The Hand That Rocks the Ladle

by Tamar Myers

  “Don’t do me any favors,” I snapped.

  He hung up before I could.

  When I got back to the Moregold sisters, Daphne was sitting, eyes closed, on the first step. Edwina was sitting beside her sister, her arm around the woman. They both looked like they’d had the joie de vivre knocked right out of them.

  “You took an awfully long time on the telephone,” Edwina said quietly. A more sensitive soul might have heard accusation in her voice.

  I gave her a warning look. “How’s the patient?” Daphne opened one eye. “I’ve been better. Perhaps you and sis could help me into the lift now. If I could just lie down on my bed, I’m sure it would help a lot.” I reluctantly helped Daphne upstairs and into bed. She moaned and groaned the entire time. I hadn’t heard such pitiful sounds since that day, back in the fifties, when Mama leaned too close to our new washer, the one with an electric clothes wringer, and inadvertently invented the mammogram. At any rate, it seemed to me that the best thing would have been for Daphne to not move, at all, until Gabe had examined her. But what do I know? I’m just a lowly innkeeper on the wrong side of the big pond.

  Wouldn’t you know that in helping her sister get into bed, Edwina threw her back out too?

  “You what?” I wailed.

  It was Edwina’s turn to moan and groan while Daphne explained.

  “It happens to us all the time. It’s because we’re identical twins.”

  “You throw your backs out all the time?”

  “No, this is the first time for backs. But you see, because we’re identical twins, most likely when one of us comes down with something, the other will too.”

  “But sprained backs aren’t communicable.”

  “Of course they’re not. But sis and I are essentially the same person. We come from the same egg, after all. Our karmas are connected.”

  Fortunately, the doorbell rang. Just to be on the safe side, in case bad backs—or more likely bad luck—were contagious, I took the elevator down. The model I chose was one of the cheaper ones, and if I should even suffer an accident in it, my next bed will be in heaven.

  The doorbell rang again, and again before I could answer it.

  “Hold your horses,” I said as I flung it open.

  There stood Gabe, a foolish grin across his otherwise handsome face. He was holding what at first looked like a mailbox. You know, the kind set on poles in rural areas. Shaped like a bread box, only bigger. This one, however, didn’t have an arched top, and the lid was wire mesh.

  “That’s an odd-looking medical bag, Doctor.”

  The grin widened. “It’s not my medical bag. It’s your baby.”

  “Little Freni?”

  “She’s all yours. Name her what you want.”

  I grabbed the stupid-looking box from him and peered inside. “But that’s a kitten!”

  “A Siamese kitten. A pure-blooded Chocolate Point. She’s got papers and everything.”

  I staggered into the house, not from the weight of the box, but from a curious mixture of relief and bitter disappointment. Had there been a Hostetler baby in the box, it would have meant a successful, if somewhat bizarre end to my search. But I was relieved nonetheless, because the baby I had heard crying was not the product of Gabe’s loins. Not in this life.

  “So this is what was making all that noise.”

  He nodded. “Siamese cats are notorious for sounding like human infants.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? And why the kitten for me?” Meanwhile the kitten had stuck a little leg through the grid and was trying to bat at my hand. “What’s today?” Gabe asked.

  I frowned at his delaying tactic. “Tuesday.”

  “What’s the date?”

  “July twenty-third.”

  “So?”

  “So a needle pulling thread?” I don’t listen to much worldly music, but that particular song has good Mennonite lyrics.

  “So, tomorrow is our anniversary. I was going to give you the kitten then, but you made it clear you couldn’t wait.”

  "What?”

  “Face it, Magdalena, you were throwing a hissy fit. Pun intended.”

  I waved aside the accusation. “Which anniversary would this be?”

  “Why, our three-month anniversary, of course.”

  I stared at Gabe, my mouth open so wide, I could well have choked on a wayward robin. He was right. We had indeed met in April. I remembered that because of Susannah’s wedding. I had just met Gabe and invited him as my guest. But I for one hadn’t kept track of the exact date. But Gabe had! How terribly romantic! Aaron’s idea of romance had been to take off his socks before he came to bed.

  “Uh—uh—of course, our three-month anniversary.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, your present isn’t quite ready,” I wailed. “After all, you did say it was tomorrow.”

  “What I meant was, how do you like your present? Little Freni is what you named her, right?”

  At that very moment the kitten was successful in batting my hand. She did so with a full set of untrimmed claws. I yelped and nearly dropped the carrier.

  “She wants out. Let her out, Magdalena. Let her get to know you.”

  What fools we were: he wanting to impress me with a gift, and me in such shock at receiving it that neither of us had a thought for those two poor bedridden gals upstairs. Oh, well, such is love—not that we were in love, mind you, but perhaps the barest beginnings of love. In deep like, as it were.

  I let Freni out of her cage. Unlike her namesake, she was a lithe and beautiful creature. Pale cream body, chocolate face and ears, chocolate boots, and a chocolate tail. Her eyes were even bluer than Aaron’s had been. She rubbed against my ankles and purred.

  I bent to pet her. “Ooh, youms is so sweet,” I heard myself say. “Yes, you is, yes, you is.”

  Little Freni purred louder, sounding for all the world like Big Freni did when she snored. I petted some more, and she purred even louder. Then suddenly, in the throes of her purring frenzy, Little Freni snagged the front of my dress with her claws, and before I could stop her, climbed up the front panel, all the way to the top button. Hesitating only a second or two, she poked her pink nose under the collar facing and crawled in, straight into my gaping bra cup. A quick tickling turn, and she was settled in, her left ear barely noticeable above the V of my neckline. And lest you think there is no room in a bra for an eight-week-old kitten—well, there is, if you forget to use tissues that day.

  “Of course if you don’t like her,” Gabe said, “I could always take her back.”

  “Do so and die,” I said. The tragedy is, I only half meant it. I realize that owning a kitten doesn’t make one a full-fledged mother, but I had never felt such strong maternal feelings, not even toward Susannah. Now here I was, the product of five hundred years of pacifist inbreeding, suddenly willing—well, half willing—to turn my back on a noble heritage, and for what? To keep a cat? Gabe laughed. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”

  “Who’s beautiful? Little Freni or me?”

  A loud thump from upstairs made me wait for my answer.

  Twenty-three

  I raced up my impossibly steep stairs, quite forgetting there was a hitchhiker in my bra. Gabe, whose motivation lacked lawsuits, followed at a somewhat slower pace.

  “What happened?” I demanded. Although I could see quite well what had happened. There, lying on their respective single beds, were the Moregold twins. Between their beds, laying facedown, was the small bureau, which doubles as a nightstand. Thank heavens its drawers always stick. Otherwise there might well be unmentionables scattered about.

  “We had to get your attention,” Edwina said calmly. “We called and called, but you didn’t answer.”

  “So you turned over the bureau?”

  “It took both our efforts,” Daphne said. “And it didn’t make our backs any better.”

  Edwina pointed to the bed, where a lamp lay beside her. “At least we removed the lamp first.”
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  I shook my head in disbelief. “I was gone only ten minutes.”

  “Well, it seemed like forever.”

  “Besides, we were getting thirsty,” Edwina said.

  “What?”

  “A glass of lemonade would be nice.”

  “I’d prefer a beer,” Daphne said. “But not cold, like you Americans drink it. Of course, we wouldn’t dream of being a bother, so if it won’t be too long, you can bring our drinks up with lunch.”

  “Lunch?”

  “Oh, nothing fancy, mind you. Perhaps a little chicken salad. Our auntie, Ms. Virginia Wilcox, makes the best chicken salad. It has nectarines.”

  “Is that all you want? You sure you don’t want some toad stroganoff?”

  Daphne had the audacity to roll her eyes. “I think she means toad-in-the-hole.”

  “I meant what I said.” And I did. Great Granny Yoder didn’t have a drop of English blood, British or otherwise, nonetheless she managed to invent a rather tasty dish and name it after amphibians.

  The twins exchanged glances. “I’ll give it a go,” Edwina said at last. “But make mine a small portion.”

  I jiggled a pinkie in both ears just to make sure nothing was blocked, and that they were working right. “You women are serious, aren’t you? You really expect me to serve you lunch in bed?”

  The normally ebullient twins frowned in tandem. “Well, we obviously can’t go downstairs,” Edwina said.

  I put my hands on my hips, a distinctly un-Mennonite gesture. “Is that so? Well, we’ll just see what the doctor has to say. And as for that beer, I’m telling you right now, a Presbyterian has a better chance of getting into heaven than you do getting one sip of the devil’s brew under this roof.”

  “Then make it two lemonades,” Daphne said. “Why I never!”

  Gabe stepped into the room. He must have been waiting in the hallway, because when Daphne saw him, her eyes bulged, big as scones.

  “Ooh, sis. Check out the doc. We don’t have nothing like him back home in National Health Care.”

  “Down, girl,” I said. “Down, you little beast.” I actually was talking to Little Freni, who had decided to try my other cup, but if Daphne wanted to believe my remarks were directed to her, so be it.

  Edwina put the lamp on the floor and patted the bed beside her. “You can sit here, Doctor.”

  “But I saw him first,” Daphne whined.

  “Yes, but you told me to check him out.” Edwina looked Gabe straight in the eye. “Should we disrobe for the exam?”

  “You crumpet-eating strumpet!” I railed. “This man is mine. If anyone gets to disrobe, it’s me. Only I won’t, because we’re not married. Not that we never will be, mind you, but then it’s far too early in our relationship to even consider that. But we do have a relationship, you know. Look, he gave me this.” I tugged on my dress collar to give the gals a peek at Little Freni.

  Edwina smirked. “He gave you a hairy chest?”

  Gabe laughed, but at least he didn’t dispute my claim. “Ladies, please. There will be no need for anyone to disrobe.” He turned to me. “Magdalena, would you please go downstairs and get my bag. I left it on the front porch.”

  I retrieved the bag, and even though Gabe kept the door wide open during his examination, he made me wait outside. During my exile the Charlotte Panthers won a game, and Dennis Rodman grew up. But I caught glimpses now and then—both women remained fully clothed—and although I couldn’t hear most of what Gabe said, I think he behaved professionally. There was, however, far too much giggling from the girls.

  At one point, out of sheer boredom, I wandered down the hall to Room 6, where my mystery guest was staying. “Jacko,” I whispered softly, “it’s me, Magdalena.”

  There was no answer.

  I drummed lightly on the door with my fingertips. “I’ve been very patient, dear. Either you show yourself, or I charge you full fare this time.”

  The door opened a crack and I peered in. The figure in black was far too large to be Michael Jackson. “Why, you’re not Jacko, after all.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then who are you?”

  “The King.”

  “Charlie Windsor?” I knew that man too. “Give it up, dear. There wouldn’t be room for those royal ears under that ski mask of yours. Besides, the queen is still alive. You’d only be the Prince of Wales.”

  “No, ma’am, I’m not that king. I’m The King.”

  “Elvis?”

  “Shhhh.”

  “Get out of town! Elvis Presley is dead.”

  “Ma’am, I’m afraid rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”

  “Mark Twain is dead too. Look, buster, whoever you are, you better make good on your bill.”

  “Just a minute,” he mumbled. In less than sixty seconds he thrust a cloth bag through the crack. “Here, take what you need.”

  “How many days’ stay?”

  “Six.”

  I rummaged through the bag until I had the right amount. No doubt this sounds dangerous and foolish to you, but as the owner of an inn that caters to celebrities—well, it used to, before the tornado—I’d been through this many times. Half of Hollywood has recovered from the surgeon’s knife under my roof. What better place to go to heal than Hernia? The Amish don’t care about movie and television stars, and frankly, those Mennonites who do are not very savvy. Lodema Schrock, who watches far more television than a pastor’s wife should admit to, used to rave about a show with a talking horse. This Ed—or Ned, maybe—was a real horse, Lodema claimed. She could see his lips move. No amount of persuasion could convince the woman that the beast in question was really a puppet. You see what I mean?

  “Look, dear—whoever you are—I’ve got a lot on my plate at the moment. If you want anything on your plate, you’re going to have to show up for meals. I can’t be bothered bringing up trays.”

  The ski mask nodded.

  At that moment Gabe joined me in the hallway. “Can we talk?” he whispered.

  I motioned him to follow me downstairs. The masked man closed his door.

  “How are they?” I demanded when we were back in the foyer.

  He shrugged. “They appear to be in good health.”

  “Both of them?”

  “Yes. But back pain is a very difficult thing to prove, or disprove. I tried talking them into going for some X rays, but they refused.”

  “So, now what?”

  “Well, that’s your call. Frankly, Magdalena, I don’t think either of them is having trouble with their backs. The trouble is more in their heads.”

  “They’re crazy?”

  “Crafty is more like it. From what I could gather they’ve had a hard life—”

  “Who hasn’t?” I wailed.

  “Touche. But these ladies both work in dead-end factory jobs and share a cold-water flat in the grimiest neighborhood of one of England’s largest industrial cities. They’ve been saving their meager salaries for years just to come to America, and when they finally do, they discover Nirvana.”

  “The rock group?”

  “No, the PennDutch Inn.”

  “Come again?”

  “They love it here, Magdalena. And they adore you.”

  “They do?”

  “Absolutely. You’re the kind of mother they wish they would have had.”

  “I’m not that old!”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes, but at first they were so helpful. They pitched right in and made meals without being told. But now they want to be served beer in bed?”

  He laughed. “That was cheeky of Daphne. But you see, they’ve decided they like it here so much—at the inn, with you—that they don’t want to leave. So they’ve taken to their beds with bogus back pains. Only I can’t prove it. And as a doctor I shouldn’t make such a prognosis without more tests. But there you have it. That’s my gut feeling.”

  “But I offered Disney World!”

  “Yes, but they c
ouldn’t be sure of liking that. You, they already do.”

  I wrung my hands. They really are attractive hands, if I must say so myself.

  “You haven’t answered my question, Gabe. What do I do now?”

  “That’s the tricky part. The possibility for strained muscles does exist. At least for Daphne. But speaking as your friend, and not a physician, I’d say the thing to do would be to somehow make them not like you.”

  “How do I do that?” I may have a tart tongue, and hold more opinions than a Gallup poll, but in general, people like me. There are a few misguided souls, like Lodema Schrock, our pastor’s wife, who can’t abide me, but folks like her are few and far between. Perhaps I could ask her for tips.

  Gabe spread his heads. And they are very handsome hands too, if I might add.

  “You might try ignoring them.”

  “Would that work?”

  “I’d say it’s worth a shot. I mean, you do have certain rules here, don’t you?”

  “You can say that again! I simply will not tolerate anyone being late for meals.” I hung my head. “Unless it’s me who’s late.”

  “There you go. Tell the twins they’ve missed the magical hour and they’re out of luck.”

  “They aren’t the only ones,” I said. Here it was, almost one o’clock on a Tuesday, and I had yet to see that nice Mennonite couple, the Redigers, or the rich vamp Vivian Mays and her gold-digging boy-toy. Although the latter was no surprise.

  From where he was standing in the foyer Gabe could see both into the parlor, which was on his left, and the dining room on his right. “It does seem to be pretty dead around here, doesn’t it?”

  “You’re telling me. Not that I’m complaining,” I said quickly. “I’ve had a lot on my plate with this wild goose chase Freni’s sent me on, not to mention the murder this morning.”

  Gabe grabbed my arm. “What murder?”

  “Up in Bedford. Susannah and I stumbled across a body.”

  “Oh, Magdalena. Do you want to talk about it?”

  I let Gabe lead me to a Victorian loveseat in the parlor. Frankly, that particular piece of furniture is not in the least bit comfortable, and does not inspire thoughts of love. It was, however, just the right place for us to sit and talk about my day.