by Tamar Myers
“Yoder, it’s me.”
“There’s a lot of me’s in the world, Melvin. Which one are you, and how did you get this number?”
“It’s Melvin Stoltzfus, Yoder, and I’ve had your number for ages. I’m Susannah’s boyfriend, remember?”
“Not on my good days. What do you want?”
“If you’re going to be rude, Magdalena, I just won’t tell you.”
“Bye-bye, Melvin.”
“Wait! You can’t hang up, Magdalena. This is official police business.”
“I’m taping everything you say, Melvin, so make sure that it is.” Okay, so that wasn’t a necessary lie, and it might have given Mama a spin or two, but it’s Melvin’s fault if I sinned, not mine. He’s the one who constantly leads me into temptation.
“Look, Yoder, I just thought you’d like to know that the county coroner is shipping Don Manley’s body back to Los Angeles tonight. The cause of death has been officially ruled as manslaughter. I thought you’d like to know.”
‘‘What a shock, Melvin. I was sure it was suicide.”
“If you’d quit yapping and listen, Yoder, you would have heard that I said manslaughter, not murder.”
So he had. “Okay, Melvin, I’ll bite. What’s the difference?”
If Melvin’s pause had been pregnant, it could have populated at least two third-world countries. “Well, you know what murder is, don’t you, Yoder?”
“It’s what would happen if you were here in person, Melvin.”
“Manslaughter, on the other hand, is sort of halfway between murder and accidental death. That is to say, there is no malice intended. No prior deliberation.” There was another pause during which the population of China doubled. “Yoder, have you heard a word I’ve said?”
It finally sank in. “Do you mean to say that you believe Don Manley was forked in the stomach unintentionally?”
“Eureka, she’s got it! My point is, Yoder, I’m giving you a break here. I’m not saying that you meant to kill Don Manley, but that maybe things got out of hand, and before you knew it, well, he was dead.”
“Melvin, how does one unintentionally pin a man to a barn beam with a pitchfork?”
“Why don’t you tell me? This would be a good time for you to confess, Yoder. They say that confession is good for the soul.”
“But I never sat on that washing machine again!”
“You seem to forget that I’m your friend, Yoder. I’ve cut you some slack here. Believe me, it will go much easier on you if you confess now. And like I said, manslaughter is a lesser charge than murder. You’d only be facing ten—twelve years in the state pen, max. If you behaved, Yoder, they might even let you out early on parole. So come on and fess up. Tell Cousin Mel where you hid the pitchfork.”
“Have you had any trouble sitting lately, Melvin?”
“Of course you could continue to make things hard for me, which will only make it harder on yourself.”
“Give it up, Melvin. I haven’t killed anyone. Yet. ”
“Is that a threat, Yoder?”
“Read my lips, Melvin. I did not kill Don Manley.” It was probably easier for Melvin to read lips over a phone than in person.
I heard Melvin sigh loudly. “I want you to know, I’m keeping tabs on you, Yoder. And by the way, just exactly when and where are you planning to meet that mobster from Baltimore?”
“He’s a fried-chicken monger, Melvin, not a mobster, and the details are none of your business.”
“In that case, I’ll just have to sit here all night and watch your house.”
“Where are you, Melvin?”
“That’s none of your business, Yoder. But for your information, I do have a car phone.”
“Well, for your information, Melvin, he’s not coming here to the inn. I’m going to meet him. So you can just sit there all night.”
I hung up. After talking to Melvin, I looked forward to putting myself back into Heather’s hot little hands I must say, despite aberrant religious leanings and her undying love for the very dead Don, Heather was a whiz at her job. My hair had never looked better. Heather even convinced me to wear a little makeup. Not a lot, mind you, but just enough to make me look like a red-blooded woman with at least one toe in the world. I knew at once that the job was a success when I ran into Susannah. “My God, Magdalena, you look awful!”
“Thank you, dear,” I said sincerely.
‘‘Mama would kill you if she saw you.”
“Heather must have been right about motives being easy to come by.”
“I mean, you look like a middle-aged whore.”
“Perhaps we should go into business together.”
“I’m not kidding, Magdalena. This look definitely isn’t you. You looked much better plain. Seriously, Sis, give it up. You look like a streetwalking clown. No man in his right mind will ask you out looking like that.”
“Suits me just fine. I already have a date,” I said, and walked away with my head held high.
I felt good about the new me, and that’s all that counted. Of course, once the movie company and Heather vacated the premises, I would most probably revert back to my normal just plain old soap and water routine, but until then, I planned to enjoy the change. And who was Susannah to criticize me?
I was just heading for the door, purse in hand, when the lobby phone rang.
“PennDutch Inn,” I said charmingly. “We’re all booked up at the moment while a major Hollywood studio is filming a blockbuster movie, but we would be glad to consider your reservation two months from now.”
“Magdalena, is that you?”
“Joan? Joan Lunden?”
“Magdalena, this is Martha Sims.”
“Oh, it’s only you.”
“Magdalena, the reverend and I were thinking of inviting you to lunch on Sunday. Tomorrow, that is.”
“Has it gotten past the thinking stage? Isn’t it already too late to send out invitations?”
“This is the invitation, Magdalena. Will you come? Lunch will be served about twelve-thirty.”
“Does this mean I have to attend your church first?”
“Frankly, I’d just as soon you didn’t.”
“Fair enough, Martha. But I’ve told you before that I’m sorry for having washed my face in the baptismal font at Susannah’s wedding. It was a hot day, and we don’t keep a bowl of water handy at my church. How was I supposed to know what it was for?”
“Lunch at twelve-thirty, then?”
I told Martha I would be delighted to attend, and I meant it. Why Martha and her husband would want me over for lunch was beyond me. It would be worth a case of heartburn, or another batch of whipped cream in my hair, to find out. Besides, I had yet to enter her dining room, and from what little I could see from my spot in the parlor, it promised to be very interesting indeed.
Many roads lead to the top of Mt. Fujiyama, the saying goes, but the view from the top is the same. Only one road leads from my place to Hernia, so I was stuck taking it. To get to Bedford, I have to go to Hernia first, and then turn right at Sam Yoder’s Corner Market on state highway 96. Sam’s is only one block away from Main, where the police station is, and I had decided to swing by there and see if Melvin’s cruiser was in the parking lot. The way Melvin had been talking, I fully expected him to tail me into Bedford and arrest Jim and me on our first date. The charges would undoubtedly be nothing less than plotting to overthrow the government and pocketing a packet or two of Sweet’n Low.
However, I discovered that Melvin was out cruising the second I left my place. There’s a dip to the side of the road about a quarter of a mile to the left as you come out of my driveway that’s deep enough to hide a car, or even a horse and buggy. Spooning couples have concealed their vehicles in that dip for over a hundred years. Aunt Lizzie used to talk about how she and her beaus would dawdle there on their way back to the house. Sometimes she’d go on and on about it until Mama made her shut up. Susannah, I know, has dawdled in the dip on many occas
ions, but, of course, both Mama and Papa always turned a blind eye. The one time I dawdled in the dip was when I was eighteen and Papa’s car, which he’d let me drive, slid off the road and into the creek in a snowstorm. The car wasn’t hurt, and neither was I, but you would have thought I’d just returned from Sodom and Gomorrah the way Mama carried on. And I’d been alone the whole time too!
Anyway, as soon as I turned onto the highway I caught a glimpse of Melvin Stoltzfus’s cruiser emerging from the dip. I suppose Melvin thought I was too stupid to look in my rearview mirror. Maybe he thought it took all my concentration just to hang on to the wheel. But whatever he thought, he hadn’t thought enough.
Immediately, I pressed the pedal to the metal. I know, that’s a dangerous and foolish thing to do, especially around Hernia, where there is a lot of horse and buggy traffic. But sometimes a gal has to do what a gal has to do. At any rate, the element of surprise worked in my favor, and Melvin ate my dust until I got to Stucky Street on the north edge of town, not far from Norah Hall’s house. I whipped my old Chevy right on Stucky, right again on Fussenegger, right on Blough, and then right one more time, putting me back again on the highway. This time I was behind Melvin.
Apparently Melvin was too stupid to check his rearview mirror, because I followed him at chase speed all the way through Hernia and halfway to Bedford. Four miles outside of Bedford, Melvin gave up the chase and turned into the Hooley farm. While he was turning himself around, I simply zoomed past him and got to Bedford in record time.
Chapter Seventeen
Once at Ed’s Steak House, I ordered a large iced tea and settled down in a booth from which I had a good view of the front door. As I sipped, I wished buckets of blessings down on Melvin’s head for having gotten me there early. I much preferred to peruse the incoming traffic for Jumbo Jim than be perused myself.
A lot of good-looking men frequent Ed’s Steak House, not that I’m hung up on looks, mind you. “Never judge a book by its cover,” Mama used to say, and of course she was right. But the cover is often the reason we first pick up a book, and if we are truly honest, most of us will admit to applying this same method of initial selection to our relationships. Of course, Susannah never gets beyond this stage, which isn’t surprising to me, since I don’t think she’s ever read an entire book either. Which is not to say, I hasten to add, that Melvin Stoltzfus is good-looking, just because Susannah dates him. Susannah may judge a book by its cover, but you must remember that she has bad judgment altogether. In Melvin’s case, both the book and the cover are trash, and Susannah is a total loser. What else is new?
Anyway, my iced tea had gotten pretty low and I was beginning to make loud slurping noises with my straw, when a drop-dead gorgeous hunk of man walked through the door. All the breath went out of me at the sight of him, and I guess I spilled some ice too, because my lap suddenly felt damp.
“Thank you, Lord,” I prayed, hopefully not too loud, and then waved nonchalantly at him. The man, who really was much cuter than Eddie Albert, simply walked past me. It wasn’t until I saw him embrace a ho-hum-looking woman across the room that I realized it might not be Jim. When a toddler ran up to him and he scooped it up in his arms, I turned back to the door.
The next unaccompanied man was okay looking. He was tall, which is great for me, but he was just a little too much on the fluffy side for my taste. By that I don’t mean that he was effeminate. I mean that he lacked muscle tone. He wasn’t exactly fat, but he had fluffy flesh—imagine six feet of whipped pate, if you will. Just to be on the safe side, I waved, but it was the kind of wave that could also be interpreted as patting my hair. Fortunately for me, this man appeared to ignore me completely and was soon enveloped by a foursome of fluffy friends, whereupon they all trooped off to the salad bar.
The third unaccompanied man didn’t even merit a hair pat. I could see at once that he was wearing a clerical collar, and despite what Susannah says, I would not make a good nun. Of course I might have considered it had it not been for Vatican II. But without the cute little costumes (it must be my Amish blood) it just wouldn’t be the same. Silently I wished the good father luck. He was far too handsome to wander into Ed’s unattended. If Susannah should spot him during one of her lapses into good taste, he wouldn’t stand a prayer.
The fourth lone male to stroll in was obviously a prepubescent boy of ten or twelve, so I didn’t even stop slurping for him. It was only when I had tipped my glass way up on end to tap loose an ice jam that I noticed the cherub standing next to me.
“Doll?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon!”
“Magdalena, is that you?”
I put my glass down, but not before a mound of ice came crashing out and hit me in the right eye. When I could see again, I looked at the boy more closely. Much to my escalating dismay, I could see that it wasn’t a boy after all, but a very small man. “Who wants to know?” I asked not unpleasantly.
“It’s Jumbo Jim, doll.”
I looked him up and down again. It didn’t take long. “In that case, call me Tiny,” I said.
Jim jumped up and sat down boldly on the bench opposite me. “The jumbo part is for real, doll.” He winked.
"Pardon me?”
Jim settled back comfortably in the booth. Fortunately, he was able to see over the table. “Wow, doll, you look even better in person than I imagined!”
I patted my hair, this time intentionally. I would have to remember to thank Heather again. “Thanks, Jim. You’re quite a surprise yourself.” Then to show I wasn’t prejudiced against little people, I added, “Shall we go and get in line for our steaks now?”
“Sure thing,” said Jim.
We got up.
“Say, doll,” said Jim before I had time to even hunch over a little, “how’s the weather up there?”
“What?”
“Duck, doll! There’s a plane coming in at eleven o’clock.”
“I beg your pardon!”
“What’s the matter, doll, can’t you hear me with all them clouds in your ears?”
“I can hear you just fine, thank you. I just don’t like what I’m hearing.”
“What’s the matter? You prejudiced against short people, doll? Oops! Watch the light fixture, doll. You nearly hit your head.” He laughed.
That did it. I know, Jumbo Jim could not possibly know what it was like to be a girl and wake up one morning to find yourself five foot eight and in the sixth grade, but ignorance is no excuse. Especially in his case. So I decided to give him a taste of his own medicine. “The steaks are great here,” I said sincerely, “but the shrimp are even better.”
“Watch it, doll, or I’ll cut you off at the knees,” Jim retorted, and he didn’t sound like he was kidding either.
I simply did an about-face and left the restaurant. I think Jim may have followed me for a couple of steps, but he certainly didn’t make any effort to keep up. Hopefully he was flattened by the five fluffy fellows on their way back from the salad bar.
“He was a plain old jerk,” said Doc sympathetically. “They come in all sizes. There’s no need to feel guilty because this one is smaller than the rest.”
I was taking Jim’s rudeness too much to heart. “Do you think it’s the makeup, Doc? Or was it my height that threatened him?”
“Tall is good,” said Doc. There was admiration in his voice. The late Mrs. Shafer had been no nymphet. “Then it is the makeup?”
Doc reached out and patted my shoulder. “Naw, those Baltimore boys are used to a lot more than that.”
“Aren’t you even going to say I told you so?”
“I’d rather offer you dinner.”
I wiped a couple of tears from my eyes. “What are you having?”
“Let’s see. Tonight it’s skillet pot roast with vegetables, freshly baked oatmeal bread, stewed tomatoes, corn relish, watermelon pickles, and for dessert, crazy cake. You do like my crazy cake, don’t you, Magdalena?”
I love crazy cake. It’s my favorite
way to eat chocolate. I decided to repay Doc for his kindness by complimenting him the best way I could. Before I went home that night, sleepy and no longer quite as upset, I had eaten half of a nine-inch pan of cake. Doc, I assure you, ate the
other half. If my dreams were less than pleasant that night, it was only partly because of Jim.
I was still full the next morning. At least, I didn’t feel like eating breakfast. Of course, that might have been partly due to the fact that I was nervous about having lunch with the Simses. Clergymen make me nervous. Even Reverend Gingerich, our Mennonite pastor, makes me nervous, and I’ve been serving under him as a Sunday school teacher for almost twenty years.
“Be very careful about what you say and do, Magdalena,” Mama often warned me. “God can see everything you do, and he writes it down in his book. At judgment day you’ll have to answer to everything in that book, Magdalena. So keep those pages clean.”
“You mean he grades me like my teacher does at school?” I once asked.
“That’s right.”
“Well, what if God is busy looking somewhere else when I do something bad, then he can’t see what I’m doing and can’t write it down, right?” Susannah wasn’t even born yet at the time, but I knew plenty of other kids who sinned on a regular enough basis. Maybe they could act as a smoke screen for me.
Mama grabbed me by the shoulders and gave me a couple of hard shakes. “God sees everything. He has helpers, you know.”
“You mean like spies?”
“Don’t be sacrilegious, Magdalena. God isn’t Khrushchev. But he has helpers, and they see things and report back to him.”
“Like who? Who are his helpers, Mama? Are you one of his helpers?”
“Of course. All mothers are God’s helpers. And so are pastors.”
“Like our pastor at church?”
