The Hand That Rocks the Ladle

by Tamar Myers

  “Is she looking for a job?”

  He laughed. “That’s a good one.”

  “No, I’m serious.” I’d tell this bunch that goat was an Amish delicacy, and no one would be the wiser except for the helpful Redigers, and since Mennonites will eat anything, goat was not going to be a problem.

  “You’re such a kidder, Ms. Yoder. But all joking aside, there is something you might be able to do to make sure a situation like this doesn’t arise again.”

  “How many appendixes does Mose have?”

  “Huh? Oh, you’re joking again!”

  “I most certainly am not! Now, if you’ll excuse me—” I didn’t have time for this. I tried to make a run for the door, but Dr. Luther was a surprisingly nimble man. He was bobbing and weaving in front of me like a pugilist.

  “Look,” he said, panting, “it’s this. If we had a world-renown heart surgeon on staff, we could attract other qualified personnel.”

  “Oh, I get it! You want me to get my boyfriend on board. Well, do I at least get a finder’s fee?”

  “Hmm. I hadn’t thought of that. Perhaps something could be arranged, but more along the lines of a discount.”

  “That could work.” After all, as a privately employed person, my health benefits are not all that great. “How much of a discount, and on what?”

  “Well, I’ve been negotiating with a plastic surgeon in Scranton—”

  “A plastic surgeon?”

  “Well, I just assumed you wanted to do something about that nose.”

  “Look, Nurse Dudley’s naked!” I cried, and in the second it took for him to look, I was out the door.

  Plastic surgeon indeed! I have never—okay, but with diminishing frequency—been so insulted. I may not have the perfect proboscis, but I’ll have you know that during her last stay at the PennDutch, Babs told me she wanted one just like it. No, sir, I may not be Helen of Troy, but I am not a homely woman. To the contrary, I am a comely woman, known to have lit fires in the loins of at least one man.

  And what’s more, I have a modicum of brains. I jumped into my sinfully red BMW and raced for Sam Yoder’s Corner Market.

  Thank heavens the Good Lord in His mercy had seen fit to create frozen dinners. But did He have to make so many?

  “Which kind is the best?” I wailed.

  My cousin, Sam Yoder, shook his head. “I can’t believe my ears. You’re going to serve this crap at the PennDutch Inn?”

  “Please, watch your language, dear. And if they’re so awful, then why do you sell them?”

  “Money,” Sam said, digging around in an immense freezer at the back of his store. He straightened. “Here. These are the best. Add enough cheese of your own and the lasagna is passable. And try the beef tips with mashed potatoes. Stir a little real cream and butter into those spuds, and they’re not too bad. And this frozen corn tastes pretty much like the real thing if you don’t know any better. Just remember to put everything into serving bowls.”

  “Of course, dear, I’m not a total idiot.”

  Sam rolled his eyes behind frosty lashes. “Uh-huh.”

  “All right! So once—just once—I tried to heat beans without opening the can.”

  Sam chuckled. “At least you got a new skylight out of that experience. When my Dorothy first tried canning with a pressure cooker, she took off the roof.”

  “Your wife is a Methodist, dear. She’s not supposed to know how to cook.”

  “Very funny. So what gives, Magdalena? Freni quit on you for the one-millionth time?”

  “It’s only been ninety-six times, dear, and no, she didn’t quit. Mose is having his appendix removed over in Bedford.”

  “Ouch. Is it serious?”

  “Could be. But can you believe the timing? And Barbara can’t come over and help because she just had twins.”

  Sam’s eyes widened. “Already? And you mean triplets, don’t you?”

  “Twins. Only Freni’s having a hard time accepting that. Apparently, Barbara’s doctor made a mistake.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Pierce. Dr. Ignacious Pierce.”

  “Old Red?’

  “Pierce, dear,” I hissed. The frozen dinners were hurting my hands and making me crabby.

  “Yes, I know his real name, but I play poker with him Tuesdays and we call him Old Red because he can polish off a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red in one night—by himself. Besides, he has red hair.”

  I gasped. “Why shame on you, Samuel Elias Yoder! Playing cards and drinking!”

  “I’m a Methodist now, remember? I’m allowed to drink, just as long as I feel guilty about it.”

  I waggled a finger at him. “Just the same, your parents would be turning over in their graves if they could see you now.”

  “Well, they can’t. And even if they can, I’m sure they have better things to occupy themselves with than my one night of pleasure each week. It’s Old Red’s patients who have something to worry about. I’ve known in my gut for a long time something bad was going to happen, and now it has. Losing a baby in the delivery room is a whole lot more serious than forgetting to order extra bread for the holidays.”

  “Old Red—I mean, Dr. Pierce—didn’t deliver Barbara’s babies. It was a very short labor. She practically spit those boys out on the way to Hernia Hospital. A Dr. Bauer finished the job.”

  “Boys, did you say?”

  “Little Mose and Little Jonathan.”

  “Is Freni fit to be tied?” he asked. Neither Sam nor I could resist snide smiles.

  “Well, she would be, if she wasn’t convinced that Little Freni is out there somewhere.”

  “Where?”

  “That’s what I’m supposed to find out. I know everything’s been happening ahead of schedule, but it’s too much to ask me to believe that Little Freni just hopped off the delivery table and ran out of the room.”

  “Maybe her guardian angels clued her in about Big Freni.”

  We both laughed. It was wicked of us, and I’m truly sorry now. But we were younger then, were we not? Besides, Freni brings a lot of her troubles on herself, what with her sharp tongue and rigid ways.

  ***

  I tried sneaking into my own kitchen, my arms laden with state-of-the-art TV dinners. One should not have to be furtive in one’s own home, but guests routinely ignore the no trespassing sign on the kitchen door. This batch of guests was no different.

  “What are you doing in here?” I demanded of Professor Barnes. He was still wearing the shabby suit and cheap tie, but a lot of his uniform was now covered by Freni’s best white apron.

  “I’m making lunch.”

  I shuffled my packages behind me, dropped them on the floor, and spread my skirt like a screen. “But you can’t!”

  “Why not? Because I haven’t paid extra for the privilege of cooking?”

  The Moregold twins, also clad in Freni’s aprons, giggled. My impulse was to glare at them, but I wasn’t about to ruin my chances to sample a genuine English cream tea later in the day.

  “We were hungry,” Daphne said. “I guess our bodies haven’t fully adjusted to American time.”

  Professor Barnes pushed the frayed cuff of his suit. “It’s two thirty-three. Even in America this is late for lunch.”

  I glanced at the counter. Everything in Freni’s fridge was piled there.

  “What are you making?”

  “Scrambled eggs with cheese,” the professor said. “As for the bizarre concoction these ladies are making, you’ll have to ask them.”

  “It’s bubble and squeak,” Daphne chirped.

  “Come again?”

  “Fried greens and leftover potatoes,” Edwina explained. “We call it that in England because of the sound it makes when it cooks.”

  “It goes very well with toad-in-the-hole,” Daphne said, “but we couldn’t find any sausages.”

  “I see. Well, I guess I had the last for breakfast. Say, where are the others?”

  The twins giggled.
<
br />   “What’s so funny, dears?”

  “You mean the honeymooners?” Daphne asked.

  I shuddered, remembering Vivian Mays and her boy-toy Sandy. “How did you know they were honeymooners?”

  “All that racket. Edwina and I were afraid at first it might be an earthquake. It would be our very first, you know?”

  “If they break my bed they’re going to pay for it,” I wailed.

  “I shouldn’t think they’d be coming out of their room anytime soon,” Edwina said, and stirred the mess in her skillet. It did indeed bubble and squeak.

  “Give them three minutes,” I said, speaking from experience.

  “Times ten,” Daphne said. “I’ve never heard such energy.”

  Professor Barnes wiped albumen on Freni’s apron. “And then there’s your mystery guest.”

  “Mystery guest?”

  “He checked in about twenty minutes ago. I made him sign the register, but he merely scribbled.”

  “You what?”

  “Oh, should I have paid for the privilege of doing that?”

  Daphne and Edwina squealed with laughter. I put the cream tea in jeopardy and glared at them. I had forgotten about my last guest. He had called the week before to make reservations, but the man mumbled like he had a mouth full of marbles—at least I think it was a man. At any rate, it was all I could do to decipher a first name. Pelvis! Now, what kind of a name is that? When I got off the phone I had no idea where Pelvis was from, or even which credit card he planned to use.

  “What does Pelvis look like?”

  Professor Barnes reached for a whisk. “He was dressed in black. Black pants, black shirt, black hat. He was even wearing black gloves.”

  Gloves? In the summer? That could only mean one person.

  “Was he wearing one glove or two?”

  Watering gray eyes scrutinized me under hedgerow brows. “Two, of course. Otherwise I would have said glove.”

  Well, two gloves weren’t going to fool me. Pelvis indeed! No doubt Moonwalker was too much of a giveaway.

  “What did Pelvis’s face look like?” I managed to ask casually.

  “I don’t know. He was wearing a black ski mask. You have some strange guests, Miss Yoder.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I think Pelvis is in mourning,” Edwina said. “Daph and I heard weeping.”

  Daphne giggled inappropriately. “Actually, sis, I think that sound was coming from the honeymoon suite.”

  I waved at her to be quiet. “Professor Barnes, surely you can tell me more than that. For instance, was he tall? Short? Fat? Thin?”

  “Well, it wasn’t Elvis, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  The Moregolds twittered.

  Encouraged, the professor pushed his luck. “Contrary to what you may read in the tabloids, Miss Yoder, Elvis Presley is dead.”

  I smiled pleasantly. “No, of course it wasn’t Elvis Presley. He lives in a cottage behind the barn.”

  Daphne and Edwina exchanged glances.

  “Does he really?” Daphne asked.

  “Oh, yes. But he shares the cottage with Jimmy Hoffa.”

  They looked at me uncomprehendingly.

  “Never mind. Is there enough food there for my three other guests as well?”

  “Plenty of bubble and squeak,” Edwina said.

  “Same with the eggs,” the professor said grudgingly.

  “Good. Be a dear, will you, and make up three plates to take upstairs.”

  Then, ignoring the inevitable complaints, I scooped up my packages from Sam and fled to the basement freezer. It was time for me to check out the mystery guest.

  Seven

  I left a tray for the honeymooners first.

  “Lunch is outside your door,” I called. “I’ll be back to pick up your tray in half an hour. Eat now, or forget it.”

  There was no response. I moved down the hall and set the tray in front of the mystery guest’s room. Then I knocked softly.

  “Jacko, is that you?” I whispered. The man is a favorite of mine, ever since he let me pet his llama.

  Silence.

  “I promise not to tell a soul.” Of course, I would—but long after the guest had departed. So you see, it really wouldn’t be the same as lying. At any rate, once word got out that an entertainer of his stature had stayed at the new PennDutch Inn, celebrities would return like swallows to Capistrano.

  There was no response.

  “I know the media has treated you horridly, dear. But I’m your friend, remember? I helped you pick out baby names.”

  Either my guest was asleep or in the bathroom.

  I knocked again, this time louder. Much to my surprise, the door swung open. Much to my dismay, the room was empty.

  “This can’t be!” I lurched into the room, and in the process tripped over the lunch tray, scattering scrambled eggs and bubble and squeak all over a freshly waxed hardwood floor. Ignoring the mess, I ran to the bathroom. It too was empty.

  “Darn!” I said, which is as bad as I can swear.

  “Is there a problem?”

  I whirled. Sandy Roberts was standing in the hallway, one of my admittedly threadbare towels his only garment. His supple young body gleamed in the overhead light.

  I looked away. “This doesn’t concern you, dear.”

  “Yeah, well, if there is a problem, you let me know. I didn’t like the looks of that guy.”

  “So it is a guy?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. It was kind of hard to tell. It was all those black clothes I didn’t like. Too depressing.”

  “At least he’s wearing clothes, dear.”

  “Hey, I only came out here because I thought you might need some help.”

  One of Mama’s favorite sayings was the one about using honey, instead of vinegar, to catch flies. Mama, incidentally, rarely caught flies. Not that I wanted to catch flies, mind you. It’s just that it never hurts to have a spy working for you.

  “Your help is very much appreciated, dear. In fact, I’d be grateful if you alerted me the next time you saw him.”

  I sneaked a peek just long enough to see him nod. “Yeah, okay.”

  “Thanks, dear.” I bent over to pick up the tray and what remained of Jacko’s lunch.

  “Here let me help you.”

  I will not burden you with the details of what happened next. Suffice it to say, when young Sandy squatted to help, my threadbare towel gave away and I saw more of the man than I’ve seen of any man, with the possible exception of my erstwhile, ersatz husband.

  “Aack!” I squawked.

  The door behind Sandy swung open. Vivian Mays stood there, dressed in little more than her gold chains.

  “What’s going on—what the hell?” She made no move to cover her nakedness.

  “It’s not what it looks like,” I wailed. “I mean, I’m sure it’s real, but that’s not what I mean!”

  “What do you mean?” Vivian Mays sounded like Mama, Reverend Shrock, and my third-grade schoolteacher rolled into one.

  “I mean I was only asking your husband to help me spy on Michael Jackson—” I clapped a hand over my mouth, snatched up the empty tray, and fled down my impossibly steep stairs. Just as I reached the bottom, the phone rang.

  I picked up in my bedroom. It was my private line.

  “Hello?”

  Silence.

  “Jacko, is that you?”

  “Jackal?” I heard a faint voice say. “Magdalena, are you off your rocket again?”

  “Freni! Turn the receiver around, and that’s rocker, not rocket.”

  While Freni fumbled with the phone, I prayed for patience. The woman is metaphorically, as well as mechanically, challenged. The latter is not her fault, however. As an Amish woman she does not own a telephone, nor does she own any electrically operated appliances.

  “Magdalena?” she said, her voice normal at last. “Are you there?”

  “Yes, dear. What’s up? How’s Mose?”

  “Ach,
my Mose. The doctor said his appendix was ready to burst. Red hot, he said, like a tamale. What is this tamale?”

  “I think it’s a food, dear. So it hadn’t yet burst?”

  “No, thank God. They’re operating now.”

  “Are you scared?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “Yah.”

  “Hang on, dear, I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’m leaving right now.”

  “Ach, but what about the English? Who will feed them?”

  “They’re feeding themselves.”

  “Ach!” Freni must have dropped the phone, because I could have done The New York Times crossword puzzle in the time it took her to speak again. “My kitchen,” she gasped. “There are English in my kitchen?”

  “Well, maybe not at this very moment, but there were. And frankly, dear, they seemed to be having fun.”

  “Cooking on my stove with my pots and pans?”

  “Technically, dear, they’re my pots and pans.”

  She paused again, but her heavy breathing made it clear she was still on the line. “What did they cook?”

  “Bubble and squeak.”

  “Ach, jokes, Magdalena, when my Mose is dying.”

  “Dying?”

  “Maybe not dying, but he’s an old man. The doctor—speak of the doctor, there’s the devil now.”

  “What?”

  The phone banged against something as she literally left me hanging. I thought of disconnecting and trying again, but unless she replaced the receiver, there was no point. Besides, there was no way to tell which number she was calling from. I did the only thing I could and remained on the line. After the same amount of time it would take me to translate The New York Times crossword puzzle into Japanese, Freni got back on the line.

  “Magdalena,” she said, as if she’d never left me dangling, “it’s good news. The doctor said the operation is over and my Mose did well. The hot tamale is gone.”

  “Thank God!”

  “Yah. Now he must recover for an hour.”

  “Just an hour?”

  “Yah, and then they put him in a private room, or a public room. Which room do we want, Magdalena?”

  “Nothing’s too good for our Mose. Get the private. But don’t worry about a thing, Freni. I’ll be right there.”