Between a Wok and a Hard Place

by Tamar Myers

  Amos Augsburger, like all good Amish men, is undoubtedly humble. As I’ve said before, I’m not so sure about Lilibet. The two-story frame house she presides over gleams white in the sun like the tip of a giant iceberg, emerging above a lush green sea. The long drive that leads up from the lane is the iceberg’s wake. Only the flower borders, still vibrant this late in the summer, remind one that they are in the Pennsylvania countryside and not the north Atlantic.

  Other Amish women maintain kitchen gardens near their back doors, but not our Lilibet. Her vegetable plot is located behind the barn, to spare visitors the sight of organic detritus. Ditto for her clotheslines. To spot bloomers blowing in the breeze, one had to hike around the back of the white chicken house, a smaller but more pungent iceberg. Lilibet’s laundry might look clean, but you wouldn’t want to bury your nose in her towels.

  “Awesome,” Terry said.

  To avoid cluttering the Augsburger driveway with an unseemly number of cars, I had gallantly chauffeured the two unmarrieds. The Dixons, cum urchins, were on their own.

  Shirley paid no attention to the house and lawn. Her eyes were on the barn and the fields beyond.

  “From here the corn looks a little stunted. What’s his bushel yield per acre?”

  “It’s a much smaller crop than what the Miller farm produced in its day,” I said, stretching the truth only slightly. Aaron Sr. primarily raised beef cattle.

  “This place has good vibes, though,” Terry said. “It reminds me of Sedona. And the placement of the house on the lawn is good feng-shui. It would make a great retreat center.”

  “I saw it first,” Shirley said. I was surprised by the fervor in her voice.

  Apparently Terry was as well. “What?”

  “You heard me,” she said almost coldly. “This one is mine. I’m not just playing childish games here, Terrence. If it comes up to specs, I intend to make an offer.”

  “And I don’t?”

  “Why would you? You’re not a businessman.”

  “I had a career in show business, lady.”

  “I’m talking about the real world, Terrence, not Mama Wore Pearls.”

  I clucked my tongue. “Children, please!”

  “For your information,” Terry shouted, ignoring me, “I had a major role in The Young and the Spiteful.”

  “That doesn’t make you a businessman, Terrence. You don’t know the first thing about profit margins. You just want to turn this place into some ex-hippie hangout.”

  “Ha, that’s what you think! And I have so had business experience. I had investments, you know.”

  “Such as?” Shirley sneered. Frankly, I was shocked at her behavior.

  “Such as—well, I even ran my own business there for a while.”

  “A Fortune 500 firm, I bet!”

  “No, but it was successful. I produced my own films. Slock Studios.”

  “Children!” I shouted. They paid no attention.

  “Oh, yeah? Name one film!”

  “Her Cup Runneth Over!”

  “Ha, just as I suspected, a porno film. You were in the business of selling sleaze.”

  In the rearview mirror I could see that Terry had turned a shade of red that clashed horribly with my car. Sudden, passionate flushes of blood to the face were not something I had taken into account when making my choice.

  “It was a soft-core film,” he said through clenched teeth. “And it wasn’t nearly as sleazy as what you do with the Japanese.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Doing business and making cozy nice-nice with the enemy. That’s the definition of real sleaze, if you ask me.”

  “You’re nuts!” she hissed.

  “My daddy was killed by the Japanese. I never even got a chance to meet him!” Terry burst into tears.

  I threw up my hands in exasperation. Fortunately we had just come to a stop. The Dixons in the station wagon were right behind us. They must have been engrossed in the scenery as well because Angus didn’t stop in time.

  It wasn’t a very hard collision, because none of the airbags were deployed, but it was enough to make us rock a little in our seats. Nobody was hurt, so we all spilled out of the cars like ants from an opened cookie jar to see if there was any damage to my beamer. I had the most at stake, so I was the first one there. Fortunately there was no new damage, just that one little ding that had been a punch to my stomach.

  The adult Dixons, I’m happy to report, were properly mortified. The urchins, on the other hand, were as incorrigible as ever. The mishap seemed to exhilarate them. The older two frolicked about like lambs in a spring pasture, bleating inanely. From seemingly out of nowhere several of Lilibet’s children appeared and began frolicking with their English visitors. It was an ecumenical scene if I ever saw one.

  For a few seconds it was actually charming. Then little Caitlin got into the act by squealing something nonsensical and doing a series of cartwheels on Lilibet’s lawn. Call me old-fashioned if you will, but even a girl of five should keep her knees together whenever she wears a dress. Mama would have rapped my knuckles good for such unseemly behavior.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Dorothy asked.

  “Fine as frog hair, dear.” I glanced down at my bumper. “I’m just glad it wasn’t any worse.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that,” Angus said, whipping his wallet out of his back pocket. “Two hundred bucks should get that fixed, shouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Four hundred then, but I’ll have to write a check. Dorothy get your purse from the car.”

  She obediently trotted back to get it.

  “Mr. Dixon, I have no intention of accepting your money,” I said firmly.

  He looked bewildered, like a doe caught in the headlights of your car. That has only happened to me once, but it was a horrible experience that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Fortunately I was able to swerve and miss that poor deer, but in doing so I ran off the road and smack into a haystack on the Bontrager farm, nearly snuffing out the lives of two people.

  Actually, I missed the people entirely, but if the truth be told, at the time I almost wished I hadn’t. I mean, how was I to know that it was Susannah and Bobby Bontrager who were doing unspeakable things in that haystack? Nonetheless Papa grounded me for a week, even though I was twenty-eight at the time. Meanwhile Susannah and Bobby, neither of whom were hurt, were treated like royalty just because they’d had a frightening experience. I even had to do Susannah’s chores for a week while she lolled about, supposedly recovering her wits—although just between you and me, she never found them.

  At any rate, Angus Dixon suddenly seemed confused and very nervous. “Uh—well—it’s such a hassle dealing with insurance companies, isn’t it? If I could just pay you the damages directly, it will save us both a lot of time.”

  “You didn’t do the ding, dear,” I said, sounding a tad dingy myself. “God did. There are no new damages.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief that blew out Yvonne Roth’s birthday candles two and half miles away. Miss Roth is Hernia’s oldest citizen at ninety-nine, and while there weren’t perhaps quite that many candles on her cake, there were a lot of them.

  “You sure? I mean, we don’t have to involve the police or anything?”

  “Not unless you’re a glutton for punishment. It would take Chief Stoltzfus hours just to write everything down, and it’s time for lunch. But you,” I said sweetly, turning to Dorothy, “cannot go into lunch looking like that. Didn’t you at least bring the sweater I suggested?”

  “I brought it,” she said, sounding uncannily like Susannah. “I left it in the car.”

  “Then get it, dear, or our hosts are liable to think you’re Delilah risen from the dead. Bare shoulders and tunnel tops are definite no-nos.”

  “It’s called a tube top,” she sniffed, “and you’re just jealous because you couldn’t wear one even if you wanted to.”

  “Well, I never!” She was wrong, of
course. Her top was nothing more than a big sock with the toe cut out, and my socks never collapse.

  I turned my back on her and waved to Lilibet who was calling to the children from the front porch of her glacial farmhouse. They all ignored her. She ignored me.

  “Get inside this minute!”

  One of the Augsburger kids glanced at his mother, and then chased after Marissa, who was screaming like a banshee from the pure pleasure of being eight years old and alive.

  Lilibet ducked into the house and reappeared a moment later with a wooden paddle. “I will count to ten!” she shouted. “Eens—zivee—drei—vier—fimf—sex— siurwe—acht”—her voice grew louder and shriller, eclipsing even the banshee—“nein—zehel.”

  Immediately the Augsburger urchins fell into line and trooped into the house. Much to my amazement the Dixon offspring followed suit.

  “You see what a little discipline can do?” Shirley said over her shoulder.

  “That’s child abuse,” Dorothy muttered.

  “Relax,” I said. “Mrs. Augsburger would sooner dance naked on the Eiffel Tower than hit her children. That paddle is for taking pies out of the oven.”

  “But they didn’t obey her until they saw the stick.”

  “The stick symbolizes dessert. If they hadn’t obeyed then, there would be no dessert.”

  “That’s still child abuse.”

  “Give me a break,” Shirley said. “You bleeding heart liberals make me lose my appetite.”

  I was politer and merely rolled my eyes.

  Lilibet finally turned her attention to us now that we were only feet away. “Ach, hurry up,” she said. “The dinner’s getting cold!”

  We hurried. I introduced my guests and was pleasantly surprised at how gracious Lilibet could be. No doubt it was noblesse oblige.

  “Welcome, welcome,” she said as she ushered us into a spotless room. “I’m sorry for the mess, but we had a house guest we weren’t expecting.” She gave me a penetrating look.

  I realized with a start that I had made no provisions to take Pops back to the inn so he could pack. For all I knew the old coot would be joining us for dinner. No doubt the two of us would spend the entire meal glaring at each other, and I, for one, would have no appetite. My goal of filling up the size 24W dress was going to be delayed.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  True to character, Lilibet Augsburger put on a feed of royal proportions. In addition to a cold ham, there was meat loaf, fried chicken, chicken croquettes, mashed potatoes, baked honeyed yams, macaroni and cheese, green beans with bacon, buttered corn, stewed tomatoes, watermelon pickles, homemade bread and preserves, blackberry pie, chocolate cake, and hand- cranked ice cream. If she hadn’t belonged to a tee-totaling faith, I’m sure she would have served us six kinds of wine.

  Like the ill-mannered ragamuffins that they were, the Dixon children delayed dinner by running around and around the table screaming and otherwise inciting the Augsburger children into new levels of disobedience. At last Amos, who is six foot-four and weighs close to three hundred pounds, put his foot down. Literally. He claimed that stepping on Bradley Dixon’s foot was an accident, but it did make the boy stop, and after a few tears and accusations, we were finally seated at the groaning table.

  We were obliged to hold hands—something I frankly hate to do—while Amos intoned an interminable prayer in German. If Lilibet was worried about her food getting cold she should have cued her husband to opt for a shorter version, or else have had him say grace after the meal. The Good Lord can hear prayers said by full stomachs just as well, if not better, than those said by empty stomachs.

  As luck would have it I was seated between little Caitlin Dixon and Obadiah Augsburger, a boy about Caitlin’s age. The rationale was, I suppose, that my scary presence would ensure their good behavior, while their impish joie de vivre warmed the cockles of my heart. However, the only thing this seating arrangement ensured was sticky hands for me and the formulation of a new life rule—never hold hands with a five-year-old.

  Much to my relief, however, Aaron Sr. was not present for grace, which according to traditional etiquette meant he most probably wouldn’t be eating at all. I recklessly decided to confirm this.

  “Ach, the man is a nutcase,” Lilibet said in response to my question.

  Massive Amos stroked his beard. He had sparse carrot-orange hair, but his beard was full and a deep, lustrous auburn. It looked eminently strokeable.

  “Aaron is my friend.”

  “Yah, he is your friend,” Lilibet said as she heaped baked yams on one of the children’s plates, “but he’s still a nutcase.”

  “Some of my best friends are nutcases,” I said, eager to help the conversation along.

  They looked at me and I looked down at my plate. After an eternity I looked up again. They were still looking at me.

  “It’s not my fault!” I wailed.

  Lilibet dropped a drumstick on her youngest child’s plate. “Yah, maybe so. You don’t believe in flying saucers, do you, Magdalena?”

  “Lilibet!” Amos had a voice that could have brought the walls of Jericho down immediately and saved the Children of Israel seven trips.

  “Well, a fact is a fact, Amos,” she said and speared a slice of ham for herself. Then turned to me. “You were right. That man believes in flying saucers, if you can imagine. That’s what he’s doing right now. Looking for a so-called machine from outer space.”

  My spine tingled. “Where?” I asked casually.

  Amos cleared his throat. “I took him back this morning, to his old place. Miller farm.”

  “The pond? By himself?”

  “Yah. He has a little boat.”

  “But he’s eighty-one years old, for pete’s sake. He’s supposed to be home packing, not poking around in a pond.”

  “Ach,” Lilibet said, “I gave Aaron your message. He said he had to prove that he wasn’t crazy first. Well, if you ask me—”

  “We didn’t ask,” Amos said testily. He said something then in Pennsylvania Dutch. Mama and Papa often spoke to me in the dialect, but I will admit that my grasp of the language is rudimentary at best. At any rate, I understood Amos to say: “Don’t hang your squirmy long johns in front of an Englishman’s eyes.”

  Lilibet rolled her eyes, confirming—as I have often suspected—that she and I are distant cousins. “You talk like a noodle-head,” she said in Dutch. She turned to me and smiled. “I spread those rumors at Miller’s store just like you asked.”

  “What rumors?”

  “That you and the back doctor are not”—she glanced at the children seated on either side of her— “well, enough said.”

  “But they’re not rumors,” I wailed. “They’re the truth! And anyway, that’s not what I asked you to say. You were supposed to tell them about Aaron. What he did to me.”

  She shook her head. “Ach, but who would believe such a thing? Everyone knows Aaron Junior is such a nice man. Now the back doctor—he has pestered everyone in Hernia. Nobody likes him. Trust me, Magdalena, they were much more interested in that story.”

  The good news is that I didn’t actually leap across the tale and strangle her with my bare hands. The bad news is that I wanted to, and might have, had there not been over a dozen pairs of eyes staring at me as intently as if I were an alien recovered from the bottom of Miller’s pond. If Jimmy Carter was guilty of adultery in the Good Lord’s eyes for lusting in his heart, then I was every bit as guilty of murder in my heart.

  I suppose now I was going to have to wear a scarlet “M” along with the scarlet “A.” In that case, the best thing to do would be to sell the PennDutch Inn and move to Massachusetts where I had a chance of blending in. Even Cain wasn’t so clearly marked.

  I stood up. “Lunch was delicious,” I said through clenched teeth, though I had yet to pick up my fork.

  Lilibet dropped her fork with a clatter. “Ach, where are you going?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I
work my fingers to the bone doing you a favor— making a nice meal for you and the English—and this is how you repay me? You always did know how to make a scene, Magdalena.”

  “Thank you, and if you must know, I’m off to Miller’s farm. There’s a vindictive old man there in a rowboat looking for aliens at the bottom of a pond. Frankly, I’d rather be there.”

  “Why, I never!” Lilibet said. She turned to her husband. “Amos, say something.”

  “Gut Himmel,” Amos muttered into his auburn beard.

  “I’ll be back in two hours to pick you two up,” I said to Shirley and Terry. I was too embarrassed to look at them, but I assumed they knew I meant them.

  “Angus, do something,” I heard Dorothy Dixon whisper. “She shouldn’t be driving in that state.”

  I heard him push back his chair. “I’d be happy to drive you, Mrs. Miller.”

  “It’s Yoder,” I said, “not Miller. And no thanks, I don’t need someone to drive me. I’ll be just fine.”

  “But—”

  “I’m not in a state,” I snapped.

  “He was just trying to be helpful, Magdalena,” Shirley Pearson said. “Why don’t you be a good girl and sit back down?”

  “Girl?”

  “Please,” Terry said, “can’t we talk about this later? I’m starving.”

  “Yah, let’s eat,” Amos said. Either his stomach growled then or there was a dog under the table.

  “Is that all you can think about?” I screamed. “Food?”

  Lilibet picked up the platter of fried chicken again, and leaning across the table, thrust it at me. “You’re nothing but skin and bones, Magdalena. It’s no wonder your Aaron left you for greener pastures.”

  I snatched the platter of chicken from her and started for the door.

  “Mama, she took all the chicken!” one of the little Augsburger girls wailed.

  “Ach, my platter!”

  “Ji!” Caitlin sobbed. “Ji!”

  “I’ll wash it and return it tomorrow,” I said over my shoulder.