The Hand That Rocks the Ladle

by Tamar Myers

  “Actually, it will do me some good. I stirred a little pectin in mine. It helps with carpal tunnel syndrome.”

  “You don’t say.” I’d heard this tunnel syndrome mentioned by a number of my guests over the years, but I must confess, I still didn’t get it. How did carpooling through a tunnel hurt one’s wrist? That’s a bit self-indulgent if you ask me. What happened to Mama and Papa in the tunnel—squished to death amid milk and jogging shoes—now that was painful. All the grape juice and pectin in the world couldn’t have fixed that.

  “Please, sit.” This time Gabriel motioned to the sofa. My heart pounded in my bony chest. I sat, but not before spilling a smidgen of the purple juice on Gabe’s white carpet. Fortunately, I was able to rub it down, deep into fibers, where it was basically out of sight. I prayed Gabe wouldn’t find the stain.

  Unfortunately, Gabe chose to sit in the chair I’d vacated. He struck a seductive pose, crossing his leg ankle at knee, just as Aaron used to do. I tried not to peek below his calf.

  “So, how’s this batch of guests?” he asked.

  Torn into three equal parts as I was, guilt, disappointment, and the need to reproduce, it was all I could do to stutter. “W-w-what?”

  “You have any Nazis in this group?”

  I sighed. Somehow we’d gotten derailed to small talk.

  “No, no Nazis—that I know of. Just a pompous professor, one set of giggly English twins, and a wealthy vamp and her boy-toy. Oh, and the nicest Mennonite couple you ever laid eyes on. But enough about me. Tell me more about you.”

  Gabriel sipped grape from his goblet. “There isn’t much to tell. Compared to you, I’ve lived a boring life.”

  “Nonsense, dear. I’m sure there’s lots I’d like to hear. For instance, do you have any children?” If I was going to stray far enough afield to snag a Jewish divorce, he better not have any hidden commitments.

  Gabe grinned. “I assure you that those are my nieces. Besides, they happen to be all grown-up now.”

  “You sure? No little babies tucked away in some secret love nest?” I said it laughingly, and it was meant to be a joke.

  “Babies?” he asked, looking puzzled.

  “Babies!”

  As if on cue a baby wailed loudly.

  “What’s that?”

  Gabe laughed. “That’s not a baby, that’s—”

  The baby wailed piteously again, the sound coming from upstairs.

  I was on my feet faster than a freshly branded heifer. “Lying’s a sin,” I hissed. “In both our Bibles!”

  “But I’m not lying!”

  The infant howled miserably.

  “Yeah? Well, explain that, buster!”

  “That’s easy. That’s—”

  I didn’t stay long enough to hear another word. I charged out of there like a bull from a holding pen, and didn’t stop until I’d snorted back to the PennDutch Inn and into the privacy of my room.

  I was still seeing red the next morning. It had been almost a waste of time lying in bed, sleeping as I did in fitful snatches. The still functioning phone in the lobby had rung several times during the evening, but I had steadfastly refused to answer it. I had no vacancies, and I certainly didn’t need any more trouble.

  About nine-thirty, as I was preparing for bed, there had been a timid knock at the door. It was Gloria Rediger dutifully informing me that Freni was home again, safe and sound, and Mose was recovering nicely. She’d even swung by Hernia Hospital, and seeing that Barbara and the two male babies were sleeping peacefully, Gloria somehow managed to coax Jonathan to go home as well. I thanked Gloria for her help, although frankly, and this is a terrible thing to say, I was beginning to resent her. Under normal circumstances it would have been me taking care of my loved ones. Instead, thanks to Freni’s phantom namesake, I had a surfeit of stress.

  Perhaps you will understand then why I was not amused to see that, despite my early hour of rising, the Moregold twins were already in the kitchen frying sausages and eggs. A tower of toast was already in evidence.

  “Where’s Freni?” I demanded.

  The twins looked at each other and shrugged.

  “Mrs. Hostetler,” I snapped. “The stout, cranky Amish woman whose husband had his appendix removed.”

  “Ah, her,” Edwina said as she spooned some grease over a sunny-side up. “Donald and Gloria ran her back into town. But don’t worry, they’ve already had their breakfast.”

  “And he was really nice about it,” Daphne said. “Considering I accidentally broke both of his.” ‘"What?"

  “The yolks on Donald’s eggs,” Daphne said. She hung her head in shame. “But Edwina’s good at it, aren’t you, sis?”

  “Sunny-side up, or easy over,” Edwina said gaily. “Just tell me your preference. Or if you like, I can make you a nice cheese omelet.”

  I grabbed a slice of toast and bolted. Clearly I was not needed in my own inn. Besides, too much cheer before ten has been known to cause nausea.

  Seventeen

  I took Dead Man’s Curve at a crawl. On the right side of the road, just opposite the Zooks’ driveway, was a simple wooden stake commemorating the grizzly accident. Carved into the wood were the Pennsylvania Dutch words for Gone to Glory. When I was a car length or two safely up the long drive I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Ours is a hilly terrain, even mountainous by some folks’ standards. There are many curves, although none as deadly as this, where one can find large mirrors positioned so as to give home owners a view of the road. For what it’s worth, most of the area Amish refuse to use reflecting devices, thinking them too vain. Instead, they opt for playing Dutch roulette every time they enter a highway.

  There was no doorbell on the Zook house—they didn’t have electricity—so I rapped loudly with knuckles as large and hard as walnuts. The front door opened a crack.

  “Mir welles nut,” a gravelly voice said. We don’t want it.

  “I’m not a tourist,’’ I blurted. “I’m Magdalena Yoder, owner of the PennDutch Inn.”

  The door all but closed.

  “I’m an Amish-Mennonite, for crying out loud. All my ancestors were Amish. I even have Zooks in my family tree.”

  The door crept open an inch or two.

  Encouraged, I opened my mouth. “I’m also a cousin of Freni Hostetler—”

  The door closed altogether.

  “But I support rubber wheels!” I wailed.

  The door opened slowly, just wide enough for me to see a stout woman about Freni’s age and size. I didn’t have time to savor the irony.

  “What is it?” the woman demanded in a thick accent.

  “I—uh, I would like to speak with Rebecca.”

  “Why?” Tiny eyes regarded me warily behind bottle- thick glasses.

  “Well, because—well, Freni’s daughter-in-law, Barbara, had twins yesterday, but Freni is convinced there should have been triplets, only of course there weren’t, and somehow I got pressed into playing detective and coming up with the missing triplet, which I’m not even sure exists, and the only lead I have is that Dr. Pierce, who was Barbara’s doctor, and who, I believe, also was originally Rebecca’s doctor, has suddenly decided to go off on vacation, and can’t be reached, and of course I’d like to ask him a few questions, but can’t, so I’m making it a point to talk to as many patients of his as I can, and who knows, maybe I’ll come up with some clue as to where he is, in which case I can ask him directly how many babies Barbara Hostetler was really expecting.” After I got rolling, I said it all in one breath.

  “Ach, you are even crazier than Freni.” The door started to close.

  “Grossmudder, please.”

  I stared at the young woman now standing in the doorway behind her grandmother. Rebecca Zook. I remembered her now. I just hadn’t remembered her name. But her face—surely it was the most beautiful face God ever created.

  I’ve seen Liz’s famed eyes of violet, but they pale in comparison to Rebecca Zook’s. Throw in a flawless complexion,
symmetrical features, and raven hair—a rarity among Amish—the woman is simply stunning. Unlike yours truly. Unfortunately, when the Good Lord made me He didn’t break the mold, He just put a bridle on it and said “giddyap.” But Rebecca, now there was a woman who could make heads turn in any city in the world, and not just at a racetrack either. It was no wonder an English boy found her attractive.

  “Can I help you?” Rebecca asked. Without any apparent shoving, and despite her size, she’d managed to insinuate herself between her grandmother and the door.

  “May I come in?”

  Violet eyes scanned the sky behind me. “It is a pleasant morning. Perhaps we could talk outside?”

  Frankly, this irritated me. I am not, as I’ve said before, nosy. And I know the Amish homes to be plain with functional furniture, and only unframed landscapes taken from calendars to decorate the walls. But the very fact that I was obviously not wanted made it immensely attractive.

  “I’m chilly,” I said.

  “Just a minute.” Rebecca disappeared, leaving Grossmudder to stare at me.

  “Pretty girl,” I said.

  “Ach, we are all God’s children. One no different than the other.”

  “Except some of us are mere Mennonites and unworthy of being invited in.” It was a mean thing for me to say, but I mumbled it, so the old lady couldn’t hear me anyway.

  “What did you say?”

  “I, uh, said—”

  I smiled gratefully at Rebecca who had returned bearing an enormous woolen shawl, and who without further ado came outside and draped it around my bony shoulders. The shawl was incredibly heavy and smelled of horses, appropriate for me perhaps, but the truth be told, I wasn’t really cold.

  “We can sit in these rockers,” Rebecca said, pointing to a constellation of chairs at the far end of an unpainted wooden porch. She led the way with remarkable grace, given her condition. I followed ponderously, dragging the heavy shawl.

  “Now,” she said, when we were seated, “what is this really about?”

  I must have looked surprised.

  “There was a reporter here yesterday,” she said. “A man from Philadelphia, I think. He was writing a story on rebellious Amish youth.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “Yah, it is very embarrassing for me. For my family as well.”

  “I’m sure it is. But I assure you, I have nothing to do with this reporter. I just want some information on Dr. Pierce.”

  “He is a good doctor.” Her voice rose slightly, suggesting a question.

  “That's what I don’t know. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  She glanced down at her watermelon of a belly, hidden by a blue broadcloth dress and crisp black apron. I, of course, am not an expert at such things, but I couldn’t image she had much longer to go.

  “I do not wish to talk about it. It was a sin, yah, and I made my confession. I will confess again when the baby has come.”

  “Confess twice?” I squirmed, hoping the shawl would slip from my shoulders. The morning sun was hitting me full on and I was burning up.

  Violet eyes locked on my faded blue peepers. “The first time was to the bishop and two elders. I cannot confess like this in front of the congregation. That I will do later.”

  “I see. Of course. Look, I don’t want to ask you anything embarrassing or personal, I’m just curious why you went to Dr. Pierce in the first place. Don’t Amish women use midwives?”

  “Yah.” She looked back at the mound in her lap. “It was Kevin’s idea.”

  “Kevin?”

  “My—uh, the baby’s father.”

  “The boy from work?” I shrugged the shawl loose and it fell to the floor with a whoosh and a thump. It must have weighed ten pounds.

  Rebecca looked at the wrap and then at me. Had she not been so encumbered, she might well have leaped up and retrieved the darn thing.

  “I’m fine now,” I said. “So, tell me about Kevin. Why did he want you to see a doctor in Bedford?”

  “This is not your business, Miss Yoder, but I will tell you anyway. Kevin is not of our faith—he is English. I am sure you know that.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  She sighed. “Perhaps the world knows. The man from Philadelphia? Where would he hear such a thing?”

  “Who knows? Somebody tells somebody and they tell a cousin in Philadelphia? And since we’re not at war at the moment, it’s news. Amish are very ‘in’ right now.”

  She looked puzzled.

  “What I mean, dear, is the English find you fascinating.”

  She nodded vigorously. “Yah, this is so. But why?”

  “That’s a good question. I wish I knew.” Truer words were never spoken. If I knew the answer to that question, I would capitalize on it for all it was worth. The Good Lord doesn’t mind if we make a dollar, just as long as we give Him His tithe.

  “Ach, it can be so much trouble at times. But it is a cross we must bear.”

  I wisely censored my tongue. It would do no good, only cause anguish, to inform Rebecca that in her case, some of the world’s attention was undoubtedly due to her extraordinary looks, and not the peculiarities of her religious convictions.

  “So, dear, it was Kevin who picked Dr. Pierce?”

  “Yah. You see, Miss Yoder, it is Kevin who will raise the child.”

  “What?” I nearly fell off my rocker.

  “The bishop and the elders,” she spoke slowly, “have said this is God’s will.”

  “She told them?”

  Never shock a pregnant Amish girl unless you’re prepared to deliver her baby. Frankly, I was shocked as well. Of course, I don’t believe God is a woman, any more than I believe He’s a man (oops, that “He” word again). It’s just that I get irritated when folks talk about God’s will as if they have a special pipeline to the Almighty. I guess I wouldn’t mind so much if the messages pertained only to them, and didn’t concern the affairs of others. Perhaps I wouldn’t be so bitter if Reverend Lantz hadn’t managed to persuade Mama that God didn’t want me attending college at the University of Pittsburgh, where I might have pursued a degree in clinical psychology. Instead, the Good Lord communicated through Reverend Lantz that I would be much better off enrolling in Bedford Community College. I hope someday I’ll find a use for my associate’s degree in English up in heaven, because I have yet to find one for it here.

  Fortunately, Rebecca didn’t go into labor, but she staggered to her feet. “I think you should leave now, Miss Yoder.”

  “I’m sorry!” I wailed.

  “You have blasphemed.”

  “Yes, but I’m repenting. Please let me stay.”

  Violet eyes looked past me. “I cannot. I am in enough trouble as it is.”

  “Trouble? What trouble?”

  “Shhh. Grossmudder.”

  A second later I heard the front door close.

  It was still the shank of the morning, and one slice of toast does not a breakfast make. Lacking any better leads, I had decided to drive the twelve miles into Bedford and poke around in the vicinity of Dr. Pierce’s office, maybe even his home. Just outside of

  Bedford, where Highway 96 hits the turnpike, sits the Sausage Barn. It’s a new establishment, a backlash against the low-fat trend of the nineties. The Mennonite owners of the Sausage Barn subscribe to that time-honored Anabaptist tradition that fat is where it’s at. Everything at the Sausage Barn comes swimming in grease of some kind, but the management makes up, in part, for this by banning smoking altogether. Here at the Sausage Barn nonsmokers get to eat their grease in peace.

  Please understand, I am not espousing high cholesterol or advocating heart attacks. I am merely stating a fact: fat tastes good. Animal fat tastes the best. What can compare to a greasy strip of bacon, fried crisp on the ends, but with just a little play in the middle? Didn’t the Good Lord forbid His Chosen People to eat pork, so that the rest of us could have more? Frankly, as a good Christian I consider it my religious duty to eat as much ba
con as possible, thereby sparing Jews and Muslims temptation.

  Freni cooks lavish, lard-laden breakfasts, but I still find regular excuses to visit the Sausage Barn. Breakfast is my favorite meal, and the Sausage Barn serves nothing but breakfast, twenty-four hours a day. I parked in what has become my usual spot, and was shown to my regular booth by Wanda, owner, receptionist, and sometimes server.

  “Just one?” she asked. She asks that every time, although I invariably come in alone.

  I forced a smile. “Yes. And I’d like my usual booth if it’s available.”

  “You know,” she said as we wound through a labyrinth of wooden stalls, most of them filled with diners, “you might get yourself a man if you put a little meat on those bones.”

  “I’m trying!” I wailed. “I mean, I’m trying to fill out a little. I’ve already got a man.”

  “Oh?”

  I thought about Gabe the babe, who probably wouldn’t be caught dead eating here, and besides he already had a babe of his own. At least a baby.

  “Well, it’s nothing serious. But I am seeing someone.”

  Wanda handed me a well-smeared plastic-coated menu. “You always ask to sit back here in the corner by the kitchen. Why is that? These are the last booths to fill, and nobody can see you back here. You’re not going to catch a man that way.”

  “I’m not trying to catch a man! Besides, I like it back here because I can see the orders come up. Frankly, dear, Agnes is a little slow and needs prompting now and then. If I want cold eggs, I can get them at home.”

  “Agnes had polio when she was a kid. And she’s mentally challenged. We at Sausage Barn do our best to be inclusive.”

  I slapped both cheeks—gently, of course—with my right hand. Someday, when ducks fly backward, I’ll learn to curb my tongue.

  Wanda pulled a well-chewed pencil out of a beehive that sat squarely atop her round little head. I’m not claiming that Wanda invented this hairstyle, but I know for a fact she’s been wearing her hair that way ever since we were in tenth grade together. And I don’t mean this to be unkind, but I don’t think Wanda’s washed that do in all these years.