by Tamar Myers
I kept walking.
“You’re not going to try and walk all the way down this mountain, are you?”
“Why not?”
“What about the rain? You could get hit by lightning.”
“As if you’d care,” I said childishly. I looked up. There was no longer a cloud in the sky. Mama was undoubtedly pleased with my decision.
“Magdalena, be reasonable.”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing. And anyway, for all you know, I walked up here. Walking back down should be a piece of cake.”
“Enjoy your cake,” he said. I could tell by the sound of his voice that he was no longer following me.
27
I am a healthy woman, still in my prime, but it was adrenaline that propelled me down Stucky Ridge and into town. Well, to be truthful, I guess I could have rolled down the mountain—it’s that steep—but from the bottom of the incline I had to walk a good quarter of a mile until I hit Slave Creek, and then another quarter mile into town. From there it was two point two miles to the PennDutch, but I wasn’t about to walk that far on an empty stomach.
Thank heavens Yoder’s Corner Market was on my side of town and opened early. I am also eternally grateful that no one drove by as I straggled up Main Street looking like something the cat dragged in.
That’s exactly what Sam said when he saw me. “Is that you, Magdalena? For a second there I thought it was something the cat dragged in.”
I grimaced. “I thought you were going to start buying your meats.”
“Very funny. What happened to you?”
“Mama.”
Sam nodded. He’s my first cousin and knew Mama. No further explanation was necessary.
“So what can I help you find today?”
“Your restroom.”
Sam nervously brushed a lock of phantom hair back across a bald forehead. “I don’t have a restroom.”
“Yes you do. It’s that little room in the back off the storeroom.”
“That’s for employees only. They’re liable to complain if I open it to the public.”
“You’re the only employee, Sam.”
Sam sighed. “Use it. But put the seat back up when you’re done.”
I left the seat down. In fact, I weighted it down with the heavy ceramic lid of the tank. On top of that I stacked the plunger, the wastebasket, and a stack of Playboy magazines. Alas, Jacob Troyer had been telling the truth.
I also took my time sprucing up. My clothes were mostly dry by then, and a tug here and a tug there did wonders. So did Sam’s comb, which was lying on the sink and hadn’t been used in decades. When I emerged—except for my missing prayer cap—I looked quite presentable.
“For shame, Sam,” I said, surprising him in the canned fruit section.
He flushed, from neckline to neckline. “A Lodge buddy gave them to me. I didn’t buy them.”
“Don’t be so embarrassed, dear,” I said, enjoying every second of his discomfort. “I’m your favorite cousin, remember? We played post office together when we were six.”
His color deepened to that of Freni’s beet-pickled eggs. “You aren’t going to tell Dorothy, are you?”
“Your wife’s a Methodist, dear. I’m sure this kind of thing won’t surprise her at all. I was, however, thinking of mentioning it to Lodema Schrock.”
Sam’s pale gray eyes bulged beneath frosty lashes. “You wouldn’t! She’ll tell her husband and then I’m off the Mennonite Buddies Bowling League for sure.”
“In third grade you dipped my braids in the inkwell,” I reminded him.
“They no longer had inkwells when we were growing up, Magdalena. I put gum in your braids.”
“Same thing. Mama had to cut them off. My hair was still blond then and for weeks everyone called me Little Dutch Boy.”
“The Bible says to forgive seventy-seven times.”
“I stopped counting at one hundred. That was the time you put the live toad in my peanut butter sandwich.”
“I only did it because I liked you.”
“What?”
“I’ve been crazy about you for as long as I can remember. If we weren’t first cousins—well, I even thought of asking you to run away with me to South Carolina. We could have gotten married there.”
If my mouth had hung open any wider, I could have swallowed pigeons as well as flies. Not that there are that many of the former in Sam’s store.
“What’s the matter, Magdalena? Cat got your tongue?”
I shook my head vigorously, dissipating some of the shock. “Maybe the cat does have my tongue. After all, it dragged me in.”
“Come on, Magdalena. Admit it. You liked me too, didn’t you?”
“I detested you, Sam,” I said politely.
“Ha-ha! You’re such a teaser. That’s one of the things I’ve always liked about you.” His face grew pensive. “You don’t think it’s too late, do you? I mean, you’re not married and as for me—well, Dorothy’s a strong woman. She can take care of herself.”
“Forget it, Sam. I wouldn’t marry you if you were—well, the third or fourth last man on earth.”
Alas, that seemed to give him hope. “We wouldn’t have to get married. We could just—well, you know, be close.”
“You mean have an affair?”
Sam nodded hopefully.
I gasped. “Samuel Nevin Yoder! I’m not only shocked, I’m disgusted. Adultery is a sin! And just the thought of doing the horizontal hootchie-cootchie with a cousin—”
“So your answer is ‘no’?”
“Is your produce fresh?”
He may as well have dyed his face red. “You’re not telling this to Dorothy, are you?”
Perhaps it’s because I have big feet, but I can think fast on them. “Not if you sell me a buggy full of groceries—my choice—at cost.”
“Done!” he said, too eagerly.
“And give me some information.”
“Okay,” he said slowly. The red flags that went up matched his complexion. “What sort of information?”
“It’s about Gabriel Rosen, you know, that retired doctor who bought Aaron’s farm.”
As Sam relaxed his color lightened two shades. “Oh him. What do you want to know?”
“How well do you know him?”
Sam shrugged. “He comes in just about every day. Buys a little of this and that. Never even looks at the prices.” Sam chuckled. “Yesterday he bought anchovies. Said it was for a picnic. That can has been sitting on that shelf for almost eight years. I know, because I ordered them special for Lily Bontrager when she was on her pizza-making kick, which was the year Pete Hershberger dropped his bowling ball on my toe and broke it. I had to back out of the finals on account of that. Anyway, Lily read the recipe in some magazine, but when she came in to pick up the anchovies and saw that they were little fishes, she changed her mind. I forgot to look, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the tin had expired.”
“How could one tell?” I asked wryly.
He chuckled. “Beats me. Never eaten the things myself. Special orders like that I usually pitch after ten years.”
“How considerate of you. But back to Dr. Rosen, does he seem suspicious to you?”
“How do you mean?”
“Does he talk too much? Ask too many questions?”
“He’s not as bad as you,” Sam said without the hint of a smile.
“Remember, dear, I’m still in the catbird seat. What Dorothy and Lodema don’t know yet could hurt you.”
“He seems like an okay guy,” Sam said quickly. “Not like some of the other folks from the coast—the kind that stay to themselves. Claim they have to shop in Bedford where they get more choices.”
“Like the Hamptons?”
Sam spit on his own floor. I paid close attention to where the globules landed.
“They should have stayed in the big city. Did you know they had the nerve to laugh when I told them the only kind of asparagus I carry in the winter comes in cans?”
<
br /> “City slickers!” I snorted. “So tell me, Sam, did Gabe—I mean, Dr. Rosen—ever mention drugs to you? The illegal kind, of course.”
Sam shook his head vigorously. At least he didn’t need to worry about messing up his hair.
“Magdalena, Magdalena, Magdalena.”
“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”
“Always jumping to conclusions, aren’t you?”
“It’s the only form of exercise that doesn’t make you sweat,” I said defensively.
“You think the doctor had something to do with Lizzie Mast’s death, don’t you?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth, dear.”
“What’s the matter? Your foot taking up all the room?”
“Very funny, coming from someone who is about to be famous—or should I say, infamous—for keeping dirty magazines in his bathroom.”
Like I said, he could have saved his skin a whole lot of trouble by staying red. “Those magazines,” he said, studying the canned pears, “were given to me by the same man you’re so clumsily trying to investigate. From what I hear, Magdalena, the two of you are sweet on each other. Why don’t you just interrogate him?”
“Gabe gave you those?”
He nodded. “We got to talking one day. Mentioned he had them. Said he was throwing away his entire collection now that he’d met a real woman. I hinted that I might like to take a peek at them—you know, read the articles—before he trashed them. Next thing I knew he showed up with the magazines. Maybe fifty of them. I didn’t keep them all. Spread them around to guys in my bowling league.”
“What? You spread smut to the BMs?”
“That’s MBs, Magdalena, but hey, now that you mention it, I’ve got nothing to hide. If I get dropped from the church team, so do Elmer Reiger, Orville Weibe, and Walter Sawatzky. If that happens, Reverend Schrock will have your head on a platter just like John the Baptist’s.”
Sometimes it’s wise to get while the going is good. “But we’re still on with the buggy full of goodies at cost, right?”
Sam smiled. “I think you just talked yourself out of that.”
Sometimes it’s necessary to paddle faster. “Okay, so maybe you’ve single-handedly contaminated the church’s bowling team, but you’re the only one who has propositioned me. If I recall correctly, it was Dorothy’s father who set you up with this store and it’s in Dorothy’s name. A few well-chosen words to her and you’re out on your ear like last decade’s anchovies.”
“Okay,” Sam growled, “you win. But they have to be big items. Say bigger than a grapefruit. No filling up the buggy with spices. Those cost a fortune. Even I have to pay through the nose.”
“Deal. Now, may I use your phone?”
Same shook his head.
“I’m not calling for help,” I said. “I don’t want to use up my free spree today. I’m calling for a ride.”
“It doesn’t matter. My phone’s out of order.”
“Give me a break.”
“Come here,” he said and led the way to his cubicle of an office. I followed, gingerly picking my way over the spittle. “See,” he said triumphantly, showing me the cracked remains of an ancient princess phone. “Dropped it last week.”
“That’s your only phone?”
He nodded.
“Why don’t you get a replacement?”
“I will—sometime,” he added with a sly smile. “Not having one keeps Dorothy off my back. Anyway, why don’t you use the public phone on the corner?”
“It’s back in order?”
Sam frowned. “Never been out of order, far as I know.”
“That’s funny. Jacob Troyer said it was out of order. He stopped at the PennDutch to use mine.”
“Jacob Troyer, the good-looking Amish man?” That may seem like a silly question to you, but I know of eleven Jacob Troyers in this county. Five of them are Amish, but none comes close to being as handsome as the Jacob I meant.
“That’s the one. Said his sister-in-law was giving birth to twins over in Ohio.”
“She’s originally a Mast, isn’t she? They’re always having twins. Sort of a two-for-one special going on in that family.”
“Ah, that reminds me! What if, during my spree, I put an item in my buggy that’s part of a two-for-one special. Does that mean that after the spree I still get the second item free?”
“You get what’s in your buggy, Magdalena, that’s all! In fact, maybe I was being too generous. I think I’ll just—”
“Hold that thought!” I said and skeedaddled out the door while I was still ahead. Sure, I had something on Sam, but he was a Yoder, remember? As one, he was capable of cutting off his nose to spite his face, and still have plenty of proboscis left.
28
The phone on the corner obviously worked. When I got there, Catherine Gingrich was giving her married daughter over in Lancaster County canning instructions. This is worse than carrying coals to Newcastle, if you ask me, since every Amish girl over six knows how to put up preserves. But Catherine is a compulsive talker, and had only recently discovered that the telephone expanded her audience. This was, of course, somewhat of a relief for her husband—until she talked him into the poorhouse—but was surely bad news for the daughter, who had no doubt moved away to escape the constant verbiage.
I could have interrupted Catherine, but I didn’t want to have my ear bent for half an hour, during which time someone else would probably have come along to use the phone anyway. Besides, Freni does all my canning. Preferring to walk rather than to listen, I steered clear of that corner and hoofed it all the way back to the PennDutch. By the time I got there, my dogs were barking so loud I could barely hear myself think. Hertzler Road always has some traffic, but that morning it had none. Halfway home I was so desperate for a lift I would gladly have accepted a ride from Lodema Shrock.
There was no way, in my weakened condition, I was going to hoist myself back into my bedroom, so I reluctantly tried the kitchen door. Just in the nick of time I heard Freni’s voice. That she was back at work didn’t surprise me in the least. What surprised me was the patience in her voice as she tried to explain to Keith Bunch that meat-flavored ice cream was just not doable.
“But can’t you put some ground beef in the cylinder along with the cream and sugar?”
“Ach, it is Magdalena’s freezer. She will—how does one say in English—blow her stack if I do this thing.”
“You’ve got that right,” I muttered as I slunk around to the front door.
It is a sad state of affairs when a grown woman has to sneak into her own house, but believe me, it beats having to sneak out. Not that I’ve done much of the latter, mind you. I was always an obedient child, dare I say “perfect” even. It was Susannah who went to bed fully dressed and then, because Papa had the windows nailed shut, learned to pick the front door lock with a twisted coat hanger.
At any rate, there was nobody in the lobby or the parlor, and I was able to make it to my room unnoticed. The first thing I did when I reached my sanctuary was dig into my stash of Three Musketeers, which I keep in my top drawer under some clean unmentionables. (Lest you find it odd that I hide candy in my bedroom, let me explain that my guests have been known to rifle the pantry and kitchen cupboards for midnight snacks.) Since I always find one of these fluffy, not stuffy bars a great pick-me-up, I ate two. That gave me the strength to stagger into the bathroom and fill the tub with hot water and plenty of bubble bath.
Susannah gave me the bottle of bath salts for Christmas. It’s called Midnight Pleasures, and much to my surprise, I took an immediate liking to it. Its not so subtle fragrance is not something I would want detected on me in church. In fact, Lodema Schrock would have conniptions if she got a whiff of it. Still, I imagine something akin to this scent was worn by the Mary Magdalene, after whom I am ultimately named, and bathing in these sensuous suds always makes me feel womanly.
Mama used to say it was a sin to loll about in a tub during daylight hours, but
then again she never staked out drug-using Amish teenagers, or walked down from Stucky Ridge. For Mama, one bath a week, on Saturday night, sufficed. Heaven forfend you should enjoy it. So in memory of Mama I turned the spigot open all the way to create the maximum number of bubbles, and stepped in with a defiant grin.
I lolled until the water got cold, refilled the tub, and lolled again until I was as wrinkled as a sunbathing California chain smoker. Then just to be really wicked I got a third candy bar and ate it in the tub. That, unfortunately, was not such a good idea because the suds on my hands gave the chocolate a funny taste. Still, there is nothing like frolicking in the froth to fill one with felicity. Which is not to say I only had fun in the tub; I did some serious thinking too. In fact, some of my best thinking is done while immersed up to the neck, which leads me to the following conclusion: a woman should be President.
After all, it is we women who take the long therapeutic soaks in the bathtub, while most men prefer a shower. And where, pray tell, do men spend most of their bathroom time? So whom would you rather have for President, an introspective prune like myself, or some man who made his decisions of state while sitting on the pot? Enough said.
I was debating on whether my skin could tolerate yet another water change when the door to my inner sanctum was flung open unceremoniously. Apparently in my fatigue I had forgotten to lock the doors behind me.
“I quit!” Freni said without a preamble.
Refreshed as I was, I could afford to smile benevolently. “I know, dear. You made that quite clear, yesterday.”
“Yah, maybe, but this morning I un-quit.”
“Whatever. Now be a dear and close the door. There is a definite draft coming all the way from the hallway.”
“Yah, I will close the door. But this will be the last time.”
My sigh pushed a flotilla of bubbles halfway across the tub. “There, there, I’m sure that whatever it is, we can work through it. Anyway, I was just thinking it was about time to give you a raise.”
“Ach, I do not—” Freni’s dark eyes glittered behind the thick lenses as my words sank in. “A raise. This means more money, yah?”