Batter off Dead

by Tamar Myers

  “Okay. There’s no need to be snippy, Sister Mother. I’ll still be seeing you tomorrow, right?”

  “Out,” she shrilled, but the push she gave me was surprisingly gentle.

  Although it’s nobody’s business but my own, I could tell by the pressure in my twin feeders that it was time to hustle my bustle back to the fruit of my bloomers. But since I was already “oot and aboot,” as our Canadian friends are wont to say-and the Zug twins originally hail from Manitoba-what harm could I possibly do anyone by a spontaneous ten-minute drop-in?

  19

  Not even the twins’ mother can tell them apart. If the rumors are true, their wives can’t either, but I don’t want to go there. Dr. Nolan, himself a twin, and a twenty-nine-year veteran of the Ohio Twins Days Festival, once said that the Zug brothers are the most identical twins he’s ever seen. If it wasn’t for the fact that he’d seen them both at the same time, he would have sworn they were the same person. Dr. Nolan is free to swear because, like Susannah, he is a lapsed Presbyterian.

  “Hmm,” I wondered aloud, “are the Sisters of Perpetual Apathy permitted to swear?”

  “I’ll let you know,” a voice from on high said.

  At the moment I was engaged in this heavenly conversation, I was standing on the Zugs’ front porch, my finger poised to ring the doorbell. As I’ve been fooled by what I’ve thought was the Good Lord’s voice before, I looked carefully around me. Except for three Adirondack rocking chairs, a rickety wicker table sporting a pot of fake, and faded, violets, the covered porch was empty. It was quite possible, then, that, finally, after all these years of faithfulness, I really was hearing the dulcet tones of my deity. After all, if Balaam’s ass could speak, why couldn’t Magdalena Portulaca Yoder Rosen hear God’s voice?

  “Hallelujah,” I cried joyously. “At last my prayers have been answered!”

  “This obviously pleases you, Magdalena.”

  “You betcha-only I don’t bet, so I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know what came over me-uh, yes, I do: it was the Devil. It had to be; that’s the only explanation, because I’ve never said that word before. I swear I haven’t!” I couldn’t believe what I’d just said. To demonstrate my horror, I slapped myself so hard that, had my head not been connected by some pretty stubborn tissues, it might well have ended up in the Zug brothers’ yard.

  “ Magdalena,” the Good Lord said softly, “are you all right?”

  “I’m fine and dandy. Actually, I’m finer than that: I’m as fine as frogs’ hair. That’s a joke, You know, because frogs don’t really have hair. Of course You know all that, on account of You know everything, and that’s why I’m all in a dither, because now that I’ve finally, and I do mean finally-not that I’m kvetching, mind You-have a chance to ask You questions, I’m more nervous than a long-tailed cat on a porch full of rocking chairs. Come to think of it, kind of like this porch.”

  “Questions? What sort?”

  Despite the fact that my feeders were full, and I really needed to be hoofing it home, I wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to pump the Good Lord for the answers to some of the questions I’d been saving up in my mind ever since I was six years old.

  “Well, I’ll start with Adam and Eve’s firstborn: Cain. The Bible says that after he slew his brother, Abel, he went to land of Nod, where he married and built a city. Whom did he marry? And where did all the people come from who populated his city?”

  “That’s a fairly easy question. Cain married-”

  “Ah, but see here, if You’re going to say his sister, which, by the way, isn’t mentioned in Genesis, then what about all the laws against incest that come slightly later in Leviticus? Take chapter 20, verse 17, for example.”

  “Why are you quoting Scripture to me?”

  “Silly me! It was You who dictated the Bible to begin with.”

  “Forgive me, Magdalena, but you’re really beginning to annoy me with this nonsense.”

  “Nonsense? Don’t tell me the Episcopalians are right and that You merely inspired the writers-not that so much inspiring would be an easy thing, I’m sure.”

  The Good Lord sighed mightily. “Just tell me why you came here, because I need to get back to work.”

  “But I only got to ask one question.”

  “Then perhaps you should take your questions to someone else.”

  “Oh, I get it. I’m being tested like Job, aren’t I? This is a contest between You and Satan, isn’t it?” I slid off the rocker to my knees. “Oh, please, I beseech Thee, cover me not in boils, and take not from me my firstborn.”

  “That does it, eh; I’ve had enough.”

  I closed my eyes tightly, bracing myself for the divine wrath. If my punishment was to become a pillar of salt, then I hoped Gabe had the good sense to put me in the north pasture so that my two cows could get in a good lick at me now and then. If I was to be smitten with leprosy-or would that be smited? Somehow smote didn’t sound correct in the conditional tense. Heavens to Betsy, I didn’t even know how to conjugate smite, and here I was about to meet my Maker face-to-face. And not under the best of circumstances.

  I heard a thud on the porch somewhere in front of me. “ Magdalena, what are you doing?”

  “Bracing myself whilst bemoaning my poor command of archaic constructs. Of course, You can read my thoughts, so why am I even bothering to say this aloud? Come to think of it, since You can read my thoughts, why did You ask-oops, I’m not being cheeky. Honest. Just plain ole curiosity.”

  “ Magdalena, have you seen a doctor lately?”

  “Just Little Jacob’s pediatrician.”

  “I was thinking more of a psychiatrist.” Heavens to Murgatroid. The Good Lord was indeed sounding like an Episcopalian. Perhaps it wasn’t even Him I was conversing with. To be on the safe side, I opened one eye.

  “It’s you!” I shrieked, and jumped to my feet.

  It wasn’t the Good Lord I’d seen, but one of the Zug brothers. The poor man shrieked as well, staggered backward, and fell off the porch into some Japanese yew bushes.

  I recovered sooner than he did and extended a long, skinny arm to pull him back up. However, he needlessly and rudely rejected my offer of help. He might even have said some very uncharitable things that shocked my tender ears.

  “Well, I never!” I said, and plopped my patooty right back in the rocking chair.

  The Zug twin clawed his way to a standing position but remained in the bush. “You’re absolutely nuts, eh? You know that?”

  “Put me on an ice cream sundae and call me delightful. Listen, dear, I may be nuts, but I’m not sacrilegious. I don’t hang out on rooftops pretending to be God.”

  “I wasn’t pretending anything. I was replacing some worn-out shingles, and then suddenly you start yammering away.”

  “Yammering? They say that in Canada as well? Look, what just happened was-well, it was unintended. So you can’t tell anyone, comprende? Anyway, I came to ask you and your brother a few questions about the morning Minerva J. Jay died.”

  “Oh, that.” The Zug twin clambered up on the porch and plopped his narrow patooty into the adjacent Adirondack. “We knew that the States has a murder rate that is three times what it is back home, but who knew that a little speck like Hernia would turn out to be one of the most dangerous places on the planet?”

  “Murder? Who said anything about that?”

  “Give me a break, Magdalena. Your reputation as an amateur Mennonite sleuth is common knowledge throughout the Mennonite communities of Manitoba.”

  “No way, José!”

  “But to be honest, so are your eccentricities, eh.”

  “I am not eccentric!”

  “I believe weird is the word most often used-although of course you have your staunch defenders, eh.”

  “I do, eh?”

  “Veritable Magdalena Yoder Fan Clubs. There are two in Winnipeg alone, eh. One of them even has a fanzine.”

  “A what-zine?”

  “A fan magazin
e. I believe it’s called Magdalena Gumshoe.”

  There is no sin that Satan loves more than pride. That’s because he can plant a little seed in your mind and water it with flattery, and the next thing you know it spreads like the kudzu vine that they say is taking over the South.

  “Do you think I could find a copy of this fanzine online?”

  The Zug twin frowned. “Uh-sorry, I misspoke; I don’t remember the name of any of the fanzines.”

  You see? And I should have known better because one of the first Bible verses I memorized was Proverbs 16:18: “Pride goes before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall.”

  I hung my head in shame. “Well, I guess I deserved that-sort of.”

  “No, there really is a magazine called Magdalena Gumshoe, and it does star you, but it’s a comic book.”

  “You mean like Donald Duck?”

  “Like who?”

  “The duck with no pants on.”

  “Yeah, I think I’ve read one of those. But these are grown-up comics and, I must say, the artist has done a good job of portraying you. But surely you know all this. I mean, didn’t they ask your permission? Surely you’re getting royalties of some sort, eh.”

  A comic book featuring moi? How cool was that? Now, that would send Mama spinning in her grave so fast she could supply at least half the country with electricity, thereby reducing our dependency on foreign oil, and freeing us up to put the screws to Saudi Arabia to treat their women as equals. However, if the comic book (could there possibly even be a series?) contained sex, or gratuitous violence, I’d have to put the kibosh on it. After all, I am a peaceful woman by heritage and practice, and my message is one of loving kindness.

  “Do you have a copy?”

  “No, but I used to. First edition too, eh. I could probably sell it now for a mint. But you know, you can find just about anything on Amazon or eBay.”

  “Too true! Toodles, dear,” I said and, like a superhero, practically, flew off the porch in my haste to return home.

  “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.” Thus said the preacher in the Book of Ecclesiastes. It was a verse that I knew by heart but hadn’t taken to heart, foolish woman that I was.

  What the Zug twin failed to mention is that Magdalena Gumshoe was the product of his imagination and, as such, was not available for purchase over the Internet. I didn’t want to believe this at first, but after shaking my computer and whacking my keyboard against the wall, I finally listened to Gabe and did a search from his laptop. The results were the same. Then, with naught left to lose, and possibly a two-dimensional caricature to gain, I called the acquaintance of an acquaintance up in Winnipeg and asked her if she’d ever heard of the comic books starring yours truly.

  “We Manitoba Mennonites don’t read a lot of comics, eh,” she said.

  “Is that a no?”

  “Yes, that’s a no, eh. But I have heard of you. You’re that eccentric woman who owns the bed-and-breakfast, where folks have to pay an enormous sum just to be abused.”

  “That’s me, all right! But no Magdalena Gumshoe comic books, eh?”

  “Are you making fun of my speech, Miss Yoder?”

  “Absolutely. You people would too, if you spoke normal like we do.”

  “Good-bye, Miss Yoder.” The woman had the temerity to hang up on me.

  Next I called the first cousin of a second cousin once removed in that fair city, followed by the third cousin of a double fifth cousin twice removed. And then a comic book and collectibles shop. All of the above stated unequivocally that they had never heard of Magdalena Gumshoe, and one of the women I contacted went so far as to say that if she ever did come across some copies she’d buy them all up and burn them just to spite me.

  Needless to say, I felt both angry and relieved. At least I didn’t have to worry about getting the publisher to correct any misinformation contained in the comic, or to go through the hassle of trying to get him or her to pay me. On the other hand, it was a major letdown; the Zug twin had carried a practical joke way too far-if indeed he’d even meant it in the spirit of fun.

  Suppose he’d meant it purely as a distraction? Eh? If so, his ploy had certainly worked. I’d taken off like a bat out of Hades in search of my fictional self, having totally dropped the subject of Miss Jay like an oven rack of hot potatoes. Ding, dang, dong! I didn’t even know which Zug twin I’d been bamboozled by, so I couldn’t throw a proper hissy fit without confirming what everyone from Hernia to Winnipeg already thought about me: in a bag of cashews and raisins, I was not the dried, wrinkled grapes.

  “Woe is unto me,” I cried, suddenly feeling the weight of the world pressing down on my thin, though rather comely, shoulders.

  The phone rang. And rang. And rang some more.

  “Isn’t anybody going to get that?” I hollered. “Yes!” I may have finally snapped into the receiver. “What on earth is it?”

  “ Magdalena,” a soft voice said. “I need to speak to you at once.”

  20

  Luscious Lemon Pancakes

  No collection of pancake recipes would be complete without this one, and no other lemon pancake could be quite as delicious. The recipe is adapted from Marion Cunningham’s The Breakfast Book (Knopf, 1987).

  3 large eggs, separated

  ¼ cup unbleached all-purpose flour

  ¾ cup low-fat cottage cheese

  4 tablespoons (½ stick) unsalted butter, melted

  2 tablespoons sugar

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  1 tablespoon grated lemon zest

  Confectioners’ sugar and mixed fruit (sliced strawberries, blueberries, and raspberries) or warm maple syrup

  1. In a large bowl, combine the egg yolks, flour, cottage cheese, butter, sugar, salt, and lemon zest. In a separate bowl, beat the egg whites until soft peaks form. Carefully fold the beaten whites into the batter just until blended.

  2. Heat a large nonstick griddle or skillet over medium heat until hot enough to sizzle a drop of water. Brush with a thin film of vegetable oil, or spray with nonstick cooking spray. For each pancake, pour a scant ¼ cup batter onto the griddle or into the skillet. Adjust the heat to medium-low. Cook until the tops are covered with small bubbles and the bottoms are lightly browned. Carefully turn and lightly brown the other side. These cook quickly. Repeat with the remaining batter.

  3. Serve with confectioners’ sugar, accompanied by sliced fruit or warm maple syrup.

  MAKES ABOUT TWELVE 3-INCH PANCAKES.

  21

  I agreed to meet Chief Ackerman in Settlers’ Cemetery atop Stucky Ridge. This is where Mama and Papa are buried, along with their forebears, and where I plan to have my weary bones laid to rest someday as well. As the name suggests, this graveyard contains the remains of Hernia’s original European founders. It is reserved for their descendents only and, of course, their spouses.

  The fact that I’m adopted doesn’t change my status one whit vis-à-vis burial rights, because the Stoltzfuses, my biological parents, were also both descended from founders. Besides, although both families are currently Mennonite, both arrived in this country as Amish in the early 1700s. As a result, our bloodlines are so intertwined that if I skin my knee, it is my cousin who moans in pain.

  Stucky Ridge is the highest point in Bedford County, even higher than Buffalo Mountain. Fortunately, not all of the land was dedicated to the dead. In addition to the cemetery, there is a picnic area overlooking Lovers’ Leap, and a patch of woods where oversexed teenagers come to grope each other on Saturday nights.

  I almost lost my life when Melvin the Maniac Mantis, who, it turned out, was a full sibling, as well as my brother-in-law, pushed me over the edge of Lovers’ Leap. Thank heaven for my sturdy Christian underwear, which caught on a tree branch and kept me from plunging to my death. Had I been wearing a thong, I’d have taken up residence next to Mama and Papa long before Little Jacob could be born.

  And speaking of the little fella, since I’d never taken him up there, and it was t
urning out to be a nice warm afternoon, I decided to introduce him to some of the Yoder clan. I started with Granny Yoder’s headstone.

  “Here’s your great-grandson, Little Jacob,” I said, minding my manners. (Forty years ago in Miss Entz’s citizenship class I learned that one must always introduce the lady first, especially if she’s older.)

  “And this is your great-granny Yoder,” I said. “You may have seen her standing imperiously on the stairs back at the inn. As my friend Abigail Timberlake Washburn from Charleston says, Granny Yoder is an Apparition American. Of course, we people of faith are not supposed to believe in such nonsense, and most of us don’t, but that’s because most of us haven’t come face-to-face with any incontrovertible evidence. I’m telling you, though, once you encounter an Apparition American, it’s all over but the whimpering.”

  Little Jacob whimpered.

  “Please forgive him,” I said to Granny Yoder’s headstone. “He’s awfully young. And you must admit you are a bit scary, what with that lemon-sucking scowl and those three eight-inch hairs growing from the mole on your left cheek. Really, Granny, even I am-I mean would be-scared of you if I was his age.”

  “ Magdalena.”

  I jumped clear out of my brogans when the hand, as light as a biscuit, rested on my shoulder. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”

  “Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” Little Jacob wailed.

  “Shi-ta-ke mushrooms!” Chief Ackerman exclaimed, his face every bit as white as Granny’s the last time I saw her in the flesh.

  The three of us gasped, panted, and hollered for several minutes. Finally the chief and I settled down on a stone bench facing Buffalo Mountain. I asked him if it was okay to nurse Little Jacob for a bit, as that was the quickest way to shut him up.

  “Fine by me,” he said. “I’m from California, remember? Besides, my mom nursed me a lot longer than most other mothers nurse their babies. I think it’s a beautiful thing.”

  I turned away until Little Jacob was covered with a light cotton blanket. Then, before we got down to police business, I just had to ask one personal question.