Eat, Drink and Be Wary

by Tamar Myers

Well, maybe you might. So, just for the record, I am not pregnant with Michael Jackson’s baby, nor am I Michael Jackson. I have never had an affair with Ellen Degeneres, nor am I ever likely to. I have never weighed over a thousand pounds. I was not discovered, as a child, clinging to the breast of an albino gorilla in Tanzania. I never, to my knowledge, gave birth to Cabbage Boy, and I am not Bill Gates’s mother.

  Perhaps now you’ll understand why I was not exceptionally warm to the press when they began to trickle into Hernia. But I most assuredly did not chase them off my property with a pitchfork. Been there and done that, as the young folks say, but that’s a different story. This time I used a good old-fashioned push broom.

  My point is, I was not in an especially merry mood when the old green Buick rolled up my long gravel driveway. And, in my defense, the dented car looked just like the one driven by Derrick Simms from the National Intruder, and it was six-thirty in the morning, for crying out loud. Even though we are a farm community, and therefore early risers, none of us would dream of visiting our neighbor until after morning chores, and guests who can afford my prices wouldn’t be caught dead in a vehicle that ugly. But the leech- licking vermin who prey on the rich and famous drive the most hideous cars imaginable, and they never even go to bed. That may sound like a harsh judgment coming from a good Mennonite woman, but a fact is a fact.

  It wasn’t Derrick, however, but a woman—a coworker no doubt—who emerged from the battered Buick. Not that it mattered though, because I am just as capable of giving a woman a piece of my mind as I am a man. Although, frankly, I prefer sharing my mind with the needier sex.

  “This is private property,” I yelled, brandishing my trusty broom. Since I was still in my bathrobe and slippers I was reluctant to leave the porch. Besides, the porch’s height gives me a certain tactical advantage.

  The woman, who was bundled in a brightly colored blanket coat, stepped slowly from her car and regarded me calmly.

  I waved the broom menacingly. “Get back in that rattletrap, sister, and keep driving.”

  “Is this the PennDutch Inn?” she called. It was a stupid question because there is a discreet sign at the end of the drive.

  “No comment!”

  She had the nerve to advance. “I’m looking for the PennDutch Inn.”

  “Keep looking.”

  “But the sign says—”

  “If you saw the sign, why did you ask?”

  The woman continued to approach. “I’m here for the cooking contest. But there’s only one other car here. It’s not what I expected.”

  My heart pounded. “Are you one of the judges?”

  “Me?” She laughed, and reaching into a shabby brown purse with a leather fringe, extracted an official-looking invitation. “No, I’m one of the contestants. Alma Cornwater, but just call me Alma.”

  She was within spitting distance now (not that I would, mind you), and I studied her closely. For starters, I figured her to be about my age. She was much shorter than I, approaching even the petite range, but she was a good fifteen pounds overweight. Her broad face was all but obscured by oversized glasses with thick lenses. She wore her thick dark hair, which was streaked with gray, pulled back in a bun. Faded blue jeans peeked from beneath the long blanket coat. From what little I could see of her, she was either very tanned or—to put it frankly—of an ethnic persuasion uncommon in Hernia. Simply put, she was not lily white.

  I was delighted. “Magdalena Yoder,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m the owner of the PennDutch. I wasn’t expecting the contestants to arrive until much later.”

  Alma nodded. “I drove up, but I wasn’t sure how long it would take.”

  “Where did you drive from?” I asked politely.

  “Cherokee, North Carolina.”

  “You drove all night?”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t have any choice, really. I didn’t get off work until almost seven last night.”

  “You poor dear.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t that bad. I napped for a few minutes at the roadside rests.”

  “I have a nice soft bed waiting for you, dear. And since you’re the first to arrive, you can have your choice.”

  “That would be great, thanks.” She glanced around. “Actually, I’m sort of on an adrenaline high. There wouldn’t be any place around here to get a bite to eat, would there?”

  We talked over stacks of Freni’s pancakes and homemade cocoa. The latter had full-size marshmallows floating in it, not those itty-bitty good-for-nothing things the mixes provide. You can rest assured the maple syrup was pure, and the butter real.

  “I live on the reservation,” Alma said.

  “How interesting,” I said.

  Freni looked at me. “What reservation are we talking about?” Her knowledge of the world is pretty much limited to a day’s drive in a buggy.

  “Cherokee Reservation,” Alma said between bites. “I’m a Native American.”

  “So am I,” Freni said.

  Alma did a quick appraisal. “Which tribe?”

  Freni shrugged.

  Alma smiled. “Then how can you say you’re a Native American?”

  “Because I was born here,” Freni said.

  “That doesn’t make you a Native American.”

  Freni frowned. “Why not? I have to be a native from somewhere, and I was born in America.”

  “Where are your people from?”

  Freni pointed to the window with her fork. “See those woods? On the other side of the woods.”

  Alma shook her head. “Not your parents, your people. Where did your ancestors come from?”

  Freni pointed again. “There. Just like I said. My grandparents were born there, and so were their parents, all the way back to 1738.”

  “Ah,” said Alma, “but before 1738?”

  “Switzerland,” Freni mumbled.

  “Switzerland!” Alma said triumphantly. “So you’re Swiss.”

  “No, I’m American. Native. American born and bred.”

  “But not Native!”

  “Just as native as you. Your people came from somewhere originally too.”

  “Yes, but thousands of years ago,” Alma said, “not hundreds.”

  “Ach,” Freni said, “it’s all relative.”

  “I’m afraid she’s not politically correct,” I explained to Alma.

  Freni’s fork found my elbow. “Tell her about the Indians, Magdalena.”

  I swallowed. “Well...”

  “Magdalena and I are cousins,” Freni said, and looked to me for confirmation.

  “Not first cousins,” I hastened to say, “but cousins of a sort. Our family trees are so intertwined, they form an impenetrable thicket. Anyway, three of our ancestors were captured by the Delaware Indians in 1750, and the two youngest, just boys, were formally adopted into the tribe.”

  Freni poked me again. “Go on.”

  “When they were released years later, they had forgotten their mother tongue and spoke only Delaware. In fact, they kept in touch with their adopted families until the day they died.”

  Alma smiled and turned to Freni. “Ah, so then you’re Delaware.”

  “Yah?”

  She nodded. “You’re my sister.”

  Freni beamed. From that moment on, Alma could do no wrong in Freni’s eyes.

  I will admit that I was beginning to like Alma, as well. But experience—especially my recent experience with you-know-who—had taught me never to trust someone further than you could throw them. Like I said, Alma was on the chunky side.

  Chapter Three

  I had just come downstairs from showing Alma to her room when my sister Susannah floated through the front door, trailing enough filmy fabric to clothe a small third world country. That is only a slight exaggeration. My baby sister eschews ready-made clothes, choosing instead to drape herself in yards of material straight off the bolt. While my tongue is still tainted from tattling, allow me to state that Susannah started wearing mascara about ten years ago
, and while she adds to the clumps on a daily basis, I am not sure she has ever removed as much as a single layer. She claims to get fan mail from Tammy Faye.

  Please understand that I love my baby sister dearly, but it is impossible to accurately describe her without sounding unkind. The three most benign words I can think of are: slatternly, slovenly, and slothful. Even Mama and Papa recognized her shortcomings, and when they died they left the farm in my name. It is to remain solely in my name until Susannah proves that she can behave as a responsible adult. My name is still the only one on the deed.

  “Where is he?” she demanded.

  “Where is who?” I gave her a quick, careful hug. My sister is even scrawnier than I. She compensates for her lack of discernible bosoms by carrying her dog, Shnookums, around in her bra. I kid you not. It gets worse—this pint-size pooch is eighty percent mouth, and twenty percent sphincter muscle. Hugging Susannah can have disastrous results.

  She pushed my loving arms away. “Come on, Mags, I see his car out there!”

  Needless to say, I felt hurt by her greeting. After all, I hadn’t seen my sister for almost three months. Susannah is given to frequent, but brief love affairs that have been taking her increasingly far afield. This is to be expected, I suppose, since she has a penchant for dating truckers. Never mind that she is supposedly engaged to our local police chief.

  Of course Susannah wasn’t always like this. Like me, she was raised to be a good Christian, a nice conservative Mennonite girl. But shortly after our parents’ death, Susannah did the unthinkable and married out of the faith. A Presbyterian, no less! In no time at all, she was wearing shorts and painting her fingernails. Then she started listening to rock and roll. After that it was booze, cigarettes, and finally a divorce. By the time the ink dried on that document, her apple had not only rolled from the tree, it was out of the orchard entirely.

  “Whose car are you talking about, dear?” I asked pleasantly.

  Susannah rolled her eyes. “Don’t play dumb, Mags. Roach Clip, who else?”

  “Roach Clip?” I asked, stalling. Perhaps I had forgotten to tell her that Mr. Clip’s stay—well, at least Susannah thought Roach was a he—had been rescheduled for some time after the millennium.

  “That’s his car, Mags! Everyone knows Roach Clip drives a beat-up old green Buick. It’s part of what makes him so funky.”

  “I’m sorry, dear, but I had to cancel the Clip.”

  “You what!” she shrieked.

  “Freni’s in a cooking contest. I had to clear the inn for the other contestants.”

  I have never seen my sister so mad. She ranted and raved, while the mangy mutt in her bra bayed. Poor Alma didn’t stand a chance of sleeping.

  Who knows how long the tantrum would have lasted, had not Mr. Anderson appeared at the door. He was not, as Freni described him, a young man— he was probably a few years older than I—but he was an uncommonly comely fellow. Imagine, if you will, Tom Cruise with gray sideburns and a mustache.

  “Who is that hunk?” Susannah didn’t even bother to whisper.

  I pressed my finger to my lips. “He’s the contest organizer, and one of the judges,” I whispered.

  “You’ve been holding out on me, Mags.”

  “Susannah, you’re an engaged woman now, remember?”

  My sister rolled her eyes again. One of these days they’re going to stick in that position, and she’s going to have to learn to part her hair in back.

  “Melvin pisses me off,” she said. “I’m thinking of calling off the whole damn thing.”

  First, allow me to assure you that I do not countenance vulgarity in my home. I would have sharply rebuked Susannah, had not my heart been skipping with joy. Melvin Stoltzfus, the aforementioned police chief, is my nemesis. The good Lord put him on this earth for the sole purpose of reminding me of Adam and Eve’s sin. Woman’s punishment is the pain of child-bearing, but since I will forever remain as barren as the Mojave Desert, God gave me Melvin.

  The man is as bright as a two-watt bulb. He once sent a gallon of ice cream to his favorite aunt in Scranton— by U.P.S. His mother would have you believe that he wasn’t always this stupid, that it really began when he tried, unsuccessfully, to milk that bull. She claims it was the kick in the head that did it.

  But I am a tolerant person, and can overlook gross ineptitude, if it isn’t accompanied by arrogance. Unfortunately, Police Chief Melvin Stoltzfus is a graduate of the Paris School of Humility. He delights in throwing his meager weight around, and once even had the audacity to accuse me of murder. I would do just about anything—even play matchmaker—to knock Melvin out of the picture.

  I thought fast. “I understand Mr. Anderson is single.”

  That may have been a mistake. If given a choice, she prefers the challenge of married men.

  “Oh.”

  “And he does look like Tom Cruise.”

  “Give me a break.”

  “Well, he is a vice president of a major corporation.”

  “So?”

  “He’s probably well-to-do.”

  Her eyes lit up like a pair of flares, and she flounced off to flirt with her next victim. Melvin, with his policeman’s salary, was out of luck.

  Moments later a distinguished-looking gentleman, carrying a matched set of luggage, strode into the office. Close on his heels was a tidy woman dressed in a tweed skirt suit and black pumps. Her mousy brown hair was cut in a neat bob, and she wore a moderate— might I say tasteful—amount of makeup.

  “Gordon Dolby,” he said, and handed me the prerequisite invitation. “I’m here for the East Coast Delicacies cooking contest.”

  I took the paper and checked it against my list. His name was there all right. G. Dolby, but there was nothing on the invitation, or my list, about his wife.

  It was precisely at that point that my “vexometer,” as Susannah refers to my temper, began to rise.

  “I’m Magdalena Yoder, your proprietress.”

  “Ah, a learned woman,” he said and glanced at his wife.

  I smiled pleasantly and asked them to each sign the guest register. Much to my irritation he signed both their names.

  “I’m giving you room number one,” I said curtly.

  “And my daughter?” he asked.

  I peered around the pair. There didn’t seem to be a child with them. Mr. Anderson was going to get an earful for withholding such crucial information. It’s not that I’m anti-children, you see, but it’s just that I’ve never been terribly fond of the little brats.

  The woman I’d pegged as Mrs. Dolby stepped forward. “I’m the daughter, you see. My name is Gladys Dolby.” She seemed more resigned than embarrassed.

  That revelation vexed me even more. My inn has eight guest rooms, one of which Susannah uses during her intermittent stays. There were to be four contestants, besides Freni, and three judges. If father and daughter desired separate accommodations, Susannah was going to have to bunk with me. I would sooner have the inn crawling with urchins.

  I pretended to scan the ledger. “Hmm. I don’t suppose—I mean, would one room be all right?”

  “Certainly not!” he barked.

  Gladys looked away.

  “I’m putting you in number eight, dear,” I said. As long as I was going to be inconvenienced, I may as well do someone else a favor.

  After that, the inn began to fill up rapidly. Unfortunately, my mood did not improve. I have an aversion to snobs, present company excluded, and can smell them a mile away. Especially when they are wearing expensive French perfume.

  “Ms. Kimberly McManus Holt,” the woman said. “Boston, Massachusetts.”

  “Magdalena Yoder, Hernia, Pennsylvania. How may I help you?”

  “I’m afraid you don’t understand,” she said, peering up at me along a perfectly sculpted nose. “I am the Kimberly McManus Holt.”

  “I am the Magdalena Yoder,” I said, peering down the length of my considerable proboscis. Actually there are five Magdalena Yoders,
that I know of, in Bedford County, but I am perhaps the most notorious.

  Ms. Holt clucked in annoyance. “I’m the star of Cooking With Kimberly.”

  She dropped the familiar admission slip on the counter, as if it were something disgusting. “I’ve been invited to participate in the East Coast Delicacies cooking contest.”

  I gave her the quick once-over. If that woman was a serious cook, then I was Leona Helmsley’s twin sister. Ms. Holt looked to be in her late thirties, a very put-together woman in a pearl gray suit, matching shoes, purse, gloves, and a faux fur coat. She even wore a coordinated hat, although it was one shade darker. The hat, incidentally, matched her eye color exactly. Not one auburn hair appeared to be out of place, and the handful of freckles on her pale face were sprinkled artfully across the perfect little nose. It was a toss-up as to which could make me gag faster, a four-inch stack of tongue depressors or Ms. Holt.

  “Welcome to the PennDutch Inn,” I said. “Magdalena Yoder, proprietress, at your service.” Forced cheer is a skill that can be learned, and I was an “A” student.

  “So, this is the place,” she said, wrinkling the perfect nose, which in turn made the freckles dance.

  “And isn’t it charming, dear?”

  “You do have me down for a nonsmoking room, don’t you?”

  “That’s the only kind I have.” From time to time, Susannah risks my ire and lights up, but few guests have had the nerve. I handed her a key. “Room number three, top of the stairs on the left.”

  “I can’t be fooled, you know.” Fat chance. With all that perfume she was wearing, I could have kept a pair of breeding skunks in the room and her nose would have been none the wiser.

  She glanced around. “Well, I guess I’ll go on up and check it out. As soon as the bellhop returns, I have a million things that need bringing in.”

  I scooted playfully around the counter. “At your service, madame.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That’s me, the bellhop. I get to wear many hats.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Of course none of them are as nice as your hat. That’s the most realistic fur I’ve ever seen.”

  “The hat is genuine fox,” she said crisply.