Thou Shalt Not Grill

by Tamar Myers

  Simultaneously, the contestants diverged in twenty-three directions. Some of them were squealing as well. I was a late bloomer, which is the only reason I can offer for why I was so late in getting started. Most of my competitors were over the fifty-yard line and in contact with the little critters, before I even moved. But believe me, I wasn’t scared.

  I was, however, annoyed. Zelda’s disciples had infiltrated the stands, and had apparently brought reinforcements.

  “Zelda! Zelda! Zelda! Melvin! Zelda!”

  “Cut it out!” I hollered, although it was just a waste of breath.

  Turning my attention back to the contest, I noticed that while the others had no trouble catching up with the piglets, once they grabbed the squealing tikes, they were unable to hold on. Of course! The babies had been greased. By this point the crowd was laughing so hard they mercifully drowned out the cult of Melvin.

  I pondered the situation. What could I possibly do different? I wasn’t young and lithe like the kids, I didn’t have the strength of Chuck, or the moral support Zelda had. But surely I had some small advantage—besides my shnoz (I certainly wasn’t going to spear the little darlings).

  Then it hit me. I’m not claiming the answer came straight from the Lord, but it did come out of the blue, and after all, that’s where Heaven is. And by the way, Heaven is directly over North America, quite possibly even centered over Hernia. I heard that straight from the lips of Reverend Schrock. When the Rapture occurs, faithful Christians in Australia and other southern hemisphere locations are going to have to do some fancy maneuvering in order to catch up with the main flock.

  My revelation was simply this: I was wearing a dress. As every well-brought-up woman knows, a proper dress has a skirt that extends below the knees and does not fit tightly. Such a skirt can come in very handy for carrying things, although one must take care not to display one’s sturdy Christian underwear.

  The first piglet slipped through my hands like fog. But on my second attempt I managed to flip the little rascal into my skirt, gather the material into a sort of sack, and sprint to the enclosure—all without losing the precious cargo. The crowd started cheering just as I lowered the piglet, gently, into its pen.

  By the time I deposited the third little pig, the good folks of Hernia were chanting: “Yoder! Yoder! Yoder!”

  I waved to my fans.

  The crowd roared in response, although I’m quite sure I heard two boos coming from the reviewing stand. But the latter only served to stoke the fires of my resolve. Within ten minutes I managed to catch and safely deliver every single piglet. By the time the last squealing swine made contact with the grass inside the enclosure, the crowd was on its feet, and the noise it made was deafening. A few folks even threw plastic cups and sandwich wrappers at me—in lieu of roses, I’m sure. For a few minutes I felt like I had single-handedly won a championship football game.

  “Beginner’s luck,” Zelda shouted in my ear, before teetering off to an exit.

  The din of the crowd abated only when the faulty RA system finally cooperated with Lodema’s lungs. “Magdalena,” she thundered, “seeing as how you’re so rich, I’m sure you’ll be returning your prize pig in order to save our beloved town a little money.”

  “In a pig’s ear!” I shouted in return.

  Alas, my response was almost as loud as her badgering. It might surprise you to know just how fast a crowd can turn, although no doubt they were egged on by the thumbs-down Lodema Schrock and Herman Middledorf were giving me. But despite the rain of lunch and snack accouterments, I took my time in selecting the perfect piglet—one that looked like it would grow into just the right combination of ham, bacon, pork roast, and chops. Oh, and four nice pickled feet.

  Alison’s jaw dropped when she saw the squirming youngster. “Oh, Mom, is that for me?”

  “In a manner of speaking, dear.”

  “Donna Wylie has a pet pig, and it’s just the coolest thing.” My foster daughter threw her arms around me and the swine, dirt and all. “Thanks, Mom. This is the best present I ever had.”

  I struggled to disengage myself from her embrace. “But, dear, this little fellow is not going to be a pet. When he grows up he’s going to be breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

  It took a minute or two for my words to register. “Ya gonna eat him?”

  “We both are. That’s where bacon comes from, and you love bacon.”

  She stared at me. “Ya sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Man, then I ain’t ever gonna eat that stuff again.”

  I couldn’t help myself “And veal comes from calves. And, of course, hamburger is ground up cow muscle, with some fat thrown in. Steak is—”

  Alison clapped her hands over her ears. “Ya don’t need to say any more, because from now on I’m a vegetarian.” “But you love hamburgers. And hot dogs.”

  Her hands weren’t soundproof “So? I still ain’t eating them. And you can’t make me.”

  I read somehow that the wise parent knows when to pick her battles. I’m sure Mama didn’t teach me that lesson, because I didn’t dare cut my hair or wear trousers until the day she died. I still don’t do these things—Mama has a habit of turning over in her grave with such force that, if harnessed, the power could supply all of Pittsburgh’s electrical needs. But I, Magdalena Portulacca Yoder, was not about to follow in my mama’s boat-size footsteps, even if they did match mine.

  “Okay, you can become a vegetarian, but make sure you get enough protein.”

  Her eyes registered disbelief, but she shook her head in mock nonchalance. “No prob. Stacy at school is a vegetarian, and she gets all the protein she needs from peanut butter and eggs.”

  “Good for Stacy. But you might want to substitute beans for eggs.” Perhaps it was mean of me, but I couldn’t help it. You see, one of Alison’s favorite foods was fried-egg sandwiches slathered with ketchup.

  “How come I shouldn’t eat eggs?”

  “Because eggs come from chickens, and chickens are definitely meat.”

  “Yeah, but eggs ain’t. They’re just eggs.”

  “They’re potential chickens, dear. You don’t think they develop into cabbages, do you?”

  She stomped her foot. “Ah, man!”

  The piglet squealed loudly, startling me so much I dropped him. He wasn’t hurt, mind you, because he landed on my foot. I hopped around on one size eleven while Alison chased my future pork roast around the ground floor of my inn. The two of them disappeared into the kitchen—an appropriate place, I thought—but when they emerged a few minutes later, Alison was cradling the pig like he was a baby.

  “Oh, Mom, I just love him. I’m gonna name him Babe, just like that pig in the movie.”

  “But Babe is what Gabe calls me! And sometimes I call him Babester.”

  “Yuck. But that don’t have nothing to do with this. He,” she said, planting a kiss on the swine’s snout, “is gonna be named after that movie. And, Mom, I promise to walk him every day. I’ll even bathe him so he don’t stink—although Donna Wylie said her pet pig didn’t never stink. Please, Mom, pretty please? You’ll make me the happiest girl in the whole world.”

  My heart has a higher melting point than most, but already I could feel it trickling down around my intestines. How could I refuse to give this child the gift of pet ownership?

  “There will be no need to bathe or walk him, dear. He can have that paddock on the east side of the barn. The corner by the barn is always nice and muddy.”

  “But, Mom, he’s gonna live inside.”

  “Over my dead body.” Over my mama’s dead body as well. I was surprised the ground hadn’t started to shake.

  “Hey, no fair! Donna Wylie gets to keep her pig inside.”

  “The Wylies aren’t Mennonites.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “They lack the clean gene,” I said as kindly as possible. “Besides, you should be glad I’m even agreeing to let you have him for a pet at all.”<
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  “That mean ya ain’t gonna kill him when he gets big?”

  “Not so long as you take full responsibility for taking care of him. Because if you don’t, I’m changing his name from Babe to Ham.”

  Alison’s face went through multiple transformations. In the end she settled on a huge smile.

  “You’re the best mom I ever had, ya know that? I mean my real mom woulda never even let me keep him.”

  “Really?” Alison’s “real” mom was the wife of Aaron Miller, my ex-pseudohusband. She lives in Minnesota with Aaron. The couple was unable to control the child, so a judge gave Alison the choice of living with me, or reform school. I got lucky. I would like to say that I never think of the woman, and that I certainly do not compare myself to her, but if I said that—well, I’d be lying. How can I not compare myself to the woman my Pooky Bear never divorced, and into whose perfumed arms he ultimately returned?

  “Yeah, really,” Alison said. “Mom, ya can be kinda dorky, ya know that?”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “But I love ya anyway.”

  Before I had a chance to faint, she reached up and planted a kiss on my bony cheek. It may have been to-tally accidental, but I’m sure I felt a pair of whiskery pig lips as well. I managed to lock my knees into place.

  “I love you very much too, dear.”

  “Gross, Mom, don’t get mushy.”

  “But you just said—”

  “Sheesh! ‘Love ya’ and ‘I love you very much’—they ain’t the same. The first one ya say to your mom, but the other one is for your boyfriend. Don’t ya know anything?”

  I shook my head. Not only was I feeling mushy, I was positively high on love—conditional though it may be. With the exception of Freni, the Babester, and my sister, I couldn’t think of any others who truly loved me. So you see, it was euphoria that clouded my judgment, just as surely as if I’d drunk a pitcher of mimosas.

  “Oh, what the haystack. You can keep him inside— for now. But when he gets bigger we’ll have to negotiate. In the meantime, ask the Wylie girl how she housebroke her pig, and I expect you to quickly and thoroughly clean up any mess.”

  Alison’s eyes glowed with appreciation. Undoubtedly she would have slipped into pure mushiness had the front door not opened with a bang. While she tried to soothe the startled swine she cradled, I glared at the intruder.

  “You better to learn to knock,” I growled.

  18

  “Whatever you say, Yoder.” But Melvin was not about to apologize. He swaggered up to us like he owned the place. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he believes someday he’ll own the inn, by virtue of his marriage to Susannah. If so, what he’s forgotten is that arthropods—even extraordinarily large, two-legged ones—don’t live as long as humans. “What is it you want?” I snapped.

  “See ya guys.” Alison took the opportunity to flee the room before my irritation with her “uncle” escalated to the point that I took my feelings out on her and reversed my decision on the pig.

  Melvin hadn’t even bothered to greet his niece. “Yoder, I’m here on official business. We need to talk.” That was for certain. “Melvin, have you been drinking those garlic milk shakes again?”

  “They’re garlic soy shakes, Yoder. And I just finished one. What about it?”

  “Well, unless you want to be responsible for manslaughter, I suggest we repair to the parlor, and sit on opposite sides.”

  “For your information, thanks to those shakes, I haven’t had a cold in three years.”

  “That’s because the viruses die before they can even get close to you.”

  Without further ado I led the way into the parlor and closed the door tightly behind us. Then I straightaway picked the most comfortable seat for myself. My bony butt is far more sensitive than his crusty carapace—well, it usually is. Melvin winced when his newly recontoured derriere connected with the hard seat of one of Grandma’s straight-back chairs. He ended up reclining on one buttock, which somehow caused him to look like he was sitting straight.

  “Indeed,” I said, “we do need to talk. I’ve been trying to reach you for hours. Where have you been?”

  “Don’t be a dingus, Yoder. I just said I was working on a case. In fact, I’m about to make an arrest.”

  “You are?” I was too astonished to be sarcastic. “That’s what I said. You deaf, Yoder?” He barreled ahead before my sarcasm gene could kick in. “Who’s your worst enemy?”

  “Melvin, I think you’re capable of many things—perhaps even metamorphoses—but murder is not one of them.”

  “Not me, you idiot. I’m talking about Lodema Schrock.”

  My blood raced with excitement. Oh what schadenfreude I’d feel if only it were true. How sweet life would be once my pious pastor’s partner was put in the poky. What joy to know that the tart-tongued gossip would never be free to harass me again. There was just one thing wrong with this picture—Lodema Schrock was even less likely to commit murder than Melvin. At least she had a modicum of brains to stop her.

  “What’s your evidence, Melvin?”

  He arranged his mandibles into what approximated a sneer. “Well, I dropped by the reverend’s house this morning. Wanted to ask him if he’d say a few words over the deceased—you know, like the Catholics do. Read him his last rites, that kind of thing. Anyway, the rev¬erend was home, working on next Sunday’s sermon, but Lodema was out.”

  “So?”

  “So, she was out running. Practicing for the marathon—just like Ron Humphrey.”

  “Which means?”

  He sighed, and the scent of garlic sailed across the room to assault my nostrils. “Yoder, it’s a good thing you’re not the one in uniform.” He tapped his head with a hairless knuckle to indicate that I wasn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier. “It’s as plain as day. The two of them were in cahoots. Together they killed Mr. Porter, and then while she made off with the time capsule, he distracted us by pretending to find the body.”

  “I see. You’re saying that Lodema Schrock, who has all the upper-body strength of a rubber chicken, ran off with a chest that might well have weighed thirty or forty pounds? Perhaps even more, if all the things that are rumored to be in it really exist.”

  “Looks can be deceiving. I bet you some folks would be surprised to know that I can bench-press two hundred.”

  “Doughnuts?”

  “Very funny, Yoder. I asked the reverend where exactly his wife was running, he said he thought she’d gone running in the direction of Stucky Ridge.”

  “I see. But tell me this, Melvin. Why would Ron and Lodema be in cahoots? They hardly know each other. And why would they wait until now to steal the time capsule? Why not take it a year ago? Or two years ago? Or in Lodema’s case—since she’s supposedly so strong—why didn’t she swipe it ten years ago, before Ron moved here? Then she could have kept what’s in it all to herself?”

  Melvin’s left eye was spinning like a pinwheel in a hurricane, while his right eye appeared to be studying a dust bunny under my chair. After all, I don’t claim to be the most thorough of housekeepers.

  “Yoder, consider this your opportunity to learn at the foot of the master. The two of them are lovers. She waited until now because—dang it, Yoder, I’m the one who’s supposed to be asking the questions.”

  I disguised my smile by pretending to yawn. “Melvin, dear, what I was trying to reach you about is this—Ron Humphrey is dead.”

  Both eyes stared at me. “Dead dead?”

  “Possibly even triple dead. I examined his body in the morgue myself.”

  While he processed this shocking information (a stranger might have concluded that he’d slipped into a coma), I wrote up a mental shopping list. With Freni in quit mode, I would have to dart into Bedford and pick up some of those frozen dinners I’ve heard so much about for the last forty years. The weather was still mild, and with any luck, my guests might not object to eating cold food. I also needed to buy some
toilet tissue, laundry detergent, and bar soap. It might surprise you to know that finicky guests insist that their Lifeguard not have any previous lives.

  Melvin groaned as he emerged from his reverie. “Yoder, these murders are going to ruin my chances of being elected to the legislature.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. It depends on how quickly we solve them.”

  “Believe me, Yoder, I don’t want to move in with you any more than you want me to. Probably less.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I’ve decided to retire from the department at the end of December. Although, maybe I should resign right now, so I can throw all my energy into the election.”

  “Why on earth would you resign?”

  “Susannah wants to start a family, and she doesn’t want me in a dangerous job. So if I lose—well, there’s no way we can afford our house payment. Because face it, Yoder, I don’t have many other skills.”

  “Not to worry, dear. Your mother still lives on the family farm. She has oodles of room.”

  He shook his head so vigorously I thought sure it would snap free from his spindly neck and fly across the room in my direction. If so, I’d have to scramble to catch it. A noggin as hard as Melvin’s can do serious damage to one’s walls.

  “Mama’s selling what’s left of the farm,” he said. “She’s says it’s time for her to move into Rosewood Manor over in Bedford—that’s if she can afford it. She’s borrowed against the equity so many times there’s almost nothing left. Heck, Susannah was supposed to talk to you about this. You know, about making up the difference in case Mama can’t afford the rates.”

  His words sent a jolt of terror through me, one that started in the tips of my cotton-clad toes and ran to the top of my organza prayer cap. I’d be happy to pave the way for Elvina Stoltzfus in her so-called golden years, but I’d rather get hitched to Saddam Hussein than share my home with the mantis and his mate.

  “Don’t give up so soon, Melvin! Besides, you’d hate it here. We now have a pig in residence.”