Between a Wok and a Hard Place

by Tamar Myers

  I asked for permission to use the phone, and was given it reluctantly. Salina hovered nearby as I gingerly picked up the smudged receiver and called the station. Melvin answered. I could hear the same turtle cartoon playing in the background.

  “Turn off the TV, Melvin, I’ve got a question.”

  He sighed, but turned it off. “I’m allowed two official breaks, you know. And a half-hour lunch.”

  “Can the excuses. I want to know why there weren’t two Amish boys listed as victims on that report Zelda showed me.”

  “Because there weren’t.”

  “That’s not a reason, Melvin. Why weren’t they listed?”

  “I mean, Yoder, there weren’t two boys involved. Just the one. Enos Mast.”

  “But Harvey Zook—”

  “Did Harvey tell you he was drinking?”

  I glanced at Harvey. “No he didn’t.”

  “The kid couldn’t have walked a straight line if it had been painted on his shoes. It was a wonder he and the Blough girl made it down from Stucky Ridge in one piece. But when we gave him the breathalyzer test it came well below the legal limit.”

  “Pot,” I said. Trust me, I only know about such things because of my clientele. It may shock you to learn that many of the rich and famous are cannabis connoisseurs. Of course if I catch them at it, they get the bottom of my shoe, whether they’ve inhaled or not.

  “What?”

  “The road up Stucky Ridge is full of pot holes,” I said, trying to be discreet.

  There was a long pause during which my nose began to itch. I rubbed the receiver against my shnoz, which was a big mistake.

  “Melvin, are you there?”

  “You’re not making a bit of sense, Yoder.”

  “You’re the pot calling the kettle black,” I said, trying one more time. But it was no use. Melvin’s shoe size surpassed his IQ in the eighth grade.

  “I don’t have time for riddles, Yoder,” he snapped. “My point is, the kid was seeing double, even though he wasn’t drunk. But there was only one victim in the buggy, I can assure you. Zelda checked the buggy and the area thoroughly. No sign of another kid.”

  “Uh-huh.” I was staring balefully at Harvey for having supplied me with a possible breakthrough clue that didn’t hold up in the light of sobriety.

  Harvey was staring back. In his own way, he was daring me not to tell his mother his choice of refreshments the night before.

  “You making any progress on your end?” Melvin asked, almost casually. I could hear the TV on again, although the volume was lower.

  “I’ll have this case solved for you by the end of the week,” I said and hung up.

  “Everything all right?” Salina asked, still inches away.

  For some strange reason—call it intuition if you want—I decided to start playing the game as close to my meager chest as possible. I would hold off on trump until the rook was played.

  I smiled. “Everything is hunky-dory, dear.”

  Salina’s sigh of relief could have blown out a candle at thirty paces. Thank the Good Lord she was no longer into arm wrestling on a daily basis.

  “Come back any time,” she said, escorting me to the door. “See you at Mennonite Women’s Sewing Circle?”

  “What are we sewing this month? Layette sets for Afghanistan?” We Mennonites, as you probably know, make a concerted effort to relieve the suffering of others. Our sewing group has, in the past ten years, produced over thirty-thousand baby bundles for disadvantaged infants here and abroad.

  “This month it’s Somalia,” she said, as if we’d been having a casual conversation all along.

  I was adjusting my rearview mirror, about to start backing out of her driveway when Harvey rapped on the passenger window. I leaned over and rolled it down.

  “You owe me,” I said.

  “I know. Thanks. That’s what I came out to tell you.”

  “Don’t think you’re getting off the hook. You need to tell her. Before Melvin or Zelda does.”

  “I know. I promised them I would.”

  “See that you do.”

  He cleared his throat nervously. “About what I owe you... I want to pay you back.”

  I smiled graciously. “Mose could use a little help cleaning out the barn. How about tomorrow morning? Make that ten?”

  He winced. “What I meant was, I have some information that you might want?”

  I glared at him. “I do not, and have never smoked pot.”

  He laughed and then caught himself. “It’s about the boy. The other one in the buggy.”

  “What about him?”

  “I know who he is.”

  “But you said—”

  “I didn’t want to be a rat, Mrs. Miller. He begged us not to tell anyone that he was even there, but then Cathy got excited and let it slip. But she didn’t know his name. I do.”

  Never look a gift horse in the mouth, Mama used to say, although she had no idea what that meant. This time she was right.

  “What is his name?” I asked gently.

  “If I tell you, will you keep it to yourself?”

  “I won’t blab it,” I said. “But I do intend to track him down. It’s the best chance we have of finding the person or persons who shot Enos.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, Enos.”

  “You knew Enos?”

  His homely visage was vastly improved by a smile, even a rueful one. “That crack in there about all Amish kids looking alike—I didn’t mean it. We play ball with them sometimes. Hunt and fish. That kind of thing.”

  It was hard to imagine Harvey not tied to the tube, but of course I was too polite to say so. I bit my tongue and nodded.

  “The kid you want is Samuel Kauffman,” he said.

  “You sure?”

  “Positive. I know him pretty well. His parents let me fish on his farm—they’ve got some huge bass, but it’s the channel catfish I go after. Some of them are three feet long.”

  “What happened to Samuel?”

  “He got shot, too. But just in one shoulder. He was hurting real bad but he could still walk. But he was really scared. I mean, like really.”

  “You would be, too, if you got shot.” I have, in fact, been shot at, and thus had the authority for my pronouncement. And even though the incident involving me happened some months ago, I can still hear those bullets whizzing by my ears.

  “Yeah. But Samuel was afraid that the killer would come back to finish him off, and he wouldn’t go with us to get help. He made us promise not to tell and then ran into the trees.”

  “The cemetery grove?”

  “No, down the mountain. Maybe I shouldn’t be saying this, but I think he was headed home.”

  I thanked Harvey for his help and made him promise to stop smoking marijuana. I didn’t care, I said, if half the kids in Hernia High were into it these days, and if even a few of the Amish kids chose to get high as well. It was against the law and wrong, and if what I could extrapolate from some of my guests was an accurate picture, it eventually made one as dumb as post.

  “You’re a bright boy,” I said kindly, “but not so bright that you can afford to lose any brain cells. And quit watching all that mindless television and pick up a good book.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said with only a hint of mockery in his voice.

  “And tell your mama,” I added sternly, “because she will find out.”

  I drove off thinking about the time Mama caught me drinking. One of my friends, Lucille Benderhaus, had recently moved from Bedford to Hernia and I had been invited to spend the night with her. We ordered in pizza, and much to my astonishment Lucille produced a beer. A single can to share between us. Up until that point not a drop of alcohol had passed these lips, but that night I yielded to temptation and had my first sip. I thought of it as a spiritual inoculation, you see. One small sip for woman, one giant leap for perpetual sobriety. Just one taste, and I would cheat the Devil.

  Believe me, I would have stopped after that first s
ip, but it was so awful that I just had to sample it again to be sure that my taste buds weren’t playing tricks on me. Surely nothing that tasted like that was meant for human consumption. If so, the urine samples I handed the nurse during my annual physicals had marketability.

  The second sip was horrible, but was it as awful as the first? I needed a third sip to decide. It was inconclusive. The fourth sip demanded a fifth as a tiebreaker, and by then the can of malt mash was manageable. By the eighth sip I was feeling positively merry.

  I giggled when the doorbell rang.

  “Is that you, pizza boy?” I said fumbling with the front door latch. Lucille had taken an inopportune time to use the bathroom. “Did you bring your cute pair of buns back with you?” I yanked the stubborn door open.

  “Magdalena Portulacca Yoder!” There was a cute bun there all right, but it was on top of Mama’s head, covered by a little white prayer bonnet.

  “Mama! I thought you—”

  “Here’s your pajamas,” Mama said thrusting them at me. “Going off to a sleep-over and leaving them behind! I can’t imagine such a thing.”

  “Sorry, Mama.” I belched. “Oops, sorry again!”

  A few seconds later Mama’s nose was twitching like the back end of a cat in heat. “Gut Himmel!” she gasped, “what is that terrible smell?”

  “Pizza,” I lied, compounding my sin. “Lucille and I were eating pizza. Medium crust, sausage, pepperoni, green olives, onions, extra cheese, but no anchovies. Did you know that the word anchovy is not Italian, but is originally from the Spanish word anchova?”

  “Ach, you’re lying,” Mama said and leaned forward to get a better whiff.

  “No, I’m not. It’s in the dictionary. We looked it up.”

  “I’m not talking about fish,” Mama snapped. “You’re trying to hide something by lying.”

  “What makes you think that?” I asked carelessly.

  “You always talk too much when you lie, Magdalena.” Then her face went ricotta white. “Ach! You’ve been seduced by the Devil!”

  I took her literally and was momentarily confused and flattered. Then it sunk in and I shamefully covered my offending breath.

  “It’s only beer, Mama. And I just had a few sips.”

  “The wage of sin is death,” Mama said sternly, quoting from the Book of Romans.

  “Jesus drank,” I argued foolishly. “He even turned water into wine.”

  “Grape juice. That was grape juice.”

  “I don’t think so, Mama. Back then everyone drank wine. It was the beverage of choice.”

  Mama’s fingers closed around my wrist in a steely grip. “Stop that foolish prattle right now.”

  “The Disciples drank, Mama. John the Baptist drank. Even Mary—”

  “Get behind me, Satan!” she hissed and yanked me out of the doorway and down the walk to her car. I felt like I was six years old.

  “But I’m twenty-six!” I wailed. “And I left my purse behind.”

  “You’re never too old for a good spanking,” Mama said, and she was dead serious. I couldn’t sit down for three days. But perhaps she did know best. The beer I shared at Lucille’s was my first and last.

  For Harvey’s sake, I hoped that Salina Zook took a different approach. The boy needed to learn that marijuana was not going to solve any important issues in his life. Spanking was certainly not going to accomplish that. Mama, on the other hand, died believing that a hickory switch had saved me from a life on Skid Row, when in reality it was my taste buds that had spared me.

  Chapter Fourteen

  My first stop was the Hernia Police Station to see Melvin. He was on the phone when I walked in. Mercifully, the horrid little black-and-white TV that Melvin watches was turned off. Zelda was at her desk, staring at Melvin. Susannah was nowhere to be seen.

  “Hey,” I said to Zelda excitedly. “I just got a tip.”

  Zelda pointed with her chin in Melvin’s direction. “Bad news. The Mast kid just died.”

  I sat down on a dirty white patio chair, the only furniture available to visitors at the station. “Oh my.”

  “It’s a real shame, ain’t it? Him just a boy like that.”

  Melvin hung up. He looked solemn. I don’t mean to be facetious, but for once both eyes were in alignment.

  “That was the sheriff. The Mast kid never stood a prayer,” he said. “He was shot at close range in the face, you know. Maybe it’s best this way.”

  For once I didn’t argue. “The other boy—”

  “There was no other boy,” Melvin snapped. “I’ve made that crystal clear.”

  “But you haven’t,” I said calmly. “Yes, I know, Harvey Zook has a history of drinking, but he’s positive about this boy. He knows him personally. His name is Samuel Kauffman.”

  Melvin and Zelda exchanged glances.

  “There was so much blood,” Zelda said, shaking her head. “It was everywhere. I thought the blood on the seat beside him was his. How was I supposed to know?”

  “You weren’t, dear, and no one is blaming you.”

  “Speak for yourself.” Melvin straightened a jumbo paper clip, inserted it between his leg and the cast, and commenced to scratch.

  I wasted a frown on the man. “What matters now,” I said, “is that we find the Kauffman boy and help him.”

  Melvin stood up. Much to my amazement, his eyes were still in sync.

  “Where do the Kauffmans live? Eicher Road isn’t it?”

  “Zweibacher Road. But, Melvin, let me go up there.”

  His left eye began to waver. “Why? You already spoke to Annie Kauffman, remember? As I recall, you didn’t get anywhere.”

  To my credit, I kept my cool. The old Magdalena would have taken umbrage, possibly even said something sarcastic. But I was a married woman now, and as such, a pillar in my community. The tart-tongued Magdalena of yesteryear really was a thing of the past.

  “I’ll get somewhere this time,” I said. “I promise. And anyway, you need to be careful of your leg.”

  “Damn my leg, Yoder. This is a job that needs to be done right.” He started hobbling toward the door.

  “It’s Miller,” I snapped, “and don’t you use that ‘D’ word in front of me.”

  Zelda zipped around me and blocked the exit before I could as much as blink. Apparently all that grease on her head made for good aerodynamics.

  “I’ll go up there, Mel,” she said.

  “You?”

  “Sure, me. I know Annie Kauffman—I bought eggs from her last Easter. I’ll find her boy. I’ll bring him back this time.”

  “You’re a million laughs, Zelda,” he said cruelly. “But like I just said, this is a job that needs to be done right. A big job. This isn’t Rita’s scarecrow we’re out to recover, but a witness. No, this job needs to be handled by a professional.”

  “But I—”

  “Face it, Zelda, you’re a twit.”

  Zelda not only shrank from his rebuke, she burst into tears. Sad to say, one of the most creative paint jobs I’d ever seen was reduced to muddy rivulets in a matter of seconds. The poor woman needed to consult with Susannah who, due to self-induced economic need, perfected a makeup routine that renders her facial creations virtually indestructible. Her makeup jobs last for days, sometimes even weeks. Tammy Faye, I am told, spent a mere fifteen minutes with my sister, and ever since has been a much happier and wealthier woman.

  At any rate, I was on my feet, my tongue honed sharper than a samurai’s sword. “You apologize this minute, you miserable, miscreant, malodorous mantis.”

  “Who, me?”

  I gave Melvin a look that, if maintained for just fifteen minutes, could melt the polar ice caps, thereby obliterating New York, Miami, and points in between. Fortunately, Melvin melted within my specified minute.

  “Yeah, okay, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right,” Zelda said. She was clearly still in love with Melvin.

  “Now sit,” I said to Melvin.

  “
The hell I will! Yoder—”

  I glared again, forcing him back to his chair. Then I turned to Zelda.

  “You run along home, dear,” I said kindly, “and scrub that face. You look like someone fire-bombed a Sherwin-Williams store. I’ll go out to the Kauffman farm.”

  Zelda gratefully fled to fix her face.

  I drove straight from the police station to the Kauffman farm. That is to say, I went there directly. I certainly didn’t drive in a straight line.

  My part of Pennsylvania is a series of long, low ridges. Mountains, we call them, and they all have names, but my guests from Denver and points west laugh at that. Most of our mountains—the tops at least—are forest-covered, but the lower slopes and the wide valleys between have been cleared and that’s where our farms lie.

  Buffalo Mountain separates the incorporated Village of Hernia from the Kauffman farm, and Zweibacher Road is the cut across the mountain nearest the Zook residence. It is by necessity a winding road, and for about a third of die way up the mountain it follows a stream we locals call Slave Creek.

  This stream and its intriguing name do not appear on any maps, but legend has it that on several occasions runaway slaves, escaping from Maryland, stopped there to refresh themselves and get their bearings. One legend goes so far as to claim that the name Hernia is an African name bestowed on the area by one of these fugitives from injustice. That legend, I know, is not true.

  Hernia was named by my great-great-great grandfather Christian Yoder, one of the first white settlers. He was clearing his land one day and foolishly tried to lift a rock that was too heavy for him. That rock, I am told, is one of the cornerstones of the Beechy Grove Mennonite Church, although I have never seen it, and I am a lifelong member.

  At any rate, it is hard to be objective about one’s native surroundings. That said, Bear Mountain, the Slave Creek portion in particular, offers the prettiest scenery anywhere in the United States of America. Slave Creek isn’t grand and pretentious like Niagara Falls, and Bear Mountain isn’t excessively high like those much-touted Rockies. They are just plain pretty—prettier even than Stucky Ridge where my ancestors are buried.

  So I should not have been surprised to find Terry Slock, with his flair for the dramatic, clad like a Tyrolean in lederhosen and knee socks hiking along Zweibacher Road. Instead, he was dressed just like an Amish man—black pants, blue shirt, suspenders. Even a straw hat. He certainly hadn’t dressed like that at breakfast.