by Tamar Myers
Speaking of the devil, the figure was even with me when I figured out that it was indeed Freni. Freni had broken a shoelace a day or two ago, and I, being out of black, had loaned her a brown one. Now, there, just inches from my face, a black lace and a brown lace were striding rhythmically down the path. Impulsively I reached out of the bushes and grabbed Freni’s left ankle.
I know, that was a terrible thing for me to do. I still can’t believe I did it. It’s not like me at all.
Freni not only screamed but did an Olympic-class swivel and kicked me soundly in the chops with her other foot. Then she cut loose with a string of potent High German epithets that would have made her church elders blush, proving once and for all that pacifism is not necessarily a genetic trait.
I screamed, this time in pain, and stood up in the bushes. Perhaps it was my screaming as well, or the fact that I somehow materialized, albeit a bit scratched and torn, through the top of the bush, but Freni screamed even louder. Just like yawns beget yawns, screams sometimes beget more screams, and I too found myself screaming louder. There we stood, one Amish woman on a path, and one Mennonite woman in a bush, screaming our heads off, and frightening ourselves more by the second.
Had there been a third person still lurking in the vicinity, I’m sure it would have been his or her turn to be paralyzed with fear. Eventually, though, Freni and I got a grip on it, as Susannah would say, and were merely glaring at each other when Mose came panting up the path.
“What is it?” he gasped. That, at least, is what he intended to say. Heavy breathing has a tendency to modify speech.
Freni caught her breath before I could. “Magdalena tried to scare me to death! She hid in the bushes like a little child and then grabbed me as I went by.” She turned to face me. “Your mama would be so ashamed! Acting like that English daughter of hers.” Of course, she meant Susannah.
“I didn’t mean to scare you!” I protested. “That’s not why I was hiding in the bushes.”
Freni blushed, and Mose turned discreetly away while she lectured me. “Magdalena Yoder! At your age? In the bushes like a teenager! Get married first, Magdalena.”
I felt myself blush as well. I couldn’t believe Freni’s assumption—although perhaps I was a bit flattered. “I was in the bushes alone, Freni.”
“That is an even greater sin!”
I couldn’t help laughing. There I was, being lectured on morality by Freni Hostetler, when less than an hour before someone had tried to kill me. Had they succeeded, I would have died not only a virgin, but having never even been properly kissed. I was indeed flattered by Freni’s assumptions.
“Stop that at once,” she ordered. “If your mama could see you now, it would break her heart.”
“Mama would understand totally.” I paused to let Freni gasp. “I was hiding in the bushes because someone was shooting at me.”
Freni’s mouth clamped shut like a well-oiled mousetrap. “It’s true. I was coming up to see you,” I explained, “when someone shot at me with a rifle. See, there?” I pointed to the bullet hole on the tree that overhung the bushes. “And there.” I pointed to the ground. “They shot at me twice.”
Freni’s frown meant she didn’t quite believe me but was undecided enough to keep her trap shut for the moment.
“She’s telling the truth,” Mose said. “I saw Magdalena head on over here, and then a little later I heard two shots, but I thought they were coming from over there.” He nodded in the general direction of the state game lands. On days when the wind is right, it sounds like the hunters are right in our own back yard.
“Well, now that we’re both here,” said Freni without further ado, “I want my job back.”
“You what?” I couldn’t believe how callous she was.
“My job, Magdalena. You know, where I cook and clean, and do all the things your mama used to do.”
“Leave Mama out of this,” I said irritably. “I almost got shot in the head. I had to lie hiding in the bushes for an hour—which you just assumed was bundling, or worse even—and you don’t have the courtesy to ask how I am?” Freni looked me quickly up and down. “Except for that scratch on your cheek, and a few twigs on your coat, you look fine, Magdalena.”
“Fine? My heart’s pounding, my knees are shaking, I look like I’ve been wrestling with a porcupine, and you say ‘fine’?” I clambered angrily out of the bush.
“So maybe you don’t look fine after all,” said Freni. “You do look, and sound, a little bit crabby. Now, can I have my job back, or what?”
Getting shot at by a stranger, and then being falsely accused of lust in the laurels, could make anyone a little bit crabby. But Freni has a way of needling under my skin that not even Susannah can come close to duplicating. There are times when Freni Hostetler and a bad case of chiggers have everything in common. So irritated was I that I forgot I had been on my way to hire Freni back.
“No, you cannot have your job back,” I said angrily. “Not until you apologize for your disgusting accusations, not to mention your lack of general concern.” Mose turned wisely away and headed back down the path.
“In that case, I quit,” said Freni.
“You can’t quit!” I screamed. “You haven’t been rehired, so you can’t quit.”
“And not only do I quit,” hissed Freni, “but I refuse to come back to work until you apologize for having fired me in the first place!”
“I didn’t fire you, Freni. You quit, remember? Or is your memory on its way out too?”
“Your mama would turn over in her grave if she could hear how you speak to me!”
Poor Mama seemed to get more exercise dead than she ever did alive. “Leave Mama out of this,” I cried. And then I yielded to temptation. I sank as low as I’ve ever sunk and will probably ever sink again. “Go back home and boss your daughter-in-law Barbara around. See if you can drive her as crazy as you do me.”
I whirled around before I had a chance to look at Freni’s face and stomped on down the path after Mose. Mama was undoubtedly spinning like a top, but at the moment I didn’t care. Anyway, she had no right to die and leave me in the first place. If Mama hadn’t gone and died under a pile of milk-soaked sneakers, Freni Hostetler wouldn’t be in my face so much and my life would be that much easier. Feeling thusly cheated, I muttered one of the cuss words I’ve heard Susannah say and gave Mama an extra spin.
Chapter Thirteen
Just as I’d thought, Susannah hadn’t got very far at all. About a mile down the road the car began to sputter and stall, and half a mile later it quit altogether. Susannah simply left it by the side of the road, walked home, and crawled back into bed. That’s where I found her when I got back from my brush with death in the woods.
“Buy out Thom McAn’s already?” I asked pleasantly. Susannah clamped a pillow over her ears. I think Shnookums might have been somewhere inside the pillow case because I heard a faint yelp.
“Go away, Mags. Just leave me alone.”
“Where’s the car?”
“I didn’t even make it past Speicher Creek. You knew it was out of gas, didn’t you?”
“Well, I thought you’d at least make it into Hernia.”
“Very funny. Now leave me alone!”
It’s no fun teasing Susannah when she refuses to fight back. I settled for telling her about my near-death experience in the woods. Of course she didn’t believe me. Her eyes rolled so far back in her head that she would have seen her brain, had there been one to see.
After combing the leaves out of my hair and doctoring my scratches, I cleared off the dining room table and washed all the morning’s dishes. Then I went to the tool shed by the barn and got the jerry can of gasoline I keep there for the riding mower.
I am not helpless like Susannah. Maybe it’s because I’m older, but Daddy taught me not only how to put gas in the car, but how to change a flat tire. In no time at all the car was purring like a kitten, and I was on my way into Hernia.
Hernia, Pennsylvania,
is a nice place to live, but you wouldn’t want to visit there. What I mean is, folks who live in and around Hernia are by and large fond of the place and satisfied with their lives. That Hernia lacks commercial and cultural amenities is a plus for them. Visitors, on the other hand, tend to find Hernia boring at best.
The people of Hernia have not capitalized on their Amish and Mennonite neighbors as some other communities have. There are no gift shops selling Pennsylvania Dutch kitsch, and no model farms recreating authentic Amish life. The PennDutch, I’m proud to say, comes the closest to exploiting this unique heritage, and my operation is small potatoes compared to what I’ve seen up near Lancaster.
Of course, a lot of English live in Hernia too. Besides the First Mennonite Church on North Elm Street, there are the Methodist and Presbyterian churches, and even a tiny little congregation of devout worshippers out toward the turnpike who call themselves the First and Only True Church of the One and Only Living God of the Tabernacle of Supreme Holiness and Healing and Keeper of the Consecrated Righteousness of the Eternal Flame of Jehovah.
Susannah and one of her boyfriends attended church there one Sunday just as a joke. They both entered the building on crutches, intending to fake dramatic recoveries during the faith-healing part of the service. Much to everyone’s surprise they were healed, at least for a spell, of their penchant for practical jokes.
Four hours after they first entered the tiny cement-block building, they managed to escape with their souls and bodies still intact but their wallets violated. This is the only church I know of that accepts Visa and MasterCard in the offering plate, although it won’t accept American Express. At any rate, Susannah’s and Chuck’s cards were accepted so often that morning, that Susannah had to scrap her plans of buying her own car, and Chuck had to take a second job working out at Miller’s Feed Store.
Anyway, besides church, gas, feed, and groceries, there isn’t anything in Hernia to spend your money on. Unless you’re farming, the odds are Yoder’s Corner Market has the corner on your pocketbook.
Samuel Nevin Yoder is my father’s first cousin once removed, but I have to pay full price, just like everyone else. Sam’s prices are high, I’m told by others who’ve shopped elsewhere, but since he has no competition, business is usually brisk. Sam’s best bargains come in the summertime, when he stocks fresh produce from area farms. His most ridiculous prices, as far as I’m concerned, are for the same items he has brought in from the outside world during the winter months.
Normally I would rather eat fruits and vegetables from cans than pay the outrageous prices Sam asks for his winter produce. Apparently everyone else in Hernia feels the same, because all Sam’s winter produce seems to be permanently limp and wilted. I’m sure I saw the same rubbery head of brown lettuce all season last year, and I half-expected to see it this season as well. I would have recognized it, had it showed up, because last year, after about a month of observing it, I gouged a chunk out of its base with my thumbnail.
Today, despite my principles, and my generally hard-to-open purse, I loaded up my grocery cart with Sam’s produce. After a great deal of deliberation—some of it while flat on my face in the woods—I’d come to the conclusion that I might actually hold my expenses down by unloading some of my crisp greens on Sam, in exchange for some of his limp greens. Maybe there was something to the notion that animal protein begets violence in its consumers. After all, I had never seen a violent deer, or even a violent cow, but I’d encountered plenty of snapping dogs. Since just one bite of animal-tinged pancake could turn Jeanette Parker into a howling banshee, threatening to sue, didn’t it make sound economical sense to try and placate her with rabbit food? I mean, I have never seen a bunny hopping mad, have you?
Sam seemed to think my idea was a good one. “Because you’re buying so much, Magdalena, I’m going to give you a ten percent discount,” he said cheerfully.
“Thanks a lot, Sam. Now I can afford that cruise to Hawaii I’ve been wanting.”
Sam smirked. He is genetically incapable of smiling. “Say, I heard that someone took a tumble out at your place last night. A fatal one at that. You give Alvin a call yet?”
My stomach suddenly felt like it was about to fall through me and hit the floor, and it had nothing to do with the state of Sam’s groceries or his prices. “There’s a lot of big mouths in this town,” I said weakly. “And anyway, it wasn’t my fault, Sam. There is a banister she could have hung on to.”
Sam smirked again. “Heard some other things too.”
“Like what?”
“Like, for instance, Congressman Ream is staying out at your place.”
“You’ve got good ears, Sam. What else have you heard?”
“Nothing much. Just that a bunch of hippy protesters are there as well. Sounds like you have a potential situation on your hands.”
“Sam, hippies went out with the sixties. These are just a bunch of concerned citizens.” I dug deep into my wallet to find enough cash. It always bothers me to have to do so. I’m always afraid I might somehow hurt the poor thing. Lord knows, I’d gag if someone stuck their fingers that far down my throat.
“Of course you know that the Congressman comes up for reelection next year, and that he’s already none too popular in these parts.”
“Frankly, I hadn’t thought much about it. So?”
Sam shrugged. “So maybe nothing. Or, maybe tangling with the protesters is a calculated move on his part.”
I wrenched the last buck from my wallet. “Why on earth would he want to do that?”
He shrugged again. “Who knows why the English do anything?”
I snapped my purse shut. “Don’t give me that, Sam. You’re a Methodist now, for Pete’s sake.”
Sam slapped the palm of his hand to his forehead. “Ooh, that hurt, Magdalena. You know that when I married Dorothy she refused to change churches. Anyway, mark my words, it’s the Congressman, not the hippies, who came here to stir up big trouble.”
“So marked,” I said.
Sam and I are definitely not kissing cousins. He wouldn’t even help me carry the groceries to my car, and he refuses to let the shopping carts leave his store. When we were kids, he was the one at family reunions who put frogs down my back, or pushed me in the mud when I was wearing my Sunday best.
Mama and Papa may have entertained hopes that Sam and I would someday marry, but I certainly never did. Still, it came as a shock to all of us when Sam married Dorothy Gillman, a Methodist from New York State. Of course it was just as well that he did. Anybody with poor-enough judgment to marry a woman who used mascara, wore slacks, and painted her toenails a bright red was definitely not worth pining over. At least that’s what Mama told me.
I put Sam’s rudeness and bad judgment out of my mind and drove reluctantly over to the police station to see Chief Myers’s assistant. When accosted, my people have traditionally turned the other cheek. This can make for a lot of sore cheeks, and doesn’t necessarily put an end to the violence. I suppose there is merit in that, but it is no longer one of my ways.
Still, I had never before had occasion to visit the police station, and had no idea what to expect. I certainly didn’t expect to see Melvin Stoltzfus, the Melvin Stoltzfus, sitting behind Chief Myers’s desk. Jeff was going to pay for not telling me the name of his assistant. I squelched a brief fantasy about Tammy wearing slippery shoes when she peered over the edge of the falls.
“Melvin?”
“Yes, ma’am. Acting Chief Melvin Stoltzfus.”
“It’s Magdalena. Magdalena Yoder.”
Melvin rotated his head slowly to look up at me with the largest eyes I have ever seen on a man. Something about the way in which he deliberately did it reminded me of a praying mantis. Perhaps it had something to do with his being kicked in the head by that bull. I hadn’t remembered Melvin Stoltzfus looking quite like that before.
“Magdalena! I remember you. Aren’t you Susannah’s older sister?”
“I plead the Fifth Am
endment.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Melvin, any word yet on what exactly did happen to Miss Brown?”
“Who?”
“Miss Brown,” I repeated patiently. “You know, the woman who, uh, unfortunately passed away out at my place last night.”
Melvin stared at me for an interminable length of time. I had the distinct feeling he was sizing me up, undoubtedly trying to decide if I was a juicy-enough morsel for him to pounce on and devour.
“Well, Melvin, did the coroner’s report come in yet or not? Chief Myers said you would know.”
One of Melvin’s eyes seemed to rotate ever so slightly, and independently, in its socket. “In the first place, the coroner’s report would be confidential at this point, if foul play was suspected. But in the second place, for your information, since we’re just coming out of Thanksgiving weekend, you can expect things to be a little behind schedule.”
“How much behind schedule are we talking?” If Miss Brown was a childless orphan, a delay would actually be welcome. But if she had doting parents or a dozen grieving children any or all of whom might at that very moment be seeing a lawyer, I’d best hustle my bustle off to see Alvin.
“Can’t say how much behind schedule,” said Melvin. His tongue darted out and flicked lightly over his almost nonexistent lips for a few seconds. “Some things are confidential.”
“I agree,” I said recklessly.
Melvin’s roaming eye stopped in mid-rotation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Foolishly, I couldn’t resist one-upping Melvin Stoltzfus. I told him about Miss Brown’s bogus phone numbers.
“Of course, that doesn’t mean anything,” Melvin scoffed. “I often get wrong numbers.”
“Go figure,” I said sweetly. “Look, Melvin, one of the numbers being wrong I can understand. But both of them?”
