Between a Wok and a Hard Place

by Tamar Myers

  “I’m sorry, dear.” I said gently, having chosen to totally ignore the rude honking, “but it’s out of the question. Blood is thicker than water.”

  “That’s because you have a well,” Zelda said dryly. “You’d be surprised at what comes out of the taps in Hernia.”

  “Still, I’m not going to help you get Melvin back.”

  She shook her head so hard a few strands of short dark hair popped up through the inch of restraining grease.

  “I don’t want Melvin back. That’s not why I’m here. It’s about Enos.”

  “Enos Mast?” I don’t believe in hocus-pocus premonitions, or any of that nonsense, but every hair on my arms was standing at attention.

  “Last night he was shot and nearly killed. A .22-caliber bullet hit him in the head, fracturing his skull. The bullet stopped just short of entering his brain, but there was some bleeding, and he’s still unconscious. We took him to Bedford County Memorial Hospital, but he’s been airlifted to Trauma Care Center in Pittsburgh.”

  “Oh my.” I sat down on the top step of my front porch.

  “Harvey Zook found the Mast horse and buggy wandering around on top of Stucky Ridge.”

  “What was Harvey doing up on Stucky Ridge at night?”

  As if I didn’t know. He was courting, of course. Stucky Ridge is the highest point around and offers splendid views of Hernia by day, and on exceptionally clear nights, even the lights of greater Bedford can be seen twinkling seductively. There is only a gravel lane leading to the top of the ridge, and at the crest it splits, the right fork veering off to a picnic area, and the left to the historic Settler’s Cemetery. It is not a heavily frequented area, but some families drive up the ridge during daylight hours to visit their dead or eat picnic lunches. At night it’s a different place entirely. God versus gonads, my irreverent, but much experienced, sister used to say.

  Because Hernia has yet to become the den of iniquity that some say Bedford has become, Melvin and Zelda used to spend an inordinate amount of their time rousting the osculating occupants of buggies and cars that line the picnic overlook each night. Rumor has it that these nocturnal patrols are what finally inspired Melvin and Zelda to become more than just working partners. Again, my source is my sister, who still has two unpaid loitering citations to back up her words.

  At any rate, I knew Harvey, a Mennonite, and I knew his intended even better—Catherine Blough is my double first cousin once removed, and generally acknowledged to be the prettiest girl in all of Hernia. Physical beauty is, of course, in the eye of the beholder, and totally unimportant in the eyes of the good Lord, proving that cousin Catherine either wears blinders on her dates, or is a Godly girl. I know it is wrong to even say this, but Harvey is the ugliest boy to be born in Hernia since its founding. This is neither here nor there, and I wouldn’t have even mentioned Harvey’s milk-curdling looks, except that it irks me that a kid like Harvey can get a beautiful girl like my cousin, but I went virtually dateless between college and the first time Aaron asked me out. Okay, there was that one bizarre evening with Jumbo Jim, the fried chicken king, but surely it doesn’t count. He was from Baltimore, for crying out loud, and everyone knows it takes two dates with a Marylander to equal one with a Pennsylvania man.

  Zelda rolled her eyes at me under the lids the color of bruised plums. “You know damn well what Harvey was doing up on the Ridge, but Melvin said it’s important to tell you that Harvey didn’t find the horse and buggy in the picnic area. They were over in Settler’s Cemetery.”

  I gasped and glanced at the long, low mountain, which was just barely visible above the top of my barn. Mama and Papa, both descendants of Hernia’s original settlers, had the final privilege of being buried up there. Mama, who managed to die a virgin after bearing two children, would not have approved of smooching and groping anywhere near her grave. It was a wonder Stucky Ridge was still standing. I would not have been surprised to learn that a Mama- induced earthquake had rendered the mountain as flat as one of Freni’s pancakes.

  “Shame on Harvey Zook,” I said, on Mama’s behalf. “If one can’t respect the dead, then—”

  “Harvey was not making out in Settler’s Cemetery, if that’s what you mean,” Zelda said with embarrassing bluntness. “He was making out in the picnic grove just like everyone else. But he heard what sounded like a loud pop and drove over to check it out. He thought it might be some of those hooligans from Bedford—you know, the ones who knocked over some of the headstones last year? Remember?”

  How could I forget? The oldest headstones in Settler’s Cemetery date back to the 1700s. Fortunately these stones were not bothered. An encroaching copse of oak trees has all but obliterated the original cemetery. Those markers not hidden by saplings and undergrowth have been tilted to rakish angles by thickening roots of mature trees. For as long as I can remember, none of the ancient stones have been perpendicular to the ground.

  The “new wing,” as Susannah calls it, is that portion of the cemetery occupied by folks whose children or grandchildren are still alive. Seedlings are plucked from the ground before they can turn into saplings. The headstones are larger and more elaborate than their predecessors, and until last year, all decidedly upright. Last Halloween night that was all changed by a gang of Bedford boys wielding bats. When they were through having fun the newer stones had been flattened, knocked off their marble and granite pedestals.

  The section in which my parents’ graves are found fared the worst. All the stones were toppled, except for one. Mama’s stone had clearly been desecrated—the bats had chipped the smooth marble edges—but it had remained standing. Apparently Mama had stopped turning in her grave long enough to stand guard over it. By the sheer force of her will she kept the marker bearing her name on it from budging. Why Mama didn’t do the same for Papa’s stone is anybody’s guess. However, the rumor that Mama didn’t die in that horrible wreck, but went into hiding along with JFK and Elvis, and has resurfaced as the leader of the Bedford Bad Boys, is pure poppycock.

  “So what was Enos Mast doing in Settler’s Cemetery after dark, and who shot him ?”

  Zelda shrugged. “I was the officer on call, but like I said, Enos was unconscious, and Harvey was very evasive. So, those are the details Melvin wants you to find out. He says it’s undoubtedly related to the Japanese woman you ran over with your car.”

  I gave her a pleasant stare. “I did not run over her.”

  “Whatever you say.” Bruised plum and egg white were all I could see of her eyes.

  “Making faces is childish, dear.” I said gently. “Besides, we’re supposed to be on the same side here. Melvin is counting on us to work together.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Zelda sauntered back to Hernia’s only cruiser, got in, started it, but didn’t close the door. “Hey, Magdalena,” she called over the noise of the engine. “Did I tell you that Melvin and I might be getting back together?”

  “What?”

  Zelda slammed the car into reverse and pressed the pedal to the metal, as if it were a go-cart. The tires spun and screamed, and so did I when Zelda’s open door smacked my mailbox, the one Great-grandpa Yoder hand-forged. The car spun a full one hundred and eighty degrees, but apparently neither door nor driver were severely damaged. The tires spun and screamed again and Zelda zoomed off, leaving a trail of exhaust.

  “You’ll pay for that!” I shouted.

  But when I examined the box a few seconds later, except for a couple of scratches in the black paint, there was nothing wrong with it that I could see. I always knew Great-grandpa was a craftsman and had produced many durable things, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Mama’s will had something to do with the mailbox’s survival.

  I found homely Harvey Zook whiling away the last days of summer watching cartoons on television. We never had a TV, but nonetheless, Susannah got away with idleness when she was in high school. Not me. “Lazy hands are the devil’s playground,” Mama said ad nauseam, and made sure that the devil didn’t delight
in my digits. Not only did I have to work at Yoder’s Corner Market after school and during vacations, but I had enough chores at home to stagger a Conestoga wagon full of pioneer women.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself, watching that mindless drivel on TV,” I said instructively to Harvey.

  “Huh?” He stared at me with bleary eyes. His parents weren’t home, and there was no sign of his two younger brothers. Quite possibly I’d caught the boy napping, in which case the devil was in seventh heaven. So to speak.

  “You should try reading a book,” I said kindly.

  “I read a book.”

  “Oh? Beach Music by Pat Conroy?” I asked hopefully.

  He shrugged. “I read the book back in ninth grade, Miss Yoder. There was a raft in it and some kid named Huck.”

  “I’m Mrs. Miller now, remember? May I come in?”

  “I’m not supposed to have company when my parents aren’t home.”

  I smiled patiently. “I’m not company. I’ve known you since you were in diapers—in fact, I changed one of them at a church picnic. And you’re dating my cousin, for pete’s sake.”

  “So?” In all fairness, there was no nastiness in his voice. Just a healthy teenage mixture of insouciance and lethargy.

  I did not survive Susannah’s teenage years without picking up a few tips here and there. I casually extracted a ten dollar bill from my purse and fanned my face.

  “It’s getting hot today, isn’t it, Harvey?”

  The screen door opened slowly.

  “Turn off the television, dear, if you don’t mind. I need to ask you some questions.”

  He shuffled over to the couch and picked up the remote. “Are they about last night? Because if they are, my mom says I’m not supposed to answer them.”

  “I’m not a reporter, Harvey. I’m helping the police ask some questions because I know the area. Now be a dear and turn off the set.” Some bizarre green creatures, half turtle and half human, were catapulting across the giant screen. The noise was deafening.

  Frankly, and I should be ashamed of myself for saying this, but except for his coloring, Harvey was a dead ringer for one of those mutated reptiles.

  “Ah, this is my favorite show.”

  I fanned faster.

  He reluctantly clicked the remote.

  “Mind if I sit?” I asked, and then immediately regretted it. I hadn’t seen such a collage of crushed potato chips, spilled dip, and melted chocolate candy since the aftermath of one of Susannah’s slumber parties.

  “Be my guest,” Harvey said, and had the cheek to grin.

  “On second thought, I’ve been sitting all day. Now, Harvey—”

  Thanks to the loud volume of the TV I hadn’t heard Harvey’s mother return. My first clue was the loud slam of the screen door.

  “Magdalena! What are you doing here?”

  “I need to ask Harvey a few questions—”

  “Oh, no you don’t,” said Salina Zook, grabbing my arm.

  She tried forcibly steering me toward the door, but I politely resisted by digging my heels into the soiled shag carpet, and clamping my free hand over the back of the food-encrusted sofa. I knew I could last only a few seconds, despite the fact that my fingers were practically glued to the fabric by the remains of a half-eaten Snickers bar.

  Salina is a good six inches shorter than me, but all muscle. In high school she arm wrestled and beat every boy in Hernia High who challenged her except for Stubby Jenkins. Stubby’s secret, he confided to me later, was that he’d gone to bed the night before with a large garlic clove crammed between his gums and teeth. Stubby panted to demonstrate, and even though three days had gone by, I nearly passed out. Ever since then I have had a love/hate relationship with shrimp scampi, and find Susannah’s garlic-flavored bubble gum intolerable.

  At any rate, Salina Zook was as close as our school came to having a bully. Although she had mellowed over the years, and was in fact president of the Mennonite Women’s Sewing Circle, she still exuded authority—the kind that could be backed up if necessary. As usual, the Good Lord knew what he was doing. People seldom made fun of Salina’s children in her presence.

  “I’m here on police business,” I wailed.

  “That’s nonsense.” She tugged harder.

  “Call Melvin and ask him.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t stand the man and you know it.”

  I felt the couch slipping from my grip and did my best Stubby imitation. Unfortunately oatmeal ions are not very pungent and Salina didn’t flinch.

  “Been there, Magdalena. Done that.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She wrenched me loose. “How do you think I won all those times in high school? I would have had a perfect record, too, if Stubby hadn’t found out my secret and tried it out on me the day I had a dentist appointment.”

  “Then ask Zelda Root!” I cried. “I’m practically a member of the Hernia police force.”

  “And little green men from Mars stay at your inn,” she said cruelly.

  “What?”

  “I saw those magazines at the checkout stand of the Giant Eagle in Bedford. You were on the front page, sandwiched between that three-headed calf from India that sings rap music and Camilla Bowles Parker. Everyone in Bedford County thinks you’re nuts. Are you, Magdalena?”

  “Moo!” I bellowed in a British accent.

  She let go of my arm. “Just be calm. All I’m asking you to do is leave.”

  I took a deep breath. “And all I’m asking you to do is to let me ask your son a few questions.”

  We regarded each other warily. No doubt I struck her as a loose cannon, liable to go off at any moment. On the other hand, I could see the muscles on her bare arms. Garlic might have helped her win all those wrestling matches, but it wasn’t the only factor.

  “Call Zelda.”

  She walked to the phone and dialed without breaking eye contact. She asked to speak to Zelda, told her the situation, and then said “uh-huh” half a dozen times. By the time she hung up she seemed a trifle more relaxed.

  “Well?” she asked.

  I realized I was still clutching the ten dollar bill and stuffed it in my bra. Unfortunately I was wearing a beltless dress that day and the bill fell straight through to the floor. I surreptitiously kicked it under the couch.

  “Well what?”

  “Your questions!”

  I dove right in. “Did your son”—I turned to Harvey—”did you see any other vehicles at the Settler’s Cemetery last night? I mean besides your car and the Mast buggy?”

  Harvey shook his head. His eyes had finally cleared. He’d been watching the exchange between his mother and me with amusement. Apparently we were more entertaining than a whole team of terrapins.

  “Did you see anyone flee the scene of the crime? Maybe on foot?”

  He shook his head again.

  “Would you please describe what you saw and heard up on Stucky Ridge,” I said through gritted teeth. Who says I can’t be patient?

  “Well, Cathy and I”—he glanced at his mother and then down at his dirty bare feet—”were enjoying the view, and then Cathy asks if I made this certain noise”—he had the poor taste to chuckle—”and I said I didn’t. I said I thought it came from outside. Then we heard it a couple of times more.

  “Only there wasn’t anybody up there enjoying the view that night but us, and so I said it had to come from the cemetery side then. I wanted to see if I could scare Cathy, see? There’s this story about—”

  “About a couple parked in a car at night in a deserted place and they hear this scratching at one of the car doors, and they drive off in terror, only to discover later than there is a prosthetic hook dangling from the door handle?”

  His eyes were not only dear, but wide. “How’d you know?”

  “I was a teenager myself, dear. That story is a classic. Cemeteries, overlooks, deserted country roads—it probably gets told every night during the summer.”

  Th
e truth is I heard that story up in the hayloft of my father’s barn. But thanks to Mama, I didn’t get to hear it until this summer when Aaron and I got caught in the barn by heavy rains. Did I mention that the occasion was my wedding, and there were fifty guests up in that hayloft with us trying to escape flood-waters? Hearing the hook story under those conditions was probably not the same.

  Harvey looked at me with a modicum of respect. “Yes, ma’am. Anyway, we drove around to the cemetery, and like I said, we didn’t see anybody but that one horse and buggy. And of course the two guys in it that had been shot.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Two guys?”

  “Yes, ma’am. The one was bleeding horrible— Cathy puked, I almost did. The other didn’t seem so bad off. Anyway, Cathy and I don’t know much about lifesaving things, so we decided the best thing we could do is go for help.” He paused. “Actually, I asked Cathy if she wanted to stay with the guys until I got back, but she was too scared. And she doesn’t know how to drive a stick shift.”

  “You did just fine, Harvey,” Salina said. She gave me a challenging look, which I ignored.

  “Did you know these boys? The ones in the buggy?”

  “Nope. Amish kids. They all look alike to me.” He laughed hollowly.

  It would be a waste of breath to remind him that his great-grandparents had been Amish. The same was true of Catherine Blough.

  “One boy was Enos Mast,” I said. “He’s in Bedford County Memorial Hospital now, in a coma. But he’s the only boy listed in the police report. What happened to the other?”

  He shrugged. “Zelda—I mean, Officer Root, drove me back up there in the squad car. Cathy stayed behind. The Bedford paramedics were on our tail the whole way. When we got there, we found just the one guy.”