Jessup nods nervously.
Another quick cut replaces Lilly and Jessup in her family’s living room with Olaf Thompson, family elder, in his own living room. He sits in a chair by the window, his body stiff and uncomfortable on camera, despite his welcoming smile.
“Mrs. Troyer?” he says with a smile. “She certainly is a spitfire!” His chuckles dribble to a stuttering halt. “Not a lot of women would dare pit her own will against that of the community’s elders. A lot of women wouldn’t dream of such a...modern approach to Amish living, but Mrs. Troyer, she’s...she’s a very...um, resourceful woman.” By now, his smile is struggling to stay alive.
He listens to Cam’s mumbled off-camera question, then leans back to consider an answer. “The attention to the community, yes, an excellent question. Well, it is true that we thrive on the commerce we do with our neighbors from near and far, from every walk of life. We’re not so insulated as we may seem to the outside world. On the other hand, we do enjoy a certain amount of...privacy, if you will. We’re a close-knit culture, that’s all I’m saying.”
There’s that smile, I think to myself, hold on there, li’l fella!
A moving camera shot dominates the computer screen now, the crew following Gramm as she walks slowly into the front door of her...our house. Cam mutters some questions at her, but she just snarls at him and waves him off, entering the house and slamming the door behind her.
Abram appears again on the screen, once again under the tree at our family home. Clearly, it’s from the same interview the other clip is taken from. He lights up with a new muttered question, the camera angle backing up slightly to reveal a wool sack by his feet, the one he often carries his juggling gear in.
“Um, sure,” Abram says to Cam, who is off-camera, “I’m planning something new for the big thing coming up...I haven’t quite nailed it yet, but I guess I can give you a little sneak peak...”
Abram pulls two straight-handled ice picks from the sack, and a single chicken egg. Abram looks into the camera and says, “I don’t usually carry these things around, they’re very fragile.”
He drops the egg, and it shatters at his feet. “As you can see.” He pulls another egg out of the sack and says, “I’ll try to be a little more careful this time.” Then Abram tosses the egg into the air in front of him, not high, and catches it on the tip of one of the ice picks. He flips the egg around in a spinning circle, catching it between the tips of the two ice picks. The egg goes from a wild spin to a dead stop. Then, with another flick of the ice picks, the egg spins again. He catches the egg on the tip of one pick, balancing it, then tossing it to the other pick and he catches it on the sharpened metal tip. Back and forth, spinning and stopping, he tosses that egg around in a frenzy, a blur, then stops short again, hovering from between the tips of his two magical ice picks.
He flips it again and the egg falls, breaking at his feet. Abram chuckles a bit as the camera crew claps for him off-camera. He shrugs. “Well, I did say I hadn’t quite nailed it.” After a few more claps from his new fans, he says, “See you on TV, folks!”
Then two very familiar faces in a different environment stare at the camera, my own Mamm and Daed. They both disapprove of this whole thing, I know very well. But they’re participating as a way of supporting me, of loving me, and I know that even better. So seeing them there is just a bit wonderful for me, even though they’re so very uncomfortable. It even makes it sweetly amusing, in a way I’m not very ashamed to say.
My daed’s posture is arrow-straight, his shoulders back. And Mamm clings to him, looking nervously at the camera, at the sound man, at the lights in different corners of the room.
In the absence of any sound coming from my rigid and fairly ridiculous parents, Cam’s off-camera questions are just a bit clearer and easier to understand.
Cam asks them, “So, you must be very proud of your daughter.” They nod, but say nothing. “Would you say that you’re very proud of your daughter?” Daed nods, then Mamm does the same; he’s steely and rigid, she’s nervously smiling, eyes darting around the room.
Cam goes on: “Do you feel that all this hasn’t been just a bit disruptive? Some people seem to be a little put off by all this new influx of activity. Do you feel that the good outweighs the bad in all of this?”
My parents sit, considering. They look at each other, wordlessly conferring before they look back at the camera. My father says, simply, “Yes.” They both let a lingering silence follow.
Cam says, “In your own words...please...describe what kind of differences you’ve noticed in your neighbors, in your family, perhaps even in yourselves.”
Mamm and Daed look at each other again, then look back into the camera. He’s rigid and quiet, she’s nervous and smiling and quiet.
Deathly quiet.
I can barely keep from breaking out in a terrible, wicked laughter, at Cam, at us all. Somehow, I manage to contain myself and return my quiet attention back to the screen.
The sequence cuts back to Lilly and Jessup sitting in her family’s living room. She’s still very animated, really drinking in the attention of the camera eye. She knows her opportunity, and she’s seizing it.
Jessup looks like he’s hoping a hole will open up underneath him and that he’ll simply disappear forever. No matter how horrible, it would surely be better than enduring this, or so it would seem.
Lilly says, “I was the one who introduced Hannah to Simon, her husband. I’d known Simon for years, we grew up together.”
“We were like the Three Musketeers,” Jessup says.
Lilly nods. “Exactly! Now, I know Simon had ... certain feelings for me, and I don’t blame him of course.” Lilly looks dramatically at Jessup, her fingertips under his chin. “My heart belonged to someone else. And when I met Hannah, I knew the two of them had to be together. And this one,” she adds, looking at Jessup, “he finally decided to get with the program.”
Jessup chuckles, but there’s no mirth in it. “I...I don’t know what I was thinking...all that time.”
Olaf Thompson returns to the computer screen, edited in to continue his wrestling with his unusually clumsy attempt at diplomacy. “Not that outsiders aren’t welcome... well, when I say outsiders, I mean, of course, um...we welcome everyone, of course... but we...well, not but...but, however...no, not however...”
I can’t help but smile, watching the normally powerful Olaf Thompson stumbling and stammering and ineffective. I hope he remembers this feeling later.
Another shot strikes me odd, for a reason I can’t quite explain. It’s a shot of Simon, my husband, my beloved, my soul mate. He sits alone in our living room, which now feels kind of odd to look at from outside, without being in it.
Where I want to be, now and for the rest of my life.
Simon listens to Cam’s off-camera question, then leans back with a smile. “My wife? Well, what can I say?” Simon stares off as he considers, remembers, reflects. “My life was empty before Hannah. I never knew why, and I can’t lie. I gave up believing it would ever get better. But finally, God proved true to His word and delivered the woman who was meant for me. If you ever have reason to doubt, consider my life, a miracle really, and please don’t lose hope.”
Oh, Simon, I think. I love you so much.
Simon listens to another question off-camera, then gives it a little thought. “How do I feel about all this? Well, whatever Hannah wants is what I want for her. I’m not really sure where she’s going with...with all this, but, well, I can’t wait to see what happens. My wife is a very resourceful woman.”
I can’t make out Cam’s question to him from off-camera, but Simon’s answer is, “How do I mean that? Um, I’m not really sure. She’s quite a bit smarter than I am.” Simon chuckles, and Cam and the other crew guys laugh along with him. Simon adds, “I think you guys are the one’s who should be worried about that.”
Simon keeps chuckling, but Cam and the crew guys fall silent.
Another video cut follows Gram
m as she waddles slowly down the center of the Central Market. She looks back and waves them away again, actually leaning forward and cursing at them in German. The camera shakes and backs off as Gramm turns and waddles on, deeper into the long, crowded marketplace.
The video cuts again, this time to Ruth and Samuel, Rebecca’s in-laws-to-be. She sits next to him, she even looks bigger by comparison than when I’d seen them before. They say that the camera adds ten pounds, and in her case that is certainly true. For Samuel, the camera seems to take away ten pounds, but again that might be his, um, lovely wife.
She looks at the camera. “I don’t like her new, lighter pies. I like the old-fashioned Whoopie pies, thank you very much.” Samuel nods as he considers, but says nothing. She goes on: “What you want, see, is a real, hearty Whoopie pie, a strong, sturdy pie. That’s a pie you can rely on, a pie that gets things done!” Ruth turns to glare at Samuel, nearly shrinking next to her. She adds, “You don’t want some weak little pie, some flimsy gutless pie that doesn’t stand for anything, a pie that falls apart as soon as you grab hold of it. Who’d want a pathetic pie like that?”
Samuel squirms under the subtext of her vicious assessment...of my pies. In a little, mumbled voice, he says, “Of course, dear, you don’t want your pie to be too crusty either...”
“Exactly.”
“Or unpleasant or mean-spirited or petty or vindictive...” Ruth turns to glare at him, but he tries to ignore her. “Or...too much...sugar.” Her icy glare finally shuts him up for good.
For the time being.
The video cuts to Rebecca and Beau, sitting in the Schroeder family living room. I’m not sure whose idea it was to remove them from Ruth’s angry influence during the interview, but I’m grateful for it nevertheless.
Beau wears a healthy smile, but Rebecca seems stiff, quiet - in other words, perfectly normal.
Beau says, “I couldn’t be happier. Hannah has brought her wonderful family here to Lancaster, especially my lovely bride-to-be.” He looks into Rebecca’s eyes and their gazes lock, love passing between them which is detectable even by the digital video camera.
There couldn’t be a less human perspective on a more human moment.
Beau looks back at the camera and adds, “I’ve got an admirable, noble father, a sweet and loving mother...” Rebecca breaks out in a coughing fit, eyes clamped shut, body shaking, as she is physically choking on Beau’s rose-colored vision of Ruth Thompson. Beau says to Rebecca, “Are you okay, Rebecca?” She nods and he taps her lovingly on the back. “They’re very close,” he adds as Rebecca shoots a look into the camera that seemed to be saying, Save me!
A last handheld camera shot returns to the computer monitor screen, a moving shot, with Gramm once more in its sights. This time, Gramm is on her way to the mailbox when the camera crew practically ambushes her from behind the bushes. She turns and yells, rushing at them, slapping the camera with the mail and cursing in German. The camera finally falls to the ground, the cockeyed perspective as it goes down suddenly pointing upward, finding the sky and Gramm’s angry foot.
I turn to Cam. “Serves you right.”
Cam considers, then nods slowly and shrugs. “I suppose so.”
Then the video edit reveals a new environment, a new room I don’t recognize. But I know the faces of the two people in the center of the camera eye.
Grace Adler and her husband, James, sit on a couch, her hands in his. They wear forced smiles. “We’re very happy for Mrs. Troyer’s success, of course,” James says, Grace nodding. “And whatever she does with her new fame, we know it will be God-blessed. We’re just happy to be a part of God’s great plan, however...mysterious it sometimes may be.”
Grace nods with more enthusiasm, her smile stretching...stretching...nearly to the breaking point.
James goes on to say: “And since our business has dropped off so considerably, we have more time to pray, and to contemplate, and maybe even have those children that God has seen fit to deny us for so long.”
Grace breaks out in a quick sob, but quickly grasps and pulls it back, holding it deep and close to her breaking heart.
“And somehow we’ll find a way to replace that income sufficiently to support a child, God willing...”
Grace struggles with another sob as James rubs her arms comfortingly.
A chill passes over me to sit and watch as the video cuts to black. I can barely move and can hardly think, except for one thing - I’m nearly overcome with the urge to throw that laptop out the window and then jump out after it!
Cam says, “That’s what we’ve got so far.” He smiles and adds, “Whaddaya think?”
* * *
The camera crew follows me and Simon on a brief errand to the grocers, which we both think is too much. They seem to have hours of coverage on us, coming and going, Simon helping demolish the old schoolhouse, me cooking and getting ready for the big dinner, which is fast approaching.
The celebrity French chef Jacques Cherierre arrives the next morning, and we decide to pick up a few candles to lend some extra decor. On the way back to the carriage, some teenagers shout at us, “Hey, Hollywood! Why don’t you go back to Hollywood, Hollywood?”
Without waiting for somebody else to say something, I call out at them, “These guys are here because the elders said they could be here.”
The teenagers, three of them, keep walking, with one of them turning to shout at me, “What makes you think we’re talking to them, Hollywood?”
To them? I realize, They’re talking to me! I’m Hollywood.
And Simon seems to have made the same connection, because he approaches them in a few quick strides, grabbing the obnoxious one and spinning him around, grabbing him by the collar.
“You little whelp, this is my wife,” Simon rasps at him, his lips pulled over his gritted teeth. “Her name, as far as you’re concerned, is Mrs. Troyer. Say it!”
“Mrs. Troyer,” the punk repeats, fear and surprise in his expression and in his voice.
“Now apologize to her like a man!”
The terrified teen looks at me nervously. “I’m sorry.” After Simon gives him a little shake, the punk adds, “Mrs. Troyer, I’m very sorry, Mrs. Troyer.”
Simon stares at him, then gives him a shove to send him stumbling back into the arms of his friends. “Now get lost!”
They shamble away, the other two pointing at their beaten champion, now disgraced between them.
Simon looks back at the crew, their camera trained on him. “We’re a peace-loving people, but we’re not a race of doormats.”
I smile, nearly trembling with the rush of excitement from the sudden and sensational outburst, which I might not have been so impressed with if it weren’t Simon rising to defend my honor, which I find absolutely irresistible.
* * *
The next day, Jacques Cherierre arrives, driving into Lancaster in a limousine (seems the standard for these big-time people, but they just look like hearse funeral cars to me). I’m not there when they cruise in and meet the TV crew at their hotel. They shoot some sequences of him tasting the foods from local shops and restaurants. I hear that the traffic got unreasonably bad around the scene of this giant fat Frenchman, meandering down the streets of downtown Lancaster with a full camera and sound crew hovering around him.
But we are ready for Jacques when they drive him up to our house. My family has already arrived, plus Rebecca and Beau, even Ruth and Samuel and Olaf Thompson. Cam fades back after introducing me to Jacques and lets me handle the rest of the introductions from there. Jacques is very charming and outgoing and European as he meets each of the almost even-dozen people who will be sitting down to dinner.
We sit, and Jacques looks around the house. In a very heavy French accent, he says, “A lovely home, Mrs. Troyer, thank you so much for having me.”
I smile, trying to ignore the video cameras and mikes (two full crews) and address Jacques directly, with respect. “I’ve only lived here a few months. Really, the cr
edit should go to Gramm.”
Gramm smiles at him, and then at me, tossing me a little wink which thanks me for what I think the kids these days call a shout-out.
Without wanting to go into a longer and more complicated explanation, I let someone else take the reins of the conversation.
Unfortunately, it’s Ruth who does it. She says to Rebecca, “Your sister really knows how to make a guest feel welcome.” It seems obvious to me that what she really means is what she doesn’t go on to say: Unlike you.
Olaf says to Jacques, “We’re so blessed to have a visitor of your stature in our little corner of the world. You’ve sat down with peasants and kings of every hill and climb.”
Jacques chuckles, nodding. “Well said, Monsieur, tres bon. It is my delight to enjoy the hospitality of people and cultures the world over. This macaroni salad, for instance, easily the best I have ever had, oui? Is it...the barbecue sauce which I taste?”
“Amish friendship salad,” I say, “a local specialty.”
Jacques smiles. “As delicious in name as in flavor.” A few more moments pass while my guests indulge in the food Gramm and I present, too focused on the tastes and presentation to speak, which is always a good sign.
A quiet table is a happy table.
The sauerkraut soup is a milky delight, specks of black pepper punctuating the white creamy broth, strings of the kraut floating languidly and deliciously.
The Amish barbecue chops, actually baked in a buttered dish, are tender and spicy and really delicious. But of course there’s no way of knowing what ‘s going to impress one of the most sophisticated pallets in the world.
And Amish food, delicious as it is, is real peasant food. It’s heavy on protein and carbs, lots of meat and vegetables. But we don’t have a lot of the fancy, fruity sauces of the French, or the exotic seafood dishes of the Japanese.
So I can only hope to create some classic Amish dishes and execute them as well as I know how. And, judging by Jacques’ attention to his plate, I guess I’ve done a pretty good job.
Whoopie Pie Betrayal - Book 2 (The Whoopie Pie Juggler: An Amish of Lancaster County Saga series) Page 8
