Butter Safe Than Sorry

by Tamar Myers

  Nonetheless, a hostess has to do what a hostess has to do. I snatched a starched white apron from a hook behind the check-in desk on my way to greet them, tied it on with practiced hands, and arranged my lips in a fair approximation of a warm, inviting smile.

  “Gut Marriye,” I said in honest-to-goodness Pennsylvania Dutch, but from then on, I faked it with a made- up accent. “Velcommen to zee PennDeutsch Inn. Deed yousen pipple hobben a gut treep?”

  “Yah, yah, eet vas yoost vonderful! Zee cat’s payamas, yah?” A woman who looked very much like Barbara Bush during her White House years stepped regally toward me. She could easily have been the mother—or grandmother—of anyone there.

  I gulped. “Uh, ma’am,” I whispered, “I don’t really speak Pennsylvania Dutch.”

  “Neither do I. But listen, you twit. If this bunch catches on that you’re a fake, they’ll take their money elsewhere. We may look like a motley crew, but we came here for a genuine slice of Americana—just like it said in your brochure.” She pulled one of my brochures from her Hermès bag.

  There are times when one is taken aback, and there are times that one wishes to take back, but I had been in the biz too long for either of those scenarios to come into play that day. I straightened my apron, felt to see if my prayer cap was still securely in place, and then licked my pale, unadorned lips.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” I said loudly and clearly in my plain old American accent, “welcome to the PennDutch Inn. I am Magdalena Yoder, the proprietress, and I am a genuine Mennonite whose grandparents were Amish, as were their ancestors before them. I will let you shake my hand for a dollar.”

  There were no takers.

  I plunged on. “The inn in which you will be staying for the coming week is an exact reproduction of the Mennonite farmhouse in which I was born.” I raised my hand to silence some murmurs. “The original was destroyed by a tornado eight years ago. And before you get your bloomers in a bunch, I assure you that when I say ‘exact,’ that’s what I mean. The current inn was built on the original foundation and everything was faithfully reproduced, including the urine stains in Great Uncle Leonard’s bedroom—may he rest in peace.

  “How many of you wish to experience the Amish Lifestyle Plan Option—or ALPO, as I affectionately call it? For a measly one hundred bucks more a day you get to make your own beds, clean your own rooms, and the pièce de résistance—muck out the barn.”

  “Hey,” a carrot-topped man hollered, and practically in my face, “I thought it was only sixty-five dollars extra.”

  “It was, dear, but then I got to thinking: the more that one pays for something, the more it is that one is likely to appreciate it. It is my heartfelt desire that you treasure your stay here.”

  “Bull droppings,” the white-haired woman in pearls growled.

  I smiled beatifically. “Any takers for that?”

  “I’m in,” said a perky young blonde in a tight sweater and a ponytail. She was a wee little thing, whose head barely breached my bosom.

  But thanks to example, one by one they all agreed to ALPO—all except the redhead and his wife. He soon identified himself as Carl Zambezi from Rockaway, New Jersey. His wife, by the way, was the Barbara Bush look-alike, and her name was Olivia.

  “Carl dyes his hair and uses Botox,” she said right in front of him, “but still, look at his profile, doesn’t that face deserve to be on Mount Rushmore?”

  “Well, I—”

  “So, where’s the bellhop? You don’t expect Carl to fetch the bags from our car, do you? He has a bad back. Carl, go ahead and tell this woman how you hurt your back. Yeah, I know she’s one of them Amish”—she pronounced it “aye- mish”—“but she’s no spring chicken either, I can tell, so I know she can take it.”

  “Let me guess,” I said, “he had to pick you up.” Although she had broad shoulders and an uncommonly large head, she wasn’t substantially overweight, so my gentle ribbing was not untoward.

  Olivia stared at me with eyes as dark as cinders. Her lips quivered. Meanwhile Carl’s pale blue eyes focused on the ceiling. Suddenly they both exploded into gales of laughter.

  It was laughter every bit as infectious as the bubonic plague. Soon I was laughing too, and slapping my knees like it was mosquito season. Before I knew it, the other guests, who had hung back a bit while their elders checked in, were laughing and carrying on as well.

  Finally Olivia wiped the tears from her swollen eyes. “I’ll give you that one,” she said. She glanced at my impossibly steep stairs.

  “Is that the only way up?”

  “Indeed.”

  “And you don’t have an elevator because . . .” She let her voice trail off as her expression took over.

  “Oh, we have one, all right. But it’s a teensy-weensy one and it’s stuck between floors, and it may, or may not, contain the body of a dead Japanese tourist.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Never more so. Now, mind you, I don’t often lose tourists, but this particular one was extremely hard to keep track of, and had she not been quite so unpleasant, I might have made more of an effort to get an elevator repairman out here.”

  “What about the police?”

  “What about them? For all intents and purposes, I am she. So say hello to me, if that is she with whom you wish to speak; otherwise kindly proceed to collect your luggage and make your way to your room so that I may wait on these other kind folks.”

  Olivia stalked out of the inn, staring at me the entire time. That meant she had to swivel her head as if it were atop a lazy Susan. Her husband, Carl, who was all of two inches taller than she was, followed behind her like a faithful puppy dog.

  “It takes all kinds,” Mama used to say. I can’t remember if she was referring to me, or some of the strange people in our church community. Anyway, she was absolutely right. The next couple to check in was the Nyles—George and Barbie. George was a tall, deeply tanned man with a strong nose, a drooping mustache, and a wild thatch of curly brown hair. A woodsman, perhaps—although the rimless glasses he wore spoke to another side of his character. Barbie was a classic beauty with enormous green eyes and a heart-shaped face. Since she wore her long dark hair pulled back in a modest French twist, I took an immediate liking to this young gal in her early thirties.

  I had to call deeply upon my reserve of Christian charity, however, when checking in Peewee and Tiny Timms. For one thing, Peewee—whose real name was Reginald—was no peewee. I’ve owned cows that weighed less than he did—okay, maybe not many, and they were on the sickly side—but you get the picture. He was huge. He also wore a very curious bowl-shaped black wig that came down almost to his bristling black eyebrows. With all that excess body fat, plus the synthetic hair, Peewee sweated copiously. To say that the sweat streamed down his face is no exaggeration. Wherever the poor man stood for even a few seconds, a puddle formed.

  Tiny, his wife, would have qualified for petite, had it not been for the enormous pair of man-made brassiere fillers that jutted out from an otherwise flat chest. Believe you me: the transformation in topography was plumb amazing; I was reminded of Squaw Peak rising above Sun Valley in the greater Phoenix area. But as sweaty and uncomfortable- looking as Peewee Timms was, Tiny, on the other hand, presented herself as the epitome of good-natured cheer.

  “Ooh, I just love how you’ve decorated this place. It’s so—so—well, so authentic- looking. Isn’t it, Pee? Take that spinning wheel over there. I know It’s not for real and all, but—”

  “But it is.”

  “No way!”

  “Way.”

  “Isn’t she just too much?” Tiny said. She grinned happily.

  “She certainly is,” Peewee said. The mere effort of speaking precipitated streams of perspiration that coursed down his jowls.

  “You’ll be staying in room four. Room five hasn’t been cleaned by its last occupant, and room six—Well, I have a strict ‘no pets rule,’ and yet that so-called rock star managed to sneak a llama up to
his room. I’m afraid I’m going to have to replace the carpets. At his expense, of course.”

  Peewee chuckled and brushed away a tsunami of sweat from his lower brow. “We’ll try to obey the rules, Miss Yoder. We’re just here to chill out, relax, and soak in the ambience of Aye- mish country.”

  “It’s pronounced ayem-bience.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing; I happen to suffer from a rare medical condition known as Magdalenus horribilis. But don’t worry. It’s a non-communicable disease—that means you can’t catch it.”

  Just then Little Jacob and his father pulled up in the driveway, having returned from a weekly grocery run in to Bedford. Upon seeing the three new cars, my son practically flew inside on the wings of excitement.

  “Mama, Mama! Who’s here? Where’re ya at?”

  “We’re in the office, dear.”

  A second later his head was buried in my apron and his little arms encircled my legs. “Papa said to tell you that we had ’ventures in town.”

  “You did? Now, Jacob, be a polite young man and turn around and say hello to Mr. and Mrs. Timms.”

  He turned just enough to get a peek. “Do I hafta?”

  “Yes, you have to. Wherever did you leave your manners, young man? At Pat’s IGA?”

  “At the pet store, Ma,” he retorted, not wasting a second. “Papa stopped so I could see the puppies and one of them licked me all over my face and arms and Papa said maybe I could get it.”

  “He did?”

  “Can I?”

  There are times, especially early in my relationship with Gabe, that I wanted to lick him all over the face and arms, but now I just wanted to wring his neck.

  “We’ll see, dear,” I said.

  “No, I want a puppy.” My dear little monster punctuated each word with a well-placed kick to my shins. “Now!”

  “What you’re going to get now, sweetie, is a nap.” It was, after all, late afternoon, and even though he was four, I could tell that the excitement of a trip into town had taken its toll.

  “I’m too big for a nap.” This time the cute little hands had closed into fists and he was pummeling my midriff.

  I pulled him off me like he was a spitting kitten. “You’re not too big to mind your mama. Little boys who hit and kick do not deserve puppies. Now go straight to your room and lie quietly on your bed.”

  Off he went, stomping up a storm to show me that I was the meanest mama in the whole wide world—which I’m sure I was. I didn’t spank him, mind you, because I don’t countenance hitting; by the way, that rule applied to everyone in the family.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that,” I said to the Timmses, who had been watching, wide-eyed.

  “Not at all,” Peewee said. “If it had been me, I would have walloped the kid.”

  “Well, I still think you were mean,” Tiny said. Her eyes filled with tears and she ran up the stairs, following closely behind Little Jacob.

  7

  If Tiny thought I was mean, she should have followed me out to the car and watched how I laid into my husband, the Puppy Promiser. A puppy was a daily responsibility that lasted for many years. How could he make a decision like that and not have me be a part of it?

  “But, Mags,” he said, “you should have seen his little face light up.”

  “I’ve seen his little face light up when he sees the Santa impostors outside the stores at Christmastime. But I don’t promise him a fat elf of his very own to feed and clean up after for the rest of that old man’s lifetime.”

  “Now you’re just being ridiculous. Look, every boy needs a dog; any good psychiatrist will tell you that.”

  “What? Is that what you were told?”

  “Well, maybe not in so many words, but I bet I would have had a happier childhood if I’d have had an impartial buddy like a dog to talk to. Mags, they’re therapeutic. There’s no denying that.”

  “Are you saying that our son needs a therapy dog?”

  “You just said he threw a tantrum.”

  “Because he was tired.”

  “I get tired and I don’t whale on my mother.”

  “Now you’re just being ridiculous.”

  “So I am, am I?”

  “You bet your bippy.” With that, I stomped back into the house and into the kitchen, where dear old Freni was minding a pot of stew. I suppose it is possible that she didn’t hear my stomping or the door slamming—she is well into her golden years, after all.

  “Men!” I exclaimed in a voice loud enough for the dead to hear up in Settler ’s Cemetery.

  “Yah,” Freni said, without bothering to turn, “you cannot live with them, and they cannot live with you.”

  I mustered up a chuckle. “Good one, although surely not intended.”

  “No, this I mean. Magdalena, you are too smart for this war with the sexes, yah?”

  “That’s ‘battle of the sexes,’ and this is barely a skirmish.”

  “Hmm—for you English, maybe so. But didn’t your mama tell you that there are more flies to be caught with honey than with vinegar?”

  “Let’s pretend that she did, Freni; what do I want with a bunch of sticky flies?”

  Freni shook her head, which meant that her entire stout body shook, from her shoulders down. “It is not to be taken liberally,” she said. “It means that—”

  “I know what it means, Freni.”

  She turned then and waved a dripping wooden spoon in my direction. “You will listen to me, Magdalena Portulacca, or you too will take a nap.”

  Suddenly I was a ten-year-old girl again, and Freni was a much younger woman cooking at the very same stove. Upstairs Mama lay in bed, having recently given birth to Susannah. Yes, I’d been totally ignored by both overjoyed parents for the last week or so, but that was no excuse for what I’d done. How dared I have cut up one of the parlor curtains to sew clothes for my favorite doll, Melissa?

  But it was just one panel, I tried to argue, and besides, no one ever used the parlor. Of course they wouldn’t see things my way. Wasn’t I too old to play with dolls? It was time I put away such foolish things and helped out with the housework. Cousin Freni was there only to wait on Mama (she had a bad case of the “nerves”), so of course there were a lot of other important things I could be doing—like washing out Susannah’s poopy diapers or scrubbing pots and pans.

  “Okay, already, I’ll listen.”

  The dripping spoon froze just inches from my nose. “I have been thinking, Magdalena, not just about you and Dr. Rosen, but about me and Barbara as well.” She actually winced when speaking her only daughter- in-law’s name. “We are not seeing the forest before the trees.”

  “Come again?”

  “Take this daughter-in-law, for example; she has many faults, yah?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed! She’s too tall and she’s from Iowa.”

  “Is this sarcasm, Magdalena?”

  “Absolutely not, dear. Any woman over five feet eleven should be shipped off to New Zealand, and the government should do a better job of stopping illegal immigration from the State of Iowa.”

  Freni’s normally beady eyes shone brightly. “Ach, do you mean this, or do you just pull on my legs?”

  “Sorry, dear, but I just pull on your legs—well, one of them, at any rate. But your point is what, dear? Are my Gabe and your Barbara the trees, or the forest, in your mangled metaphor?”

  Freni threw her stubby arms up, hands open, in a gesture of extreme frustration. The wooden spoon sailed completely across the kitchen, where it smacked against the calendar that hung on the opposing wall beside the refrigerator. Believe me, I am not a superstitious woman, but there was now a meat broth stain on the Ides of March.

  “Gut im Himmel! You want that I should call you a dummkopf? I am saying that we have much to be thankful for. Especially you. Your Dr. Rosen is tall—but not too tall—and he is not from Iowa. He is also handsome, as well as rich, and he loves you very, very much; this thing I know. Yah, he is not of
the faith, and is a mama’s boy, but no one is perfect and the final chapter for him is not yet written.”

  I felt strangely let down. “That’s it? That’s your big advice? Count my blessings?”

  She nodded. “Yah, and I will count mine: eins, zwei, drei, vier, fimf.”

  I knew without a doubt that her five enumerated blessings alluded to her beloved husband, Mose; her precious son, Jonathan; and her three adorable grandchildren. Alas, I am not one to let a bone go ungnawed.

  “Sex,” I said.

  “Ach!”

  “Well, doesn’t that mean six in Pennsylvania Dutch? You better count Barbara too, because it is thanks to her that numbers drei, vier, and fimf came along. But, come to think of it, a little sex was probably involved as well.”

  “Ach!” Freni clapped her hands tightly over her ears and fled to the pantry.

  Feeling strangely better about the puppy situation, I headed out through the dining room and back to the office/foyer. I had a lot of work to do, if indeed the horde from Hoboken was going to experience an authentic Amish supper. The first thing on my agenda was getting these folks to work up an honest country-style appetite.

  “Come on, people,” I barked (gently, of course) to the stragglers who were still struggling to get their bulging valises up my impossibly steep stairs. “Tote that bag, and lift that tote, but if you gets a little drunk, then no fruit compote.”

  “That woman is certifiably nuts,” I heard somebody grumble from the dark privacy of the stairwell.

  “Indeed, I am,” I said with satisfaction. Yes, sir, it had all the makings of a blessed week.

  I didn’t even have a clue that something had gone terribly wrong with my game plan until the sheriff’s car pulled up my long gravel driveway. It happened just as I had begun to say grace. I feel compelled to explain here that the enormity of such an interruption cannot be overemphasized. My guests, as it turns out, were all papists, given to a brief prayer accompanied by a hand gesture known as the sign of the cross.