by Tamar Myers
“What a charming accent,” I finally said. “Are you originally from Minnesota?”
For a split second he looked like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. “You have an excellent ear, Miss Yoder. I was indeed born in Minnesota.”
“Minneapolis?”
“New Bedford—a tiny little town on the Canadian border. I’m sure you’ve never heard of it. Anyway, I consider myself a Pennsylvanian now.”
“Welcome to Pennsylvania, dear.”
He grimaced. “I’ve lived here for fifty years. No doubt that’s longer than you have.”
I wrinkled my considerable nose. “No doubt, dear.”
“Miss Yoder, is there any way to hurry this along? I have a migraine headache and would really like to lie down.”
“Hold your horses,” I said sweetly, “your credit card company has me on hold.”
The diminutive Samantha put a comforting hand on her husband’s arm. “You go on up to the room, dear. I’ll finish up down here.”
He gave her a quick kiss that seemed stiff and unnatural, and snatched the key from my hand.
“Well, I never!”
He strode off without as much as a grant of apology. “Third room on the right,” I yelled at his back, “and be careful going up those impossibly steep stairs. I’m not liable if you take a tumble.”
Actually, I probably am. I don’t know what possessed me to have the same wickedly steep stairs rebuilt in my new inn—although I did have them carpeted to make them less slippery. A woman had fallen to her death on the old stairs, for crying out loud. Perhaps it was nostalgia—not for the corpse, mind you—but for life as it used to be. Before the inn blew down, before I married Aaron Miller, who was already married, thereby consigning myself to the rank of unwitting adulteress.
“What an evil man,” I muttered.
“Please excuse him,” Samantha said earnestly. “John is really a friendly, outgoing man. It’s just that these headaches can be so debilitating.”
“Just the same—”
“I brought those books you asked for,” she said smoothly.
“You did?”
“They’re in one of these bags. I’ll get them for you the second I unpack.”
“Great!”
The Burk credit card cleared. I jotted down the confirmation number and handed her the slip to sign.
“Anyway, I was speaking of my ex-husband, dear. Well, in a sense he was my husband—I mean, we were never legally married, but—” I caught myself. “What are we going to do about all this luggage?”
She dashed off her signature. “Send it up with the bellhop.”
“I am the bellhop,” I wailed.
“Oh, that’s most unfortunate. Well, I suppose you could leave it there, until John feels better. Except for this”— she pointed to a large suitcase— “and that.” She pointed to a matching train case. “And of course, these three.”
“Well, I’ll take the big one up for you,” I said generously. “I’m sure you can manage the others in several trips.”
She shook her tiny head. “I really am sorry, Miss Yoder, but I can’t help you. It’s my fingers, you see. I can’t risk injuring them. You understand, don’t you?”
I shook my massive head and muttered something unintelligible.
“Thanks, that’s so kind of you,” she chirped and flew up the impossibly steep stairs in a manner quite unbefitting a woman of her years.
I was returning from my last luggage run, panting, when the second couple finally came through the door. Since I’d taken my time lugging those genuine, full-cowhide suitcases upstairs, I couldn’t imagine what had been keeping this duo in the parking lot. As soon as the missus opened her mug I knew.
“So, what’s the big deal? Couples fight all the time.”
I took one look at the woman and hated her instantly. I know, that’s not the Christian thing to do, but mine was a visceral reaction. The good Lord understands, I’m sure. Her frizzy blonde hair, her long pointed nose, her blue- gray eyes and lanky frame, added up to a sum that made me shiver with disgust. My sister Susannah feels the same way about lima beans.
The man, a veritable giant, winced. “Please, Sandy, not in front of her.”
“Why not? She ain’t going to hear nothing she ain’t heard before.”
I stiffened, forcing myself to think of greenbacks. Alas, it was hard to concentrate. The truth be known, I have plenty of money squirreled away, perhaps enough to last me the rest of my life. What I lacked was a sense of purpose, and since it was clear I was never going to have any grandbabies of my own to hold, reopening my business had seemed the right way to go. Only now I wasn’t so sure.
“Welcome to the PennDutch Inn,” I said in a fake German accent. It is what I do for all my guests, even the obnoxious ones.
“Howdy, Ma’am,” the man said. He was too embarrassed to even make eye contact. “Name’s Bob Hart. We spoke on the phone.”
“Ah, yes. Bob and Sandy from Tulsa. Did you have a nice trip?”
“Ha!” she barked. “That’s a laugh! You ever eat sausage cooked in a microwave?”
“Excuse me?”
“Airplane food is the pits, and them ain’t mountains,” she said, waving her beak over her shoulder.
I smiled a fake American smile. “Yes, they are, dear. They’re the Allegheny Mountains.”
“That may be their name, but they ain’t mountains. I know, cause I seen the real things in Colorado.”
I prayed for a Christian tongue, despite my heathen heart. “So, you must be anxious to check in after a long trip like that.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bob said quickly.
“Maybe you are,” she sniffed, “but I ain’t so sure.”
“Sandy, please.”
“He said we were going to an Ayemish bed and breakfast. Only this don’t look no different than a regular bed and breakfast.” She thrust her needle nose over the counter, parking it inches from my face. “You Ayemish?”
“The word is ‘Amish,’ dear. And no, I’m not. I’m Mennonite. But this is a bed and breakfast.”
Frizzy withdrew her proboscis and turned to her husband. “You see, she ain’t even Ayemish. She’s just a Manynite.”
“My cook’s Amish. She wears a bonnet and everything.”
Sandy rolled her eyes. “Big deal. They have one of those at the Dutch Kettle restaurant back home. I was expecting to stay with a real Ayemish family—take buggy rides and everything. I sure don’t want to spend good money to stay in a dump.”
I gasped.
“Okay, so maybe that’s a strong word, but this ain’t the Taj Mahal.”
“Thank heavens for that,” I said. “The Taj Mahal is a tomb. Now, if you’ll be so kind, the door is that way!” Sandy gaped at me.
“Please,” Bob said, pushing her gently aside. “Please give me a moment to explain.”
I tapped one of my size eleven shoes on the hardwood floor. “Your moment passed the minute she walked through that door.”
“Come on, Bob.” Sandy tugged furtively on her husband’s arm. “We don’t need to put up with this crap.” Actually, she used a much worse word, which I won’t repeat. I glared at her, which was like glaring into a frizzy sun, so I glared at her husband. Bob, quite frankly, was easy on the eyes. Not only was he tall, but he had a square jaw, a strong chin, and hair the color of polished sterling. His only imperfection were his eyebrows, which were still black and threatening to grow out of bounds.
“You go on ahead, dear,” Bob said calmly but firmly to his wife. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
Much to my surprise, Sandy did what she was told. The second my heavy oak door closed behind her, Bob turned to me.
“She doesn’t mean what she says, ma’am. She’s bipolar.”
“That’s no excuse, dear. Some of my best friends are bicoastal, and they don’t act like that. Besides, I thought you live in Oklahoma.” I wasn’t going to volunteer the information, but flitting back and forth between
the arctic and Antarctica would make me crabby too.
He smiled. “We do live in Oklahoma. Bipolar means she suffers from manic-depression. You know, two mood extremes.”
“Oh.”
“You see, instead of feeling giddy during their manic phase, some folks feel intensely irritable. Sandy falls into the irritable category.”
“No kidding.”
“Her condition is not an excuse for her behavior, but I hope it’s an explanation.”
“Is she on medication?”
“Yes, and believe it or not it helps tremendously. Usually she’s much more even keeled. I think this particular onset was brought on by the stress of the trip.”
“How long do you think this episode will last?” Boy, was that a mistake. I should have just told him to haul his gangly wife back inside so I could clasp her lovingly to my scrawny bosom.
“It could end any minute. And she’s really very nice when you get the chance to know her. In fact, she’s kind of like you.”
“She is not,” I wailed. “My verbs agree with their subjects!”
“Ma’am?”
“Oh, all right. You can stay, but keep her away from me until she evens out.”
“It’s a deal, ma’am.”
Sunday is supposed to be a day of rest, and I was finally doing just that—sitting in the parlor, dozing, when my sister Susannah swirled into the room. Alas, my sister marches to the beat of her own drum, and it’s a rhythm unique to her. The woman eschews conventional clothing and dresses in yards and yards of diaphanous material that she drapes about herself in various methods, depending on how hard the wind is blowing. She is the only woman I know who carries a live dog—a minuscule, mangy mutt named Shnookums—around in her bra. Susannah never wears proper shoes—only sandals—even in the dead of winter, and if her feet sometimes get cold, her face never does. Only one other woman in the world wears as much makeup as does Susannah, and that is our assistant police chief, Zelda Root. Both Zelda and Susannah claim to have given Tammy Faye lessons in the art of makeup application, and both admit that they failed miserably in their efforts. Compared to Susannah, Tammy Faye sports that freshly scrubbed look.
“There you are!” Susannah cried, as her outfit drifted into the room behind her. “I’ve been looking all over for you, Mags.”
I opened one eye. I hadn’t seen my sister in almost three weeks. During that time I hadn’t been more than ten miles from the inn.
“Oh, Mags, you’re just not going to believe it. I’ve got the most exciting news to tell you!”
I opened the other eye. “You’ve decided not to join that ashram in India you were raving about the last time I saw you?”
“That ashram was in West Virginia, not India. And besides, they wouldn’t take dogs.”
“Remind me to send them a small donation.”
“Oh, Mags, you’re just impossible! I’m going to marry Melvin, that’s what.”
“Mel Gibson is happily married, and even if he wasn’t, Freni gets first dibs.”
Susannah rolled her eyes. It is her only talent, but I must say, she is unparalleled at it. Perhaps it is just an optical illusion, but it appears to me that she can roll them upwards a complete three hundred and sixty degrees, so that the irises reappear above her lower lids. I know this sounds impossible, but just you wait until you’ve said something really stupid to her.
“Not that Melvin—Melvin Stoltzfus.”
“Sure, anything you say.” As the young folks these days say, I was not about to go there. Melvin is my nemesis. The man looks like a praying mantis, which I’m sure he can’t help, but he has that insect’s heart and brain as well. Even that would be of no concern to me, except for the fact that Melvin is Hernia’s chief of police. Unfortunately, my inn has had its share of corpses and—oh, well, enough said. It is my Christian duty to keep a charitable tongue in my head at all times.
Susannah tapped a size-eleven sandal on my hardwood floor. “Is that all you’re going to say?”
I shrugged.
“Come on, I know you’re dying to say something, so just spit it out.”
“You’ve been engaged to Melvin more times than Elizabeth Taylor’s been married,” I said kindly. “Why should I take this threat seriously?”
“This isn’t a threat, Mags. I’ve done some serious thinking, and I’ve come to the conclusion maybe it’s time I grew up.”
“You know, of course, that once you’re married...” There was no need to finish the sentence. My sister knew exactly what I meant. It pains me to say this, but Susannah is a slut. There really is no other word for it. The woman’s bedroom door has seen more male traffic than the turnstile at the state fair. I don’t mean this literally, of course, because I won’t permit hanky-panky on my premises. But where there’s a will, there’s a way, and Susannah has had her way in every cheap motel this side of the Mississippi.
Please understand that this character defect of hers is not shared by yours truly. Until my ill-fated marriage to Aaron Miller, the only sex I’d ever had was that one time I absentmindedly sat on the washing machine during spin cycle. In retrospect—and I’m sure it’s a sin to even say this—I’d have been much better off having a full-blown affair with my Maytag. At any rate, I’m not sure whether Susannah’s aberrant behavior is genetic or the result of poor parenting. Could it be neither? I mean, Mama was a virgin when I was born (Papa probably was too), and both parents made it infinitely clear that sex before marriage was wrong. Still, somehow Susannah’s apple not only managed to fall far from the tree, it rolled out of the orchard altogether.
Susannah was nodding vigorously. “I know what you’re thinking. But Melvin and I have talked this over, and we both think we can be faithful.”
“Melvin?” It had never, even for a second, occurred to me that Melvin Stoltzfus had the option of being unfaithful. Not only is he cosmetically challenged, for crying out loud, but he has the intelligence of a fence post. He once mailed his favorite aunt in Scranton a gallon of ice cream—by U.P.S.! And did I mention the time he was kicked in the head because he tried to milk a bull?
“Oh, Mags, he’s everything I ever wanted in a man.”
“But he’s not even human!” I wailed, and then clamped my hand over my mouth before I could say something unkind.
“So, Mags, will you give me away?”
“Will I what?”
“You know, give me away like Papa would, if he were still alive.”
Frankly, I was touched. Moved almost to the verge of tears. Susannah had been only twenty when Papa died, killed instantly along with Mama in a tunnel, when the car they were driving was sandwiched by a milk tanker and a truck carrying state-of-the-art running shoes. Since then I have been both father and mother to Susannah. I have also bailed her out of jail more times than Robert Downey, Jr.’s, lawyers have had to spring for him. Because I’ve had to act as parent, principal, and guidance counselor, we have not always seen eye to rolling eye.
“When is the wedding?”
“Wednesday morning at ten.”
“This Wednesday?”
“Melvin got us this special rate to Aruba and—”
“But that’s impossible, dear. I could never get a wedding put together that soon. I mean, I’ve got paying guests coming from all over and—well, I suppose I could do something in the barn.”
“The barn!”
“That’s where I was married,” I reminded her needlessly.
Susannah laughed. “Don’t worry, Mags. It’s all been settled. Melvin’s mama is throwing the wedding. I just want you to give me away.”
My mouth must have opened and closed repeatedly, like a baby bird begging to be fed.
“You understand, don’t you, Mags? Melvin is an only child. This is her only chance to put on a wedding.”
“What about me?” I wailed.
Susannah smiled. “You had your own wedding, remember? The one in the barn?”
“But—but—but—” I was sputtering like
a grease fire in a rainstorm.
Susannah lunged forward and enveloped me in fifteen feet of filmy fabric. To put it plainly, she hugged me. Neither of us is genetically programmed for such an intimate, nonsexual gesture, and I was stunned. Then, quite inexplicably, four centuries of inbred reserve dropped from me like a discarded mantle and I returned her hug. Perhaps I squeezed too hard. I certainly, and quite stupidly, forgot about the dinky dog lurking in the nether regions of her underpinnings.
The beast howled pitifully.
I staggered backward several steps, but not before the maniacal mutt had managed to mangle my mammary with his malodorous mandibles. Okay, maybe I overstated the extent of my injuries, but I’m telling you—it hurt every bit as much as that time I innocently poked my proboscis in Susannah’s electric pencil sharper.
It was a tossup as to which of us howled the loudest, Shnookums or me.
Four
Fortunately, no stitches were needed. By the next morning I was feeling fit as a fiddle and ready to take on the world. I was even prepared to swallow my pride and call Elvina Stoltzfus, Melvin’s seventy-five-year-old mother, and offer my services. In fact, I was just reaching for the phone when the doorbell rang.
I peeked through the sheers in the door window and espied the cutest little couple, each with a stubby arm around the other. Short, plump, heavier on their bottoms, they were a pair of pears. Since they had a pile of suitcases with them on the porch, I assumed they were guests. I patted my bun to make sure it was in place, fluffed up the bodice of my deflated dress, and flung open the door.
“Gut Marriye,” I said cheerfully, and then immediately regretted it. One should never be too friendly with guests, after all. I mean, why else is Paris so popular?
“Hey, there! I’m Jimmy Hill,” the male pear said, extending his left hand, “and this is my wife Doris.”
I pressed the pudgy, proffered palms—although a couple of nods would have sufficed me. “Velcommen to zee PennDeutsch.”
“Ooh, I just love the way you talk!” Doris squealed. No doubt the tightness of her jeans, into which she must have been poured, contributed to her unusually high voice.
