by Tamar Myers
Suffice it to say, I fully intended to keep my promise to Toy. The master bedroom was an afterthought when the farmhouse was converted into an inn, so it is on the ground floor and can be reached only by going through the large country kitchen. We like it this way, as it makes it inaccessible to guests, whom Freni shoos out of ‘her’ kitchen with the business end of her broom. After fixing comestibles for the little one and myself, I retired to the bedroom to eat and – there is no way to say this without sounding worldly – watch a little television.
But let me hasten to add that I do not countenance programs that contain violence or sexual acts of any kind. Why, once I even turned off the television after watching a nature show that dared to air a clip of two rhinoceroses doing the horizontal hootchie-cootchie. When the Babester demanded to know my reason for this, I said that if the Good Lord had wanted us to view this act, He would have seen to it that we were born in the African bush. While it is true that I was born and raised on a dairy farm, there is no comparing the bulls of the two species when it comes to their endowment. It is said that rhinos have poor vision, and this is surely a blessing bestowed upon Mrs Rhino by The Creator. For if Mrs Rhino could see that Mr Rhino had five legs, she would run until she encountered an ocean and then swim until she drowned. Forsooth, it is no wonder that they are such crotchety beasts.
Now, where was I? Ah, yes, I was set to have a quiet evening with a suckling babe at one breast and a copy of the Good Book propped against the other while I played a rousing game of Bible Roulette. The rules are very simple: one simply flips the pages at random, stops, places a finger on a verse, without looking at it, and then tries to determine what message the Lord has for you embedded in that verse. I decided that in order to be fair to the Lord, I’d give Him three chances to get His message across to myself.
The text that my bony index finger happened to pick first was Proverbs chapter twenty-five, verse twenty-four. ‘It is better to dwell in a corner of a housetop, than in a house shared with a contentious woman.’
‘No fair,’ I wailed aloud. ‘That doesn’t count; that was just a practice prophecy, Lord. I want three more verses – please!’
I laid Little Jacob on the bed next to me – he had somehow managed to fall asleep – turned my Bible upside down and gave it a good, if somewhat useless, shake. Then I righted the book and, sight-unseen, flipped through it forwards and backwards before picking my next verse. But again, it was from Proverbs; this time it was Proverbs chapter twenty-six, verse eleven. ‘As a dog returns to his own vomit, so a fool repeats his folly.’
‘OK, I get your point, Lord,’ I said. Frankly, I wasn’t just disappointed; I was a bit miffed. Like any good Christian, I am constantly in conversation with my God and always striving to grow in my faith. But God is my father, and just as any child might feel, it stung a little bit to be reproached by my Father in Heaven.
No sooner had I uttered those words, however, than I heard a noise emanating from somewhere in the house – somewhere other than the bedroom! I yanked the sheet so that it covered Little Jacob up to his button nose and then slid out of bed. While it is true that my feet are the size of tennis rackets, I can tread as soundlessly as one of our American mountain lions. It is a skill honed from years of creeping up my impossibly steep and creaky staircase to check on my guests’ welfare. I feel that I should explain, perhaps even illustrate, although I’m quite sure that one example should suffice.
For instance, on one occasion I heard loud, angry voices coming from room four in the wee hours of a morning. I also heard what sounded like the breaking of glass and the splintering of antique wooden furniture. The room had been rented over the telephone to Donald Mallard and Mozella Whiplash, both of whom were winners of the Universal Sausage and Bacon Eaters Championship. I had been loath to rent them a room, for fear that my stairs would collapse or, Heaven forfend, the toilet would be smashed into smithereens. I was quite shocked when the couple presented themselves at my front desk.
Donald did indeed resemble a soccer ball, albeit an angry soccer ball, with sausages for arms and legs, but Mozella was a tiny thing. What a strange pair they made; a fat barnyard goose with a fledging sparrow chirping along behind it! That night I must have sneaked up my impossibly steep and squeaky stairs a dozen times in order to check on poor Mozella’s undoubtedly pitiful plight, given the girth of her husband, and the gruffness of his demeanour and earlier behaviour. I have had a few too many murders committed under my roof to sleep easily when I sense an emotional storm brewing overhead.
At any rate, on my final check, after hearing my property being destroyed, it was not the mere slip of a lady whom I found to be in need of protection but her half-tonne hubby. That little gal had him pinned to the floor like a roped steer, and had tied him up, hands and feet, with one of my best buttercup yellow guest sheets.
‘This varmint ain’t running off nowheres till he gives me my half of the winnin’s,’ she said.
‘Run off?’ I said. ‘I don’t mean to be too rude but I rather doubt that a man his size is capable of running at all.’
‘Ma’am,’ Donald said, ‘I’ll have you know that I am a good Christian man who don’t gamble, take up with loose women, drink or smoke on account of my body is a temple for the Lord. If I want to eat me some grub, then I say ‘Praise the Lord and pass the mashed potatoes.’
It took me a second or two to scan Donald’s entire body. ‘Mr Mallard,’ I said, ‘if your body is a temple for the Lord then you’ve been building him a mighty large annex.’
Mozella yelped with delight. ‘You hear that, Donald? I always told you that you was an—’
‘That’s not what I said, dear,’ I cried, absolutely mortified. I won’t even allow Alison to shorten the word ‘buttocks’ in my presence.
‘We ain’t married,’ she said. ‘We lied so as we could save money on getting only one of your famous rooms.’
‘And now you have none of my famous rooms,’ I said as I dialled the police.
It may appear that I have digressed, but once again there is a method to my madness. The point was to illustrate that it is quite possible to navigate my impossibly steep stairs undetected and that looks can be quite deceiving. Therefore, when I heard the noise again, and it seemed to come from above, I had to seriously give credence to the possibility that an intruder had already managed to gain access to the second story of my pseudo-historical, Pennsylvania Dutch inn.
A much more comforting thought was that the End Times were at last upon us and that the Rapture had begun. Perhaps a brief word of explanation is in order for non-Christians, and those eighty percent of folks in the UK who are too lazy to go to church. I am referring to the day when Jesus Christ will return triumphantly to the earth and true believers everywhere, even the dead ones and perhaps a few Roman Catholics, will rise up to meet him in the air. The Bible does not go into details, but I should think that roofs will have to come off buildings and vehicles and soil off the tops of graves in order for this to happen. Faithful Christians across the globe have been eagerly waiting for this event their entire lives, as have their forbears for millennia.
The question remains, however, at least in my mind: where in the sky will Jesus reappear? If he makes his landing over the Holy Land, as he promised his disciples, the curvature of the earth will prevent me from witnessing that great event over here in Hernia, Pennsylvania. And if I rise straight up through a hole in my inn’s roof, no matter how conveniently it is prepared for me, I might miss the great reunion, since I would have no idea how to steer, once I was airborne, and thus I might shoot straight out into Outer Space and spend all of eternity on some distant planet. Oh, the thoughts that trouble this woman’s soul; it is a wonder that I can function at all!
Since the Rapture happens as quick as a blink, and I heard no further preparations on an exit hole, that left the first theory as the most likely: I had an intruder. I lunged for my bedside telephone. The line was dead. No signal. I looked around for my cell ph
one. Ding, dang, where was my cell phone? Oh, yeah, I’d tossed it on the kitchen counter while I’d heated up some supper for Little Jacob and myself. We don’t get very good cell reception in the inn anyway, and the phone was constantly banging against the cupboard doors, which I found most annoying. Truth be told, by then I was easily annoyed, and the little phone was not behaving, as inanimate objects are sometimes wont to do. Even when I slammed it on the counter it skittered to the edge and slid to the floor, where I just left it. If that’s where it wanted to stay the night, so be it. I wasn’t about to continue a battle with five inches of steel and circuits.
Then, horror of horrors, I heard a sound directly outside my bedroom door. Rap, rap, rappity-rap. It was faint, to be sure, but it certainly wasn’t the blood throbbing in my temples or the more familiar sound of wood-eating termites.
It was high summer, and since I eschew paying a premium for electricity, I had to keep the windows open rather than turn on our central air conditioner. In Hernia, where even our heathens are generally law-abiding (aside from the odd murderer) the only people with locked doors are those folks engaging in various forms of sexual expression. So it was that it did occur to me that perhaps a raven had chosen to share my home for the night. And yes, I do possess a healthy imagination, but I owe this train of thought to my eleventh-grade teacher, Miss Lehman, and a rather unusual bout of irrationality brought on by fear.
‘Say something, you stupid bird,’ I shouted through the door. ‘Don’t just stand there rapping. Identify yourself! I have a cudgel here in my hand and I’m not afraid to use it.’ To be honest, I didn’t even know what a cudgel was, and I was actually gripping the wire handle of an old flyswatter that we keep on the window ledge by the bed.
The raven mumbled something which I couldn’t understand, then it continued to destroy my antique door with its sharp, corvid beak.
‘Can’t you at least say “nevermore”?’ I hollered.
‘Nevermore,’ came the faint response.
That did it; a massive dose of adrenaline kicked in and I yanked open the door with such force that the raven barrelled into me, almost knocking me over – except that ravens don’t barrel, they fly, and they certainly don’t look like Lady Celia Grimsley-Snodgrass.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said in a flat American accent. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Not really,’ I said. ‘I think I’m having a nervous breakdown – in which case, you’re a figment of my imagination.’
‘Miss Yoder, I’m quite real, I assure you. May I come in?’
‘You’re already in,’ I said. ‘Can I pinch you?’ Under the circumstances it seemed like a very reasonable request to me.
‘Uh, I’d rather that you didn’t,’ the young woman said.
‘May I flagellate you then?’ I said.
Lady Celia blanched. ‘Miss Yoder, please don’t take this personally, but I am not attracted to women. Any women – not just you.’
‘Then welcome, dear,’ I said and stepped further aside. ‘I also have no interest in mammals with corresponding body parts. I was, as they say, just yanking your chain with my last comment. To flagellate means “to whip”. I figured that if you didn’t know what I was talking about then I wasn’t imagining you.’
‘You have a strange way of making sense, Miss Yoder. I’ve always sort of liked you. In fact, that’s why I’m here.’
I led the young woman – I still was not quite sure of her identity – through my bedroom and into an alcove that is furnished with two recliners that swivel to face a seventy-inch television that rises from the floor. This is as close to a ‘man cave’ as the Babester gets. Trust me, no other house in our Amish and Mennonite community boasts such an expensive and worldly setup – nor ought they. I have conceded this one great pleasure in order to keep the love of my life happy. And now I must confess that I may not have been entirely truthful earlier, for there have been times when Gabriel has persuaded me to sit alongside him as a dutiful wife and watch television shows with deceptive names, such as The Good Wife, who does not act like a good wife, but more like a wanton harlot in my opinion. But what am I to do? The New Testament states quite clearly that it is the husband who is the head of the house, and that the wife should obey him. Oy vey, I realize now that I brought this on myself when I became unevenly yoked with a nonbeliever. And since the New Testament also says that I am not allowed to get divorced unless he commits adultery – which he never will – we shall forever remain yoked together like an ass and ox. Besides, I adore Gabe. I love every hair on his manly chest and even the ones that are beginning to creep across his shoulders and back.
‘Wow!’ said Lady Celia’s doppelgänger. ‘You have a humongous bedroom and this place back here is really cool.’
‘Hang on, toots,’ I said, ‘because you ain’t seen nothing yet.’ I pressed the button on a remote that made the television rise silently from the floor. Then I pressed another button, one that caused a pair of heavy floor-to-ceiling drapes to part, revealing a set of French doors, and through them a well-lit patio.
‘Wow again,’ said the girl, her jaw scraping the floor. ‘How romantic!’
‘A gal has to work hard to keep the romance going,’ I said, ‘especially when she’s an ugly duckling married to a prince charming.’
She scowled. ‘Perhaps. But what does that have to do with this?’
‘Moi – ugly duckling,’ I said, rolling my eyes in exasperation. ‘Mr Rosen, the most handsome man you’ve ever seen.’
‘Wrong,’ the girl said. ‘He might be an eight – in the eyes of an older woman – but certainly no more than that. And you, by the way, are not an ugly duckling. If you stopped dressing so severely and wore a little makeup, you could easily be a nine. A femme fatale.’
Believe it or not, I had heard this same spiel coming directly from the lips of a psychologist. He tried to convince me that I suffered from a mental disease known as Body Dysmorphic Syndrome. Supposedly, I was incapable of seeing myself as I really was, and the ugly reflection that I viewed in the mirror was the result of low self-esteem. Of course, he was wrong; for me to agree with him would have been proud and quintessentially un-Mennonite.
‘Flattery might get you everywhere,’ I said to the girl, ‘but not with me, dear. I don’t swing that way, if you get my drift, and I wouldn’t even drift that way, if I was a swinger, which I’m not, since I’m happily married to a man who is a solid ten in my eyes, so there!’
‘You are a hoot, Miss Yoder, I’ll grant you that.’
‘And a holler.’
‘Undoubtedly so.’
‘Then come outside and sit on my private patio,’ I cried. ‘Because you agreed with me, you are now back in my good graces. There is one caveat, however – no, make that two.’
‘What are they?’ she said. Talk about looking a gift horse in the mouth!
‘First you must agree to sit here and sip a cup of tea like a civilized person, maybe even have a slice of Freni’s homemade bread, slathered in Amish butter, and then covered with heaps of strawberry jam.’
‘Agreed,’ she said. ‘What is the second condition?’
‘The second condition is that you put the kettle on and make the tea. We Americans are Philistines, I’m afraid. We use tea bags which, I am sure, horrify you civilized Brits. But, as the saying goes, “beggars can’t be choosers.” You’ll find real cream, from my very own Holstein cows, in a pitcher in the refrigerator, as well as the butter and jam. The bread is in a wooden box on the counter, and it is clearly labelled bread in shiny gold letters. Just scrounge in the cabinets and drawers until you find the necessary cups, plates and tableware.’
‘But, Miss Yoder—’
‘No “buts,” dear, this is America, where everyone is equal and must pull their own weight. Now hop to it before I decide to charge you for the privilege of making tea in an authentic Pennsylvania Dutch kitchen.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Quite frankly, the speed and efficiency with which the
noble lass performed her duties impressed me. One would have thought that she’d been born to an American. I barely had time to use my private facilities and check on the status of my precious bundle of joy. For the record, Little Jacob was snoring ever so softly, thanks to the remnants of a summer cold.
Not only was Lady Celia quick, she was remarkably resourceful. Tea was served on a wood tray that I’d forgotten I owned. This she placed on a small wicker table that separated a pair of Adirondack rocking chairs. The traditional English tea pot, the bone china cups and saucers, had all belonged to Gabe before we were married and were part of our ‘melded’ things. Somehow, in those few minutes the girl had not only found time to make jam sandwiches, she’d even removed the crusts. Believe me, if she ever immigrated to the United States and wound up impoverished, I would offer her a job as my housemaid in a heartbeat.
‘Now, dear,’ I said, ‘pour us each a cuppa and then settle into your rocker, whereupon you must get straight to the point.’
‘Miss Yoder, what’s a cuppa?’
‘Aha! I had my suspicions! Pretending not to know what pancakes are – that was Aubrey’s first mistake. Every Englishman knows what pancakes are; on Shrove Tuesday you even have pancake races.’
‘Busted,’ the erstwhile Lady Celia said. ‘But I still don’t know what a cuppa is.’
‘It’s a cup of tea, you twit – oops, you sweet little thing. Dear Lord,’ I prayed aloud, ‘guard my tongue from speaking evil.’
‘Miss Yoder,’ said my youngest guest, ‘you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. We all agree that you have a razor-sharp tongue, but you also have a razor-sharp conscience. That’s obvious from the constantly changing expressions on your face.’