by Tamar Myers
"Well, dear," I said, "the laws of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania require one to report a death, which, of course, she didn't. And while, practically speaking, the bomb shelter is as good as any burial vault, technically it doesn't qualify. Under the circumstances, I don't think Rachel Blank is in a position to press any additional charges, though."
"So, Dorcas is going to jail?"
"If I have anything to say about it," Melvin Stoltzfus growled.
I glared at him. "Which you don't." I turned my attention back to my young charge. "She's going to be hospitalized. It's clear she's suffered a complete nervous breakdown."
"I think she's psychotic," Susannah said. "I saw basically the same story in a movie once."
Freni nodded wisely. "Ach, these English. So many are not right in the head, yah?"
"Dorcas Yutzy had Amish ancestors," I reminded her. "Maybe way back, but still up there in the family tree. The same thing goes for the Honorable Rachel Blank. Little Miss Murder herself."
Mose cleared his throat. It was meant as a warning to Freni not to pursue that angle any further. Freni frowned, but wisely held her tongue. At least for a little while.
In the ensuing silence Susannah picked a choice morsel from her plate and dropped it into the loose folds of her bosom. I could hear the snap of Shnookums' sharp little teeth as he gobbled his mistress's goodies. One day he'd gobble the wrong goodies and Susannah would have room for an even larger dog.
Freni, however, could not be stifled indefinitely. "This Rachel Blank, she is a Presbyterian, yah?"
"No," I said before my Presbyterian sister could get her bloomers in a bunch, "Rachel was a Mennonite—that is, until she went off to that fancy-shmancy college and became an agnostic."
Freni smiled, finally satisfied. "Yah, too much education."
I let that one go, and for a few minutes we dined peacefully. Except for a series of loud belches from Alison, and the continued snapping of Shnookums' teeth, the casual observer might have guessed we were a fairly normal family.
Leave it to Susannah to upset the apple cart with a bad case of the giggles.
"Susannah," I said sternly, "if that dog's doing what I think he is, you take him outside right now."
"What?" She laughed. "Oh, Mags, you're so silly. It's nothing to do with my widdle-piddle puppy."
"Then what does it concern?"
"It's a secret."
"So keep it a secret," Melvin hissed.
"Too late, dear. Out with it now."
"Well"—she had herself a good little laugh—"if you insist."
"I do. It isn't fair to the rest of us unless you share your joke."
"Okay, but you asked for it. It's about those scars on Clarence Webber's back. Melvin said he wasn't tortured exactly, but that he liked to be whipped. If there was no one around to do it for him— well, he did it to himself."
"And that's funny?" It was anything but. It was actually very sad. Pathetic, even. Apparently Zelda had just this morning confessed that she'd seen Clarence perform his strange ritual with wire stripped from Agnes Schlabach's shepherd's flute. She had not told anyone earlier, for fear that she might somehow be implicated. After all, it was she who allowed the flute in the cell.
Susannah had no clue, or didn't care, that she had just opened a Pandora's box. "Why would he whip himself?" Alison asked, her eyes as wide as Freni's com muffins.
"It's a sexual thing," Susannah said matter-of-factly.
"Ach!" Freni and Mose cried in unison as they each clapped a hand over one of Alison's ears.
"Hey, I'm not a baby!" Alison protested, and tried pushing away the protective hands. Fortunately she was no match for the Hostetlers, who milk cows on a daily basis.
Susannah was still clueless. "I can't imagine my Melkins doing that. He doesn't even like to be spanked."
Melvin groaned.
"Sick," Alison said. "Yuck! Man, you people sure live in a weird little town."
Aware that their censoring hands did no good, the elderly couple resumed eating. Alison shook her head, as if to clear it of their presence.
"This has been an exceptionally bizarre case," I admitted. "There's a lot about it I don't understand myself, and I thought I'd seen just about everything."
"What I don't understand," Gabe said, "is how the mayor was able to poison a prisoner at the city jail. Is access that free?"
We all turned and looked at Melvin. Even Susannah got in on the act.
Without moving his head, our Chief of Police was able to avoid our questioning eyes by training both of his on the ceiling. There is a footprint on the ceiling, just like at his office—don't ask me how it got there—and Melvin stared at this while mumbling his response.
"I'm sorry, dear, but I didn't hear you."
Melvin's right eye left the footprint and found my face. "All right, Yoder, so security may have been a little lax. But don't worry, I've already taken care of that. I let Zelda go this morning."
"Go? Go where?"
"I fired her."
I wagged a finger at him presidential style. "Then hire her right back. Make her go to counseling, if you want, but get her back on the team."
"You can't make me," he said, like a small child.
Fortunately for Melvin, the telephone rang. I answered it in the kitchen.
"PennDutch Inn," I said mustering my last ounce of false cheer. "We're not open for business now, but if you give me your name and a number—"
"Magdalena, this is Reverend Schrock."
"Hi Reverend!" How quickly false cheer can change to genuine dread.
"Magdalena, I've been thinking about our conversation this morning."
"Oh?"
"You know, what you asked me after I officiated at the interment of Dorcas Yutzy's parents. After you made sure Melvin was way out of earshot?"
"I know what I asked you, Reverend! What I don't know is your answer."
There was a pregnant pause; one long enough to allow half the women in Hernia to become with child.
"And?" I asked when three minutes were up.
"And the answer is yes."
"You're kidding!"
"I wouldn't joke about something this serious. And it is a serious decision on your part, Magdalena. You realize that, don't you?"
"Yes, but—"
"And a lot of people won't understand. Folks like my Lodema, for instance. There may be things said that shouldn't be. You might get hurt."
"Sticks and stones!" I said, barely able to contain my joy.
"Oh, and speaking of Lodema," he said, "I want to thank you for spraying her with your garden hose that day."
"You do?"
"She goes too far a lot of the time. It's good that you stand up to her."
"I do my best."
"It seems to me that if you go ahead as planned, you'll have a lot more opportunity."
We both laughed.
"Nu," Gabe said, "so who was that on the phone that's got you grinning from ear to ear?"
"Was it for me?" Alison asked with the hope of the young. "I sent Boyz II Men this phone number, by the way."
"It was probably for me," Susannah said. "I left a message with Studs R Us. They promised to call me as soon as the manager came in for the night shift. Sorry, sis, but I gave them your number."
Melvin was beside himself. "Studs R Us?"
Susannah smiled. "It's a dog-breeding service, poopsie."
"But that rat's a mutt!" I cried.
"Shhhhh!" Susannah pointed to her bulging bosom. "He doesn't know that. Besides, they have a special registry of"—she silently mouthed the word—"nonpedigreed dogs. You make a video and everything. It's like a dating service."
Alison rolled her eyes.
Feeling generous, I graced my sister with a smile. "Well, you're wrong, dear. That phone call was for me. It was from Reverend Schrock."
"Ach!"
"Don't worry, Freni. He actually
thanked me for spraying his wife with water."
"Then why are you so happy?" she demanded. "It is not nice to keep us in suspenders."
"I think the word is 'suspense,' dear. And I'm smiling because the Reverend has agreed to co-officiate at a wedding."
"Whose?" Gabe asked, his curiosity piqued.
"Yours," I said. "Yours and mine. That is, if you'll agree to marry me."
"Is that a proposal?" Gabe asked, without missing a beat.
"Yes."
"Then my answer is yes," he said.
"Really?"
Gabe pushed back his chair and strode around to my end of the table. Before I had a chance to catch my breath, he planted one on me. Right on the kisser.
“Mazel tov!" Alison cried.
"Ach!" Freni gasped.
"Aooow!" Shnookums wailed.
You see? Just like I said, we were pretty much a normal family.
33 - Grillades and Grits
Grillades are small, thin cutlets of beef, veal, or pork. Actually you could use chicken breasts for this recipe as well. In New Orleans, this is a robust way to start the day—it's a traditional breakfast for hard-working Creoles. It's also a great brunch dish, needing only a watercress salad and crusty French bread to make us think of those banana-tree-shaded patios in the Crescent City.
3 tablespoons bacon fat or lard
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
¼ teaspoon salt
1/8 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 pound thin pork loin cutlets
1 cup chopped onions
¼ cup chopped celery
½ cup chopped red or green bell pepper
1 ½ cups canned whole tomatoes, chopped, with juice
1 small fresh cayenne pepper, seeded and chopped, or pinch of dried pepper flakes
1 large clove garlic, minced
About ¼ cup water
1 recipe Basic Boiled Grits, hot and liquid, but not too runny
2 teaspoons chopped fresh parsley
Heat the fat in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Mix the flour, salt, and pepper together on a plate. Dip both sides of the cutlets in the mixture and brown quickly on each side. Set aside.
Add the onions, celery, and bell peppers to the skillet and sauté until tender, about 10 minutes. Add the tomatoes, cayenne, and garlic; bring to a simmer. Thin the sauce with water, if desired. Add the sautéed pork and simmer until the meat is tender and cooked through, about 20 minutes.
Divide the grits among 4 warm plates. Top with the grillades and sauce. Sprinkle with the parsley and serve immediately.
Serves 4
End of Gruel and Unusual Punishment
Notes
[←1]
Omit the arsenic if you like your guests.
