by Tamar Myers
“Why, this is ridiculous!” I said it so loud both Patches and Tiddlywinks leaped from their places, their tails inflated. Ming, however, remained dangerously close to my head.
“Dr. Clayton is a very dedicated man,” she said evenly. "He donates his services. Other doctors spend their vacations on golf courses. Dr. Clayton delivers babies for the poor. He’s not a Mennonite, you know, but he is a kind and generous man. And so gentle. It’s a pleasure just to work next door to him.”
That sounded like more than hero worship to me. Perhaps the chaste Miss Mast was carrying a torch for the medical missionary. That wouldn’t be the first time a mature Mennonite woman had been beguiled by a man in authority. Mama went absolutely nuts when Reverend Kurtz became Beechy Grove Mennonite Church’s youngest pastor ever. Reverend Kurtz was a bachelor, and Mama baked him a pie, cake, or some other sweet every day of his short stay among us. Little did Mama know that Reverend Kurtz was a diabetic with absolutely no willpower. I’m not saying that Mama killed the preacher, but if she had baked those pies for Papa—who had no dietary problems—Reverend Kurtz might have stuck around long enough to marry me, and my parents would have gotten along a whole lot better.
“Is Dr. Clayton married?” I asked gently.
Tears flowed from the green eyes. “But his wife is such a mean woman. We have joint Christmas parties, you see, and he doesn’t even look at the nurses. But she always glares at him. He deserves much better.”
“Like you?”
She nodded. “I’d make him a good wife. I know I would.”
“He’s not a Mennonite, dear. You just said so yourself.”
“But he’s a lay missionary.”
“Which denomination is he?”
“Presbyterian.”
I gasped. “My sister Susannah married one of those. The next thing I knew she was painting her toenails and watching television. Once, when she thought she was alone, I even caught her”—I blushed—“I can’t say it. It’s just too embarrassing.”
“Shaving her legs?” she asked in an awed whisper.
“Yes.” I hung my head in shame. “All that good God-given insulation literally down the drain.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far!”
“All the same, you don’t want to set your prayer cap for a married man. It will just end in heartbreak. Trust me, I know.”
She blew her nose loudly. “That’s right. I’d forgotten. You’re the bigamist from Beechy Grove Mennonite Church.”
“An inadvertent bigamist,” I wailed.
“We at First Mennonite Church were scandalized—well, I wasn’t. I’m a nurse, after all. I’ve seen everything.” Her jaw tilted defiantly. “I would even shave my underarms for the right man.”
I gasped in awe. “What if he doesn’t like cats?” She stiffened. “Do you think that’s possible?”
“Face it, dear, even a cat lover isn’t going to necessarily welcome thirty-two cats. Would you be willing to give up even one of these precious dears for a man? They’re barely litter-trained themselves, you know. Always leaving the toilet seat up like that, or forgetting to put the top seat down. Why, I read somewhere that a small cat can easily drown in a toilet bowl. Kittens do all the time.”
Her face had turned the color of powdered sugar. “Men!” she rasped.
“Men!” I said.
“Meow!” Ming howled.
I stood. “It’s been really nice talking to you, Melba.”
“You too, Magdalena. I wish I could have helped you more.”
“Are you sure you can’t tell me the names of those other two patients?”
Her eyes flickered.
“It could be a matter of life and death,” I coaxed. “What if I just gave you hints?”
“Hint away!”
“They both work at Miller's Feed Store here in Hernia—well, the Amish girl used to. I don’t think she does anymore.”
“Thank you.” I reached for her hand and pumped it. I would have hugged Melba, but I didn’t want to give a woman with thirty-two cats the wrong idea—her lust for Dr. Clayton aside. Besides, she was covered with enough cat hair to knit a small sweater. It was bad enough that my bottom looked like something the cat dragged in.
“You’ll come back to visit sometime, won't you? The puddy-tats would wov dat, wouldn’t dey?” She cooed in Ming’s face. Ming flattened himself against the wall and hissed.
“Well—”
“You know, it’s remarkable, but just this morning I was thinking about organizing a singles club for the over-forties crowd.”
“That sounds like fun. I’ll see if my new boyfriend wants to join.”
She swallowed. “Actually, I was thinking more of a support group for women who’d never been proposed to.”
“Sort of a Spinsters Anonymous?”
Melba frowned. “Spinsters is such an ugly word. I was thinking more of the Never Been Asked. We’d call ourselves the NBA for short.”
“That is such an interesting idea,” I said, and edged out the door. “You do realize, don’t you, that I wouldn’t qualify? Aaron may have been the slime on the sludge that sticks to the muck at the bottom of the pond, but he did ask me to marry him. He even gave me a ring.”
Melba smiled. “I’d be willing to make an exception in your case.”
“Thanks for everything,” I said, and sprinted to my car.
Nine
I dreaded going to Miller’s Feed Store. Elspeth Miller hates me.
Roy Miller, Elspeth’s husband, is a triple fifth cousin of mine, but I certainly don’t claim him. The official rumor has it that Roy beats Elspeth. Some of us, however, believe that it is Elspeth Rhinehart Miller who beats up on Roy. Elspeth is a German-German, not a Swiss-German like most of the Mennonites and Amish in the Hernia area. What’s more, she was baptized a Lutheran—as an infant no less! No Mennonite or Amishman can comprehend such a senseless act. Perhaps it was being splashed with all that water as a tiny baby that put Elspeth in such a foul mood.
One might have more respect for Roy if he didn’t allow Elspeth to push him around. A man should listen to his wife (didn’t Papa?), but he shouldn’t put up with hitting. No one should—not even a true pacifist like Roy. Sadly, the long-sleeved shirts that Roy habitually wears, even on the hottest days, are not a sign of his Mennonite modesty. What makes the whole thing seem even sadder is that Elspeth is a little bitty thing with a beaked nose and horn-rimmed glasses that flare out like butterfly wings. She seems about as dangerous as a swallowtail.
The Millers sell feed and farm equipment to Amish, Mennonite, and other farmers in the area. In addition, they also sell hard-to-find items like corrugated washboards and hand-operated ringers. There are also some “fancy” goods like blue-enameled cookware, black felt hats, bonnets, and even candy. Think of Miller’s Feed Store as an Amish WalMart. It is, incidentally, Hernia’s largest employer.
But back to why Elspeth hates me. I can only guess it is because I have, upon occasion, stuck up for Roy. I do not, however, as Elspeth asserts, have “a thing for my man.”
Nonetheless, I tried to slip into the store unnoticed and headed straight for Roy, who was demonstrating a nifty little gadget that peeled, cored, and sliced an apple in a matter of seconds. Several Amish women were watching, wide-eyed.
“We can make good snitz with that,” said one.
“Dried apple slices,” another said, needlessly translating for me.
Roy saw me and handed the machine to the nearest shopper. “You can buy a cheaper one in Bedford,” he said, “but it won’t be as good.”
The women nodded. Roy had a reputation for telling the truth.
“Magdalena,” he said, and grabbing one of my elbows, steered me down a narrow aisle. Galvanized buckets of all sizes hung on one side, horse bridals and currycombs on the other. Satisfied we were alone, Roy released me. “You shouldn’t have come. Elspeth’s working today.”
“Then she’ll just have to get over it. This is a free country
, and I can shop anywhere I please.”
“Please make it Bedford. You know what happened the last time she saw you.”
“I did not knock down that display of lantern globes. She did. And frankly, it’s stupid to stack glass like that.”
“I couldn’t agree more, but it was her idea.” Roy lowered his voice. “She better not see you today, Magdalena. She’s been on the warpath since she woke up. So, could you just buy what you came to buy, and then get out?”
I tried not to even glance at Roy’s arms, but it was no use. He was wearing long sleeves again. It was stifling in the store, so it had to be because he had something to hide. Although in all fairness, I suppose they could have been old bruises.
“Sorry, but I didn’t come to buy, dear. I need information.”
Roy looked like a deer caught in my headlights. “What kind of information? You’re not on your Nazi kick again, are you, Magdalena? Elspeth was born after the war, and she's been in the U.S. since she was sixteen.”
“This has nothing to do with the Fuehrer and his flunkies. I need information about two of your employees who are in the family way.”
“Ach!” Roy squawked, reverting to his ancestral ways. “You’re not here to try and form a union, are you?”
I smiled. “Don’t be ridiculous, dear. I don’t work here, remember? I just want to talk to these ladies.”
Roy glanced both ways. “What about?”
“Baby clothes,” I said, thinking fast on my feet. When you wear size eleven like I do, it’s really not that hard. And yes, I know it’s wrong to lie, but fibbing to placate Freni is not so much a lie as a means of survival. The Bible says nothing against trying to save one’s own life.
“What about baby clothes?”
“Well, Barbara Hostetler, whom you know to be a dear friend and distant cousin of mine—probably yours too—just had twins and—”
“Congratulations!” Roy was sincere.
“I’ll tell her that. Anyway, as you may know, baby clothes are very expensive, so I got to thinking about sort of a joint shower—well, really, it’s a woman thing. Just tell me where I can find the two ladies in question, let me chat to them a little, and I’ll skeedaddle.”
Roy shook his head. “Rebecca Zook no longer works here. And Mandilla Gindlesperger is on maternity leave, starting today. That’s all I’m at liberty to say.”
That was all the information I needed to know right then. Zook was a solid Amish name, that family having come over in the first major immigration in the eighteenth century. Both Freni and I had Zook branches in our family trees. Freni often shopped at Miller’s Feed Store and undoubtedly knew the family, possibly even where Rebecca lived. And it just so happened that I knew Mandilla Gindlesperger.
Mandilla and I went to school together, kindergarten through twelfth grade. Only back then she was Mandilla Beechy. It was, in fact, her great-great-grandfather, Bishop Beechy, who split off from the Amish and founded Beechy Grove Mennonite Church. Because of this suspicious family connection, Mandilla always thought she was better than the rest of us—well, at least better than I. Always big for her age, Mandilla would push me off the monkey bars, stop me on the slide, stick gum in my hair, and—this was her favorite way to torment me—sit on my paper lunch sack. That was, of course, in grammar school. In high school, Mandilla began to act a little nicer, quiet even. By our senior year Mandilla was an overweight, introspective woman who sometimes cried in study hall.
I thanked Roy for the tip. “I didn’t even know Mandilla was pregnant again. Isn’t she a little old for that kind of thing?”
Before Roy could answer I was hit on the behind by a mighty force and knocked off my feet. Fortunately, Roy has quick reflexes and was able to catch me.
“Get out of my husband’s arms!” Elspeth shrieked.
I struggled to stand, but was hit again.
“Elspeth, please,” I heard Roy say meekly.
Sheer anger got me upright and facing my attacker. Elspeth Miller had a look of pure hate in her eyes. In her tiny, gnarled hands, she held a coal shovel.
“Get out of my store, you hussy,” she hissed.
“What did you say?”
“You heard what I said, you two-bit trollop.” For a foreigner, Elspeth’s command of English is remarkable. “And don’t try playing Miss Innocent with me, Magdalena Yoder. You forget that Roy is Aaron Miller’s first cousin. We know all about how you seduced that poor man, and then turned on him when you learned that he was broke.”
I gasped, depleting the large store of half its oxygen. “That’s not what happened! Aaron seduced me. And he was already married. Why didn’t any of you Millers tell me that? I went to my marriage bed a virgin,” I wailed, “only it wasn’t my marriage bed at all, but a den of iniquity. You all stood back and watched me be led like a lamb to the slaughter.”
Elspeth raised the shovel, this time over her head. “Lies,” she said. “It’s all lies. And now you’re trying to get your hands on my Roy. Well, I won’t have it!”
I took a wary step back, away from the shovel, but in doing so, moved closer to Roy.
“I said to get away from him!” Elspeth snarled, and despite her tiny size, brought the shovel down with a force hard enough to stun a bull.
Now, I may be lanky, but I’m also fairly nimble, and managed to step aside. Unfortunately, Roy Miller has two left feet (I mean that literally—thanks to an insufficient gene pool). The shovel scoop that was meant for my noggin connected with Roy’s, and he folded like an accordion.
“Now see what you’ve done!” Elspeth shrieked.
“Me?"
She threw down the shovel, dropped to her knees, and cradled her husband’s head. “You’ve killed my Roy!”
I glanced around. A crowd was forming at either end of the aisle. I had a choice: defend myself, or do something for Roy.
“Call 911,” I said to the mostly Amish crowd.
No one moved.
“Call the police!” Elspeth barked.
Alas, someone did.
I never used to understand how a man with a brain the size of a flea’s was able to become police chief in my fair town. That he has managed to stay chief so long was beyond my comprehension. But I have given the matter a good deal of thought, and have at last concluded that the Good Lord created Melvin Stoltzfus as my personal nemesis. Melvin is my cross to bear, the means by which I am tested. Through my encounters with that irritating arthropod I am expected to grow stronger, perhaps even to learn to love my fellow man. I am, I confess, a slow learner in this regard.
The police station is less than a mile from the feed store, and Melvin should have been able to get there in a minute or two. But that was not the case. Perhaps the man had his shoes untied, and couldn’t find anyone to tie them, or maybe he misplaced the map that showed the way to the front door of the police station. At any rate, it took Melvin a good fifteen minutes to show, and by then I could hear the approaching wail of Hernia’s only ambulance. Someone, thank heavens, had called for real help after all.
I am pleased to report that Roy Miller was not seriously injured. By the time help arrived, he was on his feet—albeit somewhat unsteadily—and although the medics insisted that he accompany them back to the hospital, he was released an hour later. In fact, Elspeth didn’t even bother to accompany him, but remained behind to keep the store open.
In the meantime, Melvin predictably made my life miserable. No sooner had Roy been whisked away than my new brother-in-law turned on me.
“Yoder, I want you to come with me down to the station.”
I glanced around. There were still people four deep at the ends of the aisle. Elspeth was among them, no doubt eager to see me arrested.
“Don’t be ridiculous, dear. You know it was Elspeth who conked him on the head, not me.”
“Did not!” Elspeth called from the sidelines.
I may have stuck my tongue out at her.
“Yoder, don’t make a scene.”
&nb
sp; “I’m not making a scene, you are.”
“Yoder!” The man is ten years younger than me, but has the nerve to speak to me like I’m a fourth- grade girl, and he’s my teacher, Miss Enz.
“Leave me alone, Melvin. Go back to work, or better yet, go home and let your wife devour you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Isn’t that what happens to male praying mantises?”
“Very funny, Yoder.” Melvin Stoltzfus knew exactly what I meant. I know we can’t help how we look (if we could, would I look like Trigger on steroids?), but Melvin looks exactly like a five-foot eight-inch praying mantis, give or take a tentacle.
“Just leave me alone, Melvin. I’ve had a long, hard day.”
Melvin fumbled with a pair of handcuffs that dangled from his side. “Yoder, I have to talk to you, and you’re not making this easy.”
“I have no intention of making it easy, Melvin, I know my rights.”
“Then I’m afraid I’m going to have to arrest you.”
“On what grounds?”
“Disturbing the peace.”
“Arrest her, arrest her,” Elspeth chanted. Much to my relief no one joined in.
“Melvin should arrest you, dear. You’re the one who habitually beats up on your husband.”
“Slander!” Elspeth cried. “Did everyone hear that?” One or two people nodded, but nobody said anything. There was a lot of staring going on, however, and not all of it from the crowd.
Melvin’s eyes do not function as a pair, and he had one trained on Elspeth, the other on me. “Maybe we could find someplace here to talk,” he said.
“I have nothing to say that I haven’t already said. Just the same, I’ll say it one more time. I did not hit Roy over the head with that shovel.”
“It isn’t about Roy,” Melvin said, his voice barely audible. “It’s about your sister.”
“Susannah?” What a silly way for me to respond. I only have one sister—that I know of.
