by Tamar Myers
‘And you know this how?’ I said.
‘People are saying,’ she said.
Left without options to preserve my sanity I took my baby son, who really was a boy, and whisked him off to my bedroom. After locking the door, I jammed a chair under the doorknob just to make sure that my nightmare didn’t follow me in. Then I called the Hernia Police Department and reported that two intruders had broken into The PennDutch Inn.
‘Hey Madam Mayor,’ a jovial male voice said.
‘Toy,’ I said to the Chief of Police, ‘I’d like to report a break-in.’ As a matter of interest, other than our disproportionally high rate of murder, we good citizens are quite law-abiding, and thus Chief Toy Graham is our only police officer. Also, Toy originally hails from the South where men named Toy are not unheard of. Toy has the most delightful Carolina accent, which brings to mind languorous summer days filled with the scent of magnolia blossoms, and the taste of sweet tea and fried green tomatoes. Don’t get me wrong when I say that this man, who is half my age, is as cute as an eight-week-old puppy, and if he were my puppy, I’d put him on a leash and take him for a lot of long, slow walks. Maybe even a few cuddles.
On the other end of the line, Toy chuckled. ‘Magdalena, does one of your intruders stand four-feet-nine inches tall in her support stockings and wear a habit? Also, might she be the same woman that I’ve heard you refer to as Mother Despicable?’
‘You’ve read my little mind,’ I said. ‘Isn’t there anything that I can do?’
‘We’ve been over this a million times, boss. You can’t get a restraining order unless your better-half signs off on one. Maybe you can get your mother-in-law mad enough to hit you. Then I can haul her in on assault charges.’
‘Really?’
‘Magdalena! Frankly, I’m—’
‘No, I didn’t mean it. Well, I did, but I shouldn’t have, and I take back my evil thoughts. It’s just that she makes me so miserable.’
Toy chuckled. ‘I was about to say that, frankly, I’m proud of you.’
‘You are?’ My shrivelled old heart began beating sinfully fast.
‘From what I’ve learned about you Mennonites and Amish in the year I’ve lived in Hernia, you really are the pacifists whom you claim to be. If a Methodist man hits an Amish man, the Amish man will just turn and walk away. It’s the same with you Mennonites too, right? You’ll also just walk away.’
‘Jesus told us to turn the other cheek,’ I said. ‘It’s in the Bible.’
‘Yeah, well, maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be, and it is – most of the time. But we both know that Obadiah Rupp pummelled his pregnant wife in the abdomen so many times that she miscarried in the fourth month and lost the baby. And we know that Dorcas Gundy poisoned her husband and three of her eleven children, by putting eye drops in their food every day for a week.’
One can get irritated at even puppy-dog cute men in uniforms. ‘So, what’s your point?’ I said.
‘No, what’s your mother-in-law’s point? By now I’m beginning to suspect that woman is up to something more than just sabotaging your marriage. Her insistence on having Sister Disgusting working in your restaurant has the workings of a sinister plot, if you ask me, and I’m not one to buy into conspiracy theories. I fielded calls all evening from women claiming to have witnessed a brouhaha at Amish Sinsations that apparently didn’t happen. Am I right?’
‘Wow! Actually, her name is Sister Disenchantment, although I like your moniker better. But you’re right as rain. I’m sure it was disgusting, and terribly unsettling, from poor Barbara Hostetler’s point of view, but my elite customers were never aware of the pseudo-nun’s snake imitation. There wasn’t any sort of disturbance, I assure you.’
‘Well then, get this: most of the calls I got were from supposed customers of yours. But here’s the thing, they were from this area code, and they spoke with Hernia accents.’
If devilishly attractive Toy and I had been having this conversation in person, I would have cocked a sparse, mousey-brown eyebrow. I might even have giggled coquettishly before framing a careful reply. Instead, I merely made a point of clearing my throat. ‘They were definitely not New Yorkers or Bostonians. Or from Chicago for that matter.’
‘Toy, you are from the South and have that charming Southern accent. You only just moved up here, above the Mason-Dixon Line, a little more than a year ago. Is it possible that all Yankees sound the same to you?’
‘Ouch! Allow me to fine tune my answer a bit, and I know this will come across as snobby. Some of the callers who claimed to be well-heeled, high society people from the East Coast, sounded like they’d never graduated from high school. Plus, even a Charlottean like me can recognize a New Yorker, or a Bostonian, unless they’ve gone into broadcasting, or acting.’
‘Message received. I’m sorry for offending you.’
He laughed. ‘That’s OK. Some Southerners take a dim view on immigrants from the North who want to fit into our culture. “Just because a cat has kittens in the oven,” they say, “that don’t make them biscuits.”’
I tried to laugh. ‘Somehow I don’t think that you’re trying to fit into our culture. But if you are, you can always forsake your loose Episcopalian ways, and become a Mennonite. One of the liberal Mennonites like Agnes. However, you would never make it as an Amish man. No electricity, no television ever, and no computers.’
Precious minutes flew by while Police Chief Toy Graham enjoyed a belly laugh. By the time he finally came to his senses, I was on the verge of having a panic attack. After all, at any minute Gabe, or the nightmare who birthed him, could be at the door, demanding entrance.
‘Hey, boss,’ Toy finally said, ‘are you still there?’
‘No, this is your mother, and she wants you to brush your teeth twice a day and floss at least one. But your boss wants to know some of the specifics of those calls, because I thought Barbara handled herself very well.’
‘Yeah, a couple of callers whom I questioned further reported that you remained calm as well. Look, I’m not trying to argue, Magdalena, but many of the callers were Amish women. They called from the public phone at Yoder’s Corner Market, because as you know, the Amish around here are about the strictest there are, and don’t allow cell phones. Two men called to offer their support for Barbara, but I recognized their voices. One was her husband Jonathan, and the other male caller was her father-in-law.’
‘And my dear, dear cousin Freni? I know that she’s so jealous of her daughter-in-law that she can’t stand it. Did Freni call?’
Toy was silent for far too long. ‘Magdalena, boss, will you at least listen to what I am going to say next, even if you don’t heed my advice?’
‘OK but speak fast. I hear Gabe calling me.’
Toy spoke with the speed of an auctioneer. ‘Your hybrid restaurant idea was brilliant while it lasted. Emphasizing Barbara’s rich, moist, mouth-watering desserts was a brilliant decision. It’s obviously been a huge success, but you need to fire all your staff, except for Agnes and Barbara, and start over. Barbara is a sweetheart, but she’s a pariah, because she’s from someplace else. Believe me, I get that.
‘The really bad news is that reptilian with the flicking tongue, Sister Dystopia, or whatever her name is. She’s been inserted there by your mother-in-law from Hell, and I think that what happened yesterday is just the tip of the iceberg. At the very least get rid of that Sister.’
‘But Gabe will be so angry—’
I had missed the doorknob turning. Perhaps this way and that, and perhaps several times.
‘Magdalena, are you in there?’ Gabe called softly. ‘Of course you are. I can hear you talking on the phone.’
‘Official business,’ I said sweetly. ‘I’ll be right there.’ I quickly ended my call with Toy.
‘Why was the door locked?’ Gabe said, after I let him in.
‘One can’t be too careful,’ I said, which wasn’t a lie. ‘The fruit of your loins is fast asleep on our bed. Whilst your ravishi
ngly beautiful wife was fulfilling her mayoral duties, you wouldn’t want the little tyke to toddle off into harm’s way now, would you?’
‘Harm’s way?’ Gabe said. ‘Mags, there’s no harm out there. Just Ma looking all hurt and confused.’
‘Oh, is she still here?’ I would have batted my eyes, but my colourless lashes are as effective as a pair of dead fly wings.
‘Yeah, she’s still here. Mags, she claims that Barbara Hostetler is spreading ugly rumours about one of the disciples at Amish Sinsations. Do you know anything about this matter?’
‘Unfortunately, I know more than I care to. That’s what I was on the phone talking about with Toy. Your mother and her denizens of society’s dropouts have launched a campaign aimed at having poor Barbara Hostetler quit her job.’
‘Why the heck would Ma do that?’
‘Because your mother wanted the job of chef for herself. She begged me for it – no, she demanded that I make her my chef, but I refused. Now look what’s happened!’
‘But that’s crazy! Ma is old; she is way past retirement age. Besides, she enjoys playing the part of a Mother Superior, in what you know is in a made-up religious organization. You’re always accusing her of running a scam, of conning these women. You can’t deny that.’
‘Gabe, don’t you get it? It’s not really about the cooking. Your mother doesn’t really want to be chef; she just wants to get back at me. She wants to do anything that she can to mess up my life.’
Gabe stared at me with perhaps the same amount of comprehension that I once used when regarding a photo of a Jackson Pollock painting. My clueless husband jiggled his pinkies in both ears, but I think that it was to test for wax, not to see if they were still functioning. Then he groaned.
‘Mags, you’re being paranoid,’ he said.
‘I am not. Face it: your mother can’t stand the fact that there is another woman in her son’s life.’
‘Oh, not that again.’
I wanted to grab my handsome doctor husband and shake him until at least one of his outrageously expensive caps fell off his teeth. Of course, I didn’t. That sort of behaviour wouldn’t have been good for our marriage, and it would have violated my pacifist beliefs. Instead I sucked it up, as they say nowadays, and changed the subject.
‘How is our precious daughter doing?’ I said.
‘Better,’ Gabe said. ‘I think I got through to her that I misspoke, that I didn’t express myself well. I think it’s important that I start doing more things with her when it is just the two of us. You know, to make her feel special. I emphasized that she is my only daughter, and that I love her very much.’
I nodded. ‘Good start. I’m proud of you for that. Now my turn. Back to your mother and me. The Bible says that you’re supposed to leave your parents and cleave unto your wife – or husband, as the case may be. If you could save only one of us, who would it be?’
My answer was a slammed door. I waited until I heard Ida’s nasal voice silenced by the kitchen door. A few minutes later I heard Gabe’s car crunching out of the driveway, so I guessed he was either giving the women a lift back to the convent, or else he was running errands. Although to be perfectly honest, the Devil did make me hope that he was running her over in the driveway – but I only thought that for a second, and then I quickly repented of that evil thought. Father Joijuice, the Episcopalian minister in Bedford, said on the radio that we are not responsible for the thoughts that just flicker through our brains, but that sounds contrary to Matthew 5:28. Besides, Episcopalians are the American variety of Anglicans, and Henry VIII who started that faith did some rather unsavoury things, and well – I’m just saying.
Back to my Dearly Beloved, and why he felt the need to jump in his car and drive away. Perhaps he was just driving about aimlessly to ‘let off steam’, as he calls it. In my opinion, jogging would have been a better option than driving, even if there wasn’t the slightest chance that he would have accidentally backed over his mother. There, you see? I’m not quite the horrible person that some people think that I am. Anyway, Gabe knows cardiology, and Magdalena knows how to milk cows, which means that we’re supposed to stay in our own lanes. End of story.
When I was confident that the coast was clear, I went upstairs and knocked on Alison’s door. As her mother, I pay no attention to the carefully lettered sign that she posted two years ago when she was twelve that reads:
GO AWAY!
DONT EVEN NOCK!
But I also respect her privacy to the extent that I do the forbidden action, and always knock before entering her room if she is at home. If she is not home, then her privacy is not in play, and since this is my house, and she is my daughter, I feel free to enter her room whenever I please. As a good mother, it is my responsibility to do so. Who else is going to put away her clean clothes, sweep under her bed for dust bunnies, and look under her mattress for little bags of marijuana?
That day when I knocked, I received the usual response. ‘Go away!’ Alison bellowed.
‘I’m here to stay!’ I bellowed back. ‘And if we wake up your brother, you’re the one who will have to change his next diaper.’
‘Aw, Mom! Then come on in.’
One of my daughter’s soul-crushing chores is to keep her room ‘somewhat neat’. The definition of ‘neat’ had broadened over the last year, beginning with ‘a few things left on the floor’, practically to the point of ‘was there ever really a floor in the first place?’. Because entering her room always causes my stomach to churn, and often leads to me grounding her, I try to limit my visits as much as possible.
That morning, with Gabe off who knows where, I tried to keep my focus strictly on Alison. All the rooms in my restored farmhouse, The PennDutch Inn, are quite large. Therefore, it was a challenge negotiating my way through slippery piles of paper, plastic, and piles of dirty clothing, all the while trying hard not to really see anything out of the corner of my eyes, except for Alison.
It wasn’t until I was looming over her that I noticed she was reading a Harry Potter book. I don’t recall which one, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not the only Christian who disapproves of their content. The Bible forbids us to practice sorcery. In fact, it states in plain English that mediums and conjurers are to be put to death.
‘Alison,’ I asked in horror, ‘where did you get that book?’
Alison looked up slowly, defiantly. ‘From the library in Bedford. Dad took me there last week. I got three Harry Potter books. I’ve already read two.’
I was stunned. I knew that the girl was clever, and that her terrible grammar was a combination of laziness and a gambit to get under our skin as teenagers are wont to do. However, I hadn’t the foggiest notion that she had the stamina to plough her way through a book longer than a comic book, much less a tome so thick that she had to prop it up with a pillow.
‘But you know that I don’t approve of magic and witchcraft,’ I said, as I tried to keep any hint of admiration off my face.
‘Yeah, but Dad said was it all right. In fact, he checked them out on his card.’
‘Is that so, huh? Well, we’ll just see about that.’
Alison snickered. ‘Mom, ya do know that in your half of the Bible, the one that Dad doesn’t approve of, it says that the husband should be the head of the wife. And then it says something like, “wife obey your husband”.’
I could feel my face redden. That has always been one of the most difficult verses in the New Testament for me to wrap my mind around. But the thing is, if you try to wrap your mind around something too far, then your brain gets twisted, and you end up becoming a Presbyterian, like my sister Susannah, who is in prison, or even worse, like Toy, the Episcopalian.
The Bible is full of supposed contradictions. According to one website there were 196 of these contradictions in the New Testament alone. In fact, Pastor Diffledorf calls them riddles, and said that God will supply the answers to all of them when we get to Heaven. Pastor says that Christians shouldn’t waste their time tryi
ng to second guess the Lord, and this is what faith is all about. For the record, nearly everyone at Beechy Grove Mennonite Church has observed Daphne Diffledorf shamelessly bossing her husband around. What’s more, the couple is not only childless, they seem positively allergic to teenagers.
‘So, Mom,’ Alison said when I was slow to respond, ‘whatcha gonna do, huh? Ya gonna be the wimpy wife like your half of the Bible says ya supposed to be, or ya gonna let Dad win, and let me get away with reading this book about sorcerers and spells?’
I braved a billion cooties and plonked my bony caboose down beside her. ‘Scoot over, toots. I want you to read me some of this heathen book.’
‘You mean, like, aloud?’
‘Yes, aloud, dear. You know that, like all mothers, I have eyes in the back of my head, and the hearing of an owl – which is pretty keen. But I won’t be able to hear you, if you read silently, because this book was written in Great Britain. The English that they speak over there has a funny accent, and the sound waves required to turn the words into proper American English can’t be transmitted through skull bones.’
‘No way!’
‘No way, indeed,’ I said, with a wry smile, for by repeating her response I had just undone my little white lie.
‘OK, here goes,’ she said. Alison leaned back, and we snuggled together on her bed as she read to me for almost an hour. I didn’t have her stop until I heard Little Jacob wake up, thanks to the portable baby monitor which I carry in my skirt pocket at all times when I’m home.
You can bet your bippy that I was horrified by the contents of the book – had it been a more perfect world than what we were living in, I might have wrested it from her hands and grounded her further. But what can I say? At least when she’s reading, Alison’s grammar remains consistent, and that’s something.
Experts say that when it comes to raising children, we should choose our battles. Harry Potter and his friends were fighting evil with good magic spells; they weren’t selling drugs or assaulting girls. In the interest of what Gabe calls shalom bayit, ‘peace in the home’, I decided to try to think kinder thoughts about his mother. And I certainly had no intention of bringing up the Harry Potter episode.
