by Tamar Myers
"Zelda," I said, as an awful thought popped into my mean little mind, "you don't think Mayor Blank has designs on Melvin, do you?"
When the stout woman stopped laughing, it was finally plain that Jimmy Hoffa had not been hiding under that makeup. Tammy Faye Bakker, however, was still a possibility.
"I don't know what's so funny," I sniffed.
"Oh, Magdalena, sometimes you're so—uh—how should I say this?"
"Spit it out!"
"Simple."
"Moi?"
"Rachel Blank is not interested in Melvin. Take my word for it."
"How can you be so sure?"
Despite her build, Zelda's feet are barely larger than goat hooves. She tapped one impatiently.
"Because the mayor is gay, Magdalena. Her excuse is that she's been coming by to see Melvin, but she's really been coming to see me. I can feel her vibes."
That was certainly a surprise. I'd never felt the slightest vibes from Rachel Blank, and I'm no less attractive than Zelda. Which is not to say that gay folks come on to everyone of their gender, but surely I would have picked up something. I have a lot of personality, for crying out loud! Why should I be left out?
"Are you sure about this?"
Zelda's freer face allowed her to smirk. "I know more about the world than you do, Magdalena. Like I said, trust me on this one."
"Well—"
"Maybe I can help you two get together. In exchange for your help getting Melvin, of course."
"But I'm not gay!" I wailed. I'm really not. Yes, I waited until I was forty-five to get married, and yes, that marriage didn't work out, but those facts have absolutely nothing to do with my sexual orientation. If Zelda was any good at her job as a policewoman, she would know that I've been dating Dr. Gabriel Rosen, a fairly recent immigrant from New York.
And please don't get me wrong. I do not judge gay people by their sexual habits. My personal take on the matter is that I agree with every word Jesus had to say on the subject—which is nothing. What people do behind closed doors is none of my business, unless of course they're guests at my inn and their behavior damages my property.
Alas, my protest meant nothing to Zelda. "So, you'll help me with Melvin?"
"When pigs fly," I said breezily, and skedaddled before I yielded to temptation.
It's less than five miles from Zelda's bungalow to the PennDutch Inn, but I dawdled. I do my best thinking while driving, or in the shower, and I had a lot to mull over. Besides, I was in no hurry on that fine, late spring day to get back to my real job—that of proprietress.
Contrary to what most folks think, it isn't fun running a full- board inn. And yes, I know, I'm extremely fortunate that, thanks to a good review early on, my establishment has hosted the rich and famous. The infamous as well. But if I once equated money with good manners, I no longer do.
Food fights, broken furniture, and burned sheets are bad enough. These I have come to expect, and believe you me, I make the hooligans pay. But I have a fancy new bam, and copulating in the cupola is completely out of the question. The couple who tried that got a nice little jab with the tines of my pitchfork. The Secret Service agents standing guard got a good tongue-lashing.
So it was with some trepidation that I finally turned off Hertzler Road and pulled up the long gravel drive. The white clapboard inn is a rebuilt farmhouse—the original having been destroyed by a tornado—and sits off to the right under the shade of ancient maple trees. To the left is the bam—also white, as is our local custom. Between the two sits my hen house, home to my prized flock of Rhode Island Reds.
I parked my new (it was second-hand, but new to me), conservative gray Buick under a maple next to the chicken coop and hoofed it to the back door. This is the kitchen, and as it is the domain of Freni, my faithful friend but fickle cook, I am less likely to encounter annoying guests there than elsewhere about the inn. Freni Hostetler is Amish, and therefore also a pacifist, but she has the temper of an NBA star. Although she would never actually hit anybody with it, she has been known to wield a spatula in a threatening manner.
It's no secret that the source of Freni's irritation is her daughter- in-law. Don't get me wrong, Barbara Hostetler is a peach of a gal, and recently supplied Freni with three grandchildren in one fell swoop. The triplets are adorable, and you would think that the elder Mrs. Hostetler would feel kindly toward the younger, but alas, that is not the case. Try as she might, Freni cannot forgive the woman for having claimed the affection of Jonathan Hostetler, Freni's only son. This ill feeling is, of course, a sin, and Freni knows that. This is what makes her so cross.
When I opened the screen door, Freni, who was at the sink, whirled. "Ach, Magdalena, where have you been?"
"To see Melvin. Then Zelda. That prisoner we were feeding— Clarence Webber—well, according to the coroner, he died of arsenic poisoning."
Freni dried her hands on her white starched apron. "So, who gives him this poison?"
"That's what I'm supposed to find out. Apparently it was in the shrimp and grits I had you make."
Freni's normally somewhat florid face turned the color of bleached cake flour. She flapped her stubby arms, like a cock about to crow.
"Ach, I told you, Magdalena. It says in the Bible not to eat these shrimp."
"That's in the Old Testament, Freni. That doesn't apply to us. But I'll read my Bible again just to make sure it doesn't warn us about eating shellfish purchased in Bedford. We're not exactly near any large bodies of water."
Freni frowned. "Enough with the jokes, Magdalena. There is something important I must tell you."
"Yes, dear, in a minute. I just want to make sure you understand that it wasn't the shrimp that killed him, but the arsenic. And you're not to worry about that, because I've already got a nice little list of suspects drawn up."
Freni flapped again. Perhaps she was hoping to get airborne.
"This list will have to wait, yah? Because now you are a mama!"
"Oh, Freni, you didn't take the babies away from Barbara, did you? I know you think I'd make a better mother, but—"
"Ach, such nonsense, Magdalena. There is your baby!" She pointed to the far comer of the kitchen, and I noticed for the first time that we were not alone.
4
A teenage girl sat slouched on one of the tall kitchen stools. I vigorously discourage children as guests—if you think celebrities are the most destructive humans, think again—so I knew the child was not in residence. She did, however, have a punk look about her, one that I've come to associate with the world of entertainment.
Her hair was an impossible shade of black, with hints of maroon, and had been sculpted into spikes about four inches long that stood straight out from her head in all directions. Her ears had been pierced an obscene amount of times and resembled more the spines of spiral notebooks than auditory appendages. Even her eyebrows had been pierced, and from a ring on the left one hung a small silver skull on a chain.
Moving down, a plump body, not yet in the full throes of adolescent development, was clad in only a tube top and black spandex shorts. The latter barely covered the region Eve made famous with her fig leaf. But Eve went barefoot, I'm sure of it, whereas this girl was wearing black platform shoes with leather straps that snaked their way about chunky calves and tied just below the knee.
The child stood when she saw me scrutinizing her. "Hey lady," she said in a flat, mid-western accent, "give those eyeballs of yours a rest."
I strode over to confront her. "Who are you?" I demanded.
The girl's pale blue eyes regarded me calmly. "What's the matter, Mom? You have trouble hearing, or something? I'm your daughter."
"Not even in my worst nightmare, dear. Tell me who you really are, or I'm calling the police."
The P word made her blink. "Ain't ya the famous Magdalena Yoder?"
I'm a sucker for flattery. "Well, I guess I'm famous. I mean, Mel Gibson once referred to me—hey, let's stick w
ith the program here! Either you identify yourself, or I dial."
"Alison Miller," she said, enunciating with such exaggeration that I could see the metal stud in her tongue. "But call me Allie."
"Thank you. So, Alison, what are you doing in my kitchen?"
"Sheesh! You are deaf, ain't ya? How many times do I have to tell you that I'm your daughter?"
I turned helplessly to Freni. "You let her in, maybe you should explain."
Freni is seventy-three years old and has a figure that attests to her firm belief that green tomato pie counts as a vegetable. But when she wants to, that woman can move like greased lightning. One minute she was there, flapping about like a rooster, and the next thing I knew I felt the breeze on my face as the door to the dining room swung closed behind her.
"Uptight old lady, ain't she?"
I glared at the girl. "A good look at you would spook the horses, dear."
"I ain't your dear. Hey, what's with that old lady's getup, anyway? And what's with that funny little hat you got on? Youse actors of some kind?"
"Not hardly. She's an Amish lady, and I'm a Mennonite. I wear this funny little hat because I believe a woman should keep her head covered when she prays."
"You ain't praying now."
"That's what you think. Unfortunately my prayers aren't being answered."
She laughed, and I could see a second stud on her tongue. I wanted to gag.
"I haven't given up on calling the police," I said.
"Hey, come on, take a chill pill. I told you I'm your daughter, and I guess I am, because my dad is Aaron Miller. You know, the one who used to live across the road from you?"
"Aaron Miller?" If it hadn't been for the resistance offered by my thick cotton hosiery, I would have collapsed to the floor. As it was, I swayed. Like a tall, skinny tower of Pisa.
"You and him was married, right?"
"Yes, but—"
"Then you're my mother."
"But I never gave birth!" I wailed.
"You sure?"
"I ought to be. I mean, fathers can sometimes be surprised years after the fact, but we women—"
"Hey, spare me the sex talk, lady. I know how it happens. Anyway, that don't change a thing. If you were married to my dad, then you're my mom. It's as simple as that."
"Says who?"
"Says me." There was desperation in her voice, and her face was turning red. Curiously, those areas surrounding metal were the color of cottage cheese.
"How did you get here?"
"My parents brought me."
"They're here?" I staggered to the nearest empty stool. It was almost too much effort to sit.
"Nah, not here—not at this dump, but in that little town up the road."
"Dump? Well, I'll have you know—" I caught myself. There are more important things than defending one's business, even if it is also one's residence. "Alison, are you saying that your parents are in Hernia? Where?"
"Not Hernia." She laughed. "Or Hemorrhoid, either. The other little town. The one that starts with a B."
"Bedford!"
"Uh-huh. They swung by and dropped me off. Now they're at the motel waiting for you to call. I got the number right here in my pocket."
If my blood had run any colder, I could have damaged my heart with ice crystals. It was hard to breathe.
"Hey lady, you all right?"
"I'm fine," I gasped.
Of course I wasn't. Aaron Miller—Alison's father—had been my Pooky Bear. We grew up together. Then at age eighteen, Aaron committed the ultimate act of Mennonite teenage rebellion by joining the army during the height of the Vietnam war. The moment he signed that paper the ground in Hernia literally shook, thanks to hundreds of pacifist ancestors turning over in their graves.
After the war Aaron didn't feel comfortable returning to Hernia, so he bummed around the country a bit, eventually settling in Minnesota. It wasn't until twenty-odd years later, and only when his aging, widowed father really needed him, that Aaron returned to stay. Shortly after his homecoming, I met him in the cow pasture across the road, on his farm, and promptly fell in love.
You would have too. Aaron is tall, with black hair and eyes the color of sapphires. His teeth are so white that when he smiles you have to look away or risk being blinded. His lips are like lush, ripe strawberries bursting with flavor. But more importantly, he was the most decent, kindest person I'd ever met.
I married Aaron in front of God and half of Hernia right here in my bam. We would have married in Beechy Grove Mennonite Church, but a bodacious storm blew in the night before, knocking a tree into the roof of the sanctuary. They say that what you don't know won't hurt you, but that isn't always the case. I had no idea what a naked man looked like until our wedding night, and then to suddenly see the male appendage—in all its unbridled glory—was traumatic. I still have nightmares, and Thanksgiving is forever ruined for me. I can't even look at a turkey neck now without feeling embarrassed.
But enough of that. It isn't your business anyhow. What's important for you to know is that I had absolutely no idea—not even an inkling of a hint—that my Pooky Bear had not only been married before, but was, in fact, still married. The woman—and she shall forever remain nameless as far as I am concerned— befriended him when he first moved to Minnesota. Shortly after they were married things went sour, but the marriage was never ended.
All this I learned after I'd given the man my maidenhood, making him a bigamist in the eyes of God, the law, and my neighbors. I thought then I'd heard—and seen—everything. I never dreamed there would be another shoe to drop. But apparently there was, and it was a doozy. The old woman and her kids, plus half of Hernia, could comfortably live in this one.
"Why does your father want me to call him?" My voice sounded tinny, and I wasn't sure at first I was actually speaking. I felt my lips; they were moving.
"You need to sign a consent form, that's why."
"Consent for what? He's not getting a cent of alimony. It was a phony marriage."
She laughed, treating me to yet another view of her lingual jewelry. There were actually three studs.
"You're funny, just like Dad said."
"He said that?" I shook my head vigorously to dislodge any thoughts of reconciliation. "This consent form, dear, what's it for?"
"Hey, lady, like I said, I ain't your dear. And the stupid form is about me. You gotta agree to let me stay here."
"I do? For how long?"
She shrugged.
"How long? A week? A month?"
"A year," she said quietly. "Maybe more."
"Come again?"
"They can't handle me. It was either you or the girls' detention center. You get to pick."
I felt like fainting. I needed to faint. With any luck I would hit my head on the comer of the kitchen table and knock myself utterly and permanently senseless. But alas, a good fainting spell was not to be had.
"Give me the number," I finally said. "I'll give your dad a call."
Aaron answered on the first ring. In fact, it wasn't even a full ring. He must have had his hand on the receiver.
"Mags, is that you?"
"Don't you call me Mags! Only folks I love get away with that."
"Sorry. So how are you, Magdalena?"
"Apparently doing better than you." I was calling from the privacy of my bedroom, and could have said anything I wanted. "There's a multi-pierced urchin sitting in my kitchen who claims to be your daughter. Is this true?"
I could hear Aaron swallow. "I should have told you when you found out about my wife—I mean my other wife—but hey, you know me, Mags—I mean, Magdalena. I'm a coward."
"You got that right." I took a deep breath. "So what's this child doing in my kitchen? Is she really asking for asylum?"
"Well, it's a long story—"
"Then talk fast."
"She's fourteen, Magdalena. Well, almost. Her birthday's next month. Anyway,
she hasn't adjusted at all to my moving back in with her mother. Started acting out about a year ago. At first it was small things like shoplifting candy bars and hair doodads. Then she started smoking dope. Drinking too. Last month she went all out and stole a car—a 1988 Ford Festival A banged-up one at that."
"For pity's sake."
"The hearing was the day before yesterday. The judge said she was reluctant to put someone that young into the system, but her hands would be tied if there was one more incident. She suggested we switch to a new family therapist—we've been going to one, you know—but I had a better idea."
"And that would be?" I knew what was coming. I only look stupid.
"You, of course. There is only one person on the face of this earth who could put the fear of God—and I mean that literally— into someone like my Alison."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"And that's how it's meant." He paused, and I could hear the shrill voice of what's-her-name in the background. "So, will you?"
"For a year?"
"Or less, if that's all it takes."
I wanted to ask him why. What, if anything, was in it for me? But I already knew the answer, and it might not be the same as his.
The spiked, pierced, and studded child in my inn's kitchen was both my first and second chance. It was my first chance to raise a child who was chronologically under the age of twenty-one, and it was a chance for me to make up for the way I'd failed Susannah. Yes, I know, a baby would have been ideal. A baby I could raise to near perfection, I'm sure of that. But the Good Lord apparently wanted me to remain as barren as the Gobi Desert, and I would go to my grave with the fruit of my loins unplucked.
At the same time, He is a God of mercy. Had not a child just fallen into my lap—so to speak? Was this not a Heaven-sent opportunity to preach those things I know I should be practicing? And really, what did I have to lose? I know, I complain about my guests pilfering and destroying my property, but to be honest, I am heavily insured. Besides, the girl was a relative of sorts. And I'm not just talking about her sarcastic reference to me as her mom, either. You see, Aaron and I are distantly related—but not so close we couldn't have been legally married, mind you—which made this child also a relation.
