbyterians. Elizabeth Mast married a Catholic, for crying out loud. You can be sure she’s you-know-where.” Old Irma turned to Gabriel. “What church are you?” “I’m Jewish.”
Her eyes widened, but she nodded slowly. “Well, at least your people are mentioned in the Bible. Methodists aren’t.”
“Neither are Mennonites, dear.”
Old Irma glared at me. “Don’t argue with your elders, Big Magdalena.”
Fortunately for my soul, Grabriel intervened. “We haven’t officially met. My name is Dr. Gabriel Rosen— although my friends call me Gabe—and you are—?”
I sneaked a quick peek at the man. He was still an angel.
“Magdalena Portulacca Yoder,” I said in a loud, clear voice, “proprietress of the PennDutch Inn.”
“I’m delighted to meet you.”
“Likewise, I’m sure.” Truer words were never spoken, and just to show that I wasn’t the slightest bit prejudiced, I held out my hand. The handsome tanned fingers felt just as nice belonging to a man.
“Well, Magdalena, you certainly have a good grip.”
I grinned foolishly and dropped my hand. “So, Doctor— I mean, Gabe—what brings you to our neck of the woods, and to this dump in particular?”
Old Irma had fingers too, but they were far from handsome. One of them, just as crooked as a pretzel, waggled in my face.
“Enough with the small talk. That man tried to kill me.” “Don’t be ridiculous, dear.”
“And he would have killed you too, if I hadn’t screamed and scared him away.”
I had gotten over my reluctance to gaze upon Gabe.
Since lust is a sin, I’ll know I’m truly dead when I see Jimmy Carter.
“You’re talking gibberish, dear. This man is not a killer.”
“Not him, you nincompoop. Johanne Burkholder!”
“And you had the nerve to call me nutty! Dr. Rosen, you aren’t a psychiatrist by any chance, are you?”
“I’m afraid not. I’m a heart surgeon—well, I was. I don’t practice anymore.”
The waggling pretzel poked me in the chest. “I don’t need a doctor, Big Magdalena. I need someone with a lick of sense who will listen to what I say.”
“We’re listening,” Gabe said gently.
“Yes, dear, we’re all ears. Babble away!”
The pretzel jabbed harder, digging into my sternum. “You’ll regret this, Magdalena. So help me, you’ll regret that you let a Nazi war criminal get away.”
I winced as another plane landed on my head.
Twenty
SPAM® Stuffed Potatoes Florentine
Vegetable cooking spray
1 teaspoon butter or margarine
1 (12-ounce) can SPAM® Lite Luncheon Meat, cubed
1/3 cup chopped onion
1 (10-ounce) package frozen chopped spinach, thawed and squeezed dry
¼ teaspoon dried leaf thyme
6 baking potatoes, baked and kept warm
1 cup skim milk
2 tablespoons grated Parmesan cheese
1 teaspoon pepper
1 cup shredded Monterey Jack cheese
¼ cup shredded Cheddar cheese
Heat oven to 350 F. Spray a shallow rectangular 2-quart baking dish with vegetable cooking spray. In a large non-stick skillet, sauté SPAM® in butter 3 minutes. Add onion, spinach, and thyme; cook and stir 2 minutes. Set aside. Cut a thin slice off the top of each potato. Scoop out each potato, leaving a ½-inch shell. Place shells in prepared baking dish. Place scooped-out potato in medium mixing bowl. Beat at medium speed 30 seconds. Add milk, Parmesan cheese, and pepper; beat just until combined. Stir in SPAM® mixture. Fill potato shells with potato mixture. Bake, uncovered, 25 to 30 minutes or until thoroughly heated. Top with cheeses. Bake five minutes longer or until cheese is melted.
Serves 6.
NUTRITIONAL INFORMATION PER SERVING:
Calories 396; Protein 18g; Carbohydrate 54g; Fat 12g; Cholesterol 56mg; Sodium 704mg.
Twenty-One
“Tell me about the Nazi,” I said weakly. Thank heavens gorgeous Gabe had the good sense to move us out on the porch. Still concerned that I might have a concussion, my guardian angel had carried me there in his arms.
Old Irma had walked. Having to use her God-given legs, while I used Gabe’s, had not put the old biddy in a better mood.
“Some of us had lives, Magdalena.”
“Tell me about it, dear. You may have lived longer than Methuselah, but Diana Lefcourt has you beat. She was Methuselah.”
Old Irma pointed to her head and made a circular motion. “She was kicked in the head while trying to milk a bull,” she muttered to Gabriel.
“I was not! That was Melvin Stoltzfus, and you know it. Are you going to tell us about your Nazi, or are you going to be the one who lets him get away?”
“He wasn’t my Nazi. Although he did come to visit sometimes. Brought flowers to my apartment on Rue Ordener. My Nazi was much older.”
I gasped. “So those stories are true! You were the Fuehrer’s floozy!”
Old Irma made a face which, given the ravages of one hundred and three years, was quite a feat. “I never met the Fuehrer. My Nazi was Franz von Weimar, assistant chief of military intelligence in France.”
“An oxymoron, dear. Even so, as Weimar’s wench you were a traitor to your country.”
“I worked for my country.”
“You’re German?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Magdalena. I was born right here in Hernia, the same year your granddaddy was born. If you didn’t interrupt so much, you would know by now that I was an American spy.”
“Get out of town!”
“That’s exactly what Franz said when he found out. He loved me, you know. Of course, I didn’t love him. To the contrary, I hated him—hated what he stood for. But I had to pretend that the sun rose and set in his eyes.” Suddenly it all fit together. John Burk was really Johanne Burkholder, and he was Old Irma’s illegitimate son. No doubt Burkholder had been Irma’s alias, and when she had her baby, or babies, out of wedlock she gave them her fictitious name.
“Well, you liked him enough to have his baby.”
“I most certainly did not!”
“Two babies, then—or was it three?”
“I never had a baby in my life!”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“Those silly rumors have been floating around ever since I returned from Europe. And just because I didn’t talk about my life. Well, I assure you, I am nobody’s mother.”
“Then who is the Nazi? Who is Johanne Burkholder?”
“Johanne—although, apparently, he goes by the name John now—was an acquaintance from my cabaret days. You see, I was a very accomplished
singer. Very popular too, I might add, and—”
“And humble”—I clamped a hand over my mouth, lest I provoke her into silence.
“No, I wasn’t humble. Not in those days. I had that certain je ne sais quoi that men found irresistible. But I wasn’t the tramp you seem to think I was. I didn’t sleep with anyone. I merely flirted. Held parties—open houses, really—that were both gay and intellectually stimulating. We called them salons in those days.”
“We call them saloons these days.”
“Bite your tongue, Magdalena. You have no respect for the older generation.”
“Bite your tongue and your gums will bleed.”
Gabriel placed a poker-hot hand on my shoulder. “Please, ladies.”
“Oh, all right. Continue, dear,” I said graciously.
Irma stuck her considerable Yoder nose in the air. There are Yoder noses, and then there are Yoder noses. Small planes could land on Irma’s.
“Well, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, Franz von Weimar was a great admirer of mine, and so was his protege young Johanne Burkholder. I do believe the boy was even more in love with me than was his mentor.”
“Tch, tch,” was all I could manage before my angel gently covered my mouth with his hand. I would gladly have remained mute the rest of my days to keep that hand there.
Irma’s nose made a quick dip, like a polygraph needle, but she scarcely paused. “Anyway, young Johanne was posted elsewhere, and of course I had no idea where, because he was a spy like me, you see. I did get the occasional letter, delivered grudgingly by Franz, who was getting rather tiresome. Then one day the State Department decided things had gotten too hot in the City of Light, and yanked me back stateside. Boy, was I ever relieved. Unlike some”—she glowered at me—“I would never have gone to bed with Franz von Weimer.”
“Ahn wohad nawgh!” I wailed into Grabriel’s palm.
“And then this morning, while I was making breakfast, he suddenly appears. Johanne, I mean, not Franz. Right there in my kitchen. Well, I was so surprised I cut myself.” She held up her left hand, whose index finger sported a beige bandage.
