by Tamar Myers
At the time she divorced, Drustara and her three-year-old daughter, Clementine, lived on Beacon Street, which, ironically, doesn’t have even one streetlight. After Oprah plugged The Dark Side of Heaven, the vastly successful author built the second largest home in Foxcroft. No doubt about it, she would have built the largest, but that distinction will always be held by the Rashid mansion, which exceeded our covenants, but for which a onetime exception was made. The Rashids, by the way, are Hernia’s first Muslim family.
I had never been inside the Kurtz house and looked forward to it. Not wanting to be a total boor, I opted to ring the bell instead of employing my knuckles of steel.
“Who is it?” I heard her call from somewhere deep within the house.
“It’s Magdalena Yoder, no longer ugly, but twice as beautiful, but since that’s a vain thing to say, I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.”
The heavy, ornate door inched open to reveal an anxious pair of green eyes. There was a body as well, and the telltale red hair, but only the eyes were unsettled.
19
“I paid my municipal taxes,” Drustara said. “If you didn’t get the check today, you’ll get it tomorrow.”
“That’s nice, dear, but I’m only the mayor of Hernia; I’m not the county treasurer.”
“I know who you are. But if you’re not here to string me up by my thumbs, then why are you here?”
“Tsk, tsk, what a tongue. Is that what they taught you in that Methodist school?”
“I went to Penn State, and if by ’Methodist school’ you mean the church I attend, the answer is no. I am who I’ve always been, just more so. Take it or leave it.”
Having very little experience with assertive women who speak their minds, I prayed for direction. As is usually the case, none was forthcoming, although the weirdest thing occurred to me; perhaps Drustara Kurtz was a young version of Magdalena Yoder, and I should take it from there. Clearly this bizarre thought pattern was the result of crossed wires between Heaven and yours truly.
“I’ll take it, but can we take it indoors?”
She stepped aside. “Suit yourself. But Clementine has been under the weather the past few days. A bad cold. I haven’t caught it yet, which is not to say I’m not contagious. Oh, what the heck. Who am I kidding? I bet you’re used to getting colds, what with you running hither, thither, and yon, sticking your nose into everyone’s business.”
Recoiling too fast can result in whiplash. “I will accept hither and yon, but thither is going just too far.”
“So it’s true what they say; you are one sandwich short of a picnic.”
“Yes, but they never say which kind of sandwich. Don’t you want to know which kind?”
“Okay, I’ll bite.”
“Cucumber and Nutter.”
“You mean butter?”
“No whey! It’s a dairy-free spread called Nutter.”
“Nuts.”
“Exactly. You should try it sometime.”
“No, I mean you.”
“Far too many people are normal, dear, so I’ll take that as a compliment.”
I looked around the living room for the first time. It was spectacularly beautiful, but not in the least bit ostentatious. If anything, the colors and furnishings were understated. My guess is that Drustara had used the services of an interior decorator. For most Hernians, decorating professionally means finding a page in the JCPenney catalog that one likes, and then ordering everything available on it.
“Wow,” I said, almost at a loss for words. “This must have set you back a pretty penny. If I wasn’t the polite, well-brought-up woman that I am, I might ask you just how many pennies this cost, although I would probably have you convert it to dollars. Math has never been my forte, and no, I do not mean forté. The former refers to a strong point, whilst the latter is a musical term. And yes, I am aware that so many people say forté nowadays, when they mean forte, that the dictionary lists it as the secondary pronunciation, but that doesn’t make it right. Just because most people dress like slobs when they grocery shop doesn’t make it right either, does it?”
She shook her head, sending masses of auburn waves into motion. “I take it back. You’re not just nuts; you’re stark raving mad.”
“But in a good way, right?”
“Whatever. So, are you going to tell me why you’re here?”
“I’m afraid it’s not good news.” I glanced dutifully around. “Where’s your daughter?”
“Clementine is sleeping. We can talk here.” She made no move to offer me a seat.
“Very well. It’s about your former lover.” Honest to goodness, the L word just slipped out.
“Which one?”
My jaw dropped. Not too long ago, when I didn’t have a bosom to catch it with, I would have had to scoop it off the floor.
“Ha, gotcha, didn’t I? You’re like all the rest, you know? You think just because I ran off with a Methodist boy, I must be a tramp.”
“Of course not, dear. I think that because you did the bedsprings bossa nova with Hernia’s equally notorious playboy, Cornelius Weaver.”
The green eyes took on a grayish cast. “Don’t speak ill of the dead, Miss Yoder. That’s scraping the bottom of the barrel—even for you.”
“Forsooth, I speak the truth. I have just interviewed four other women who engaged in premarital, lateral relations with our town’s most prosperous, and possibly most promiscuous, posthumous—”
“Miss Yoder, I’m sure you’ve heard this before, but you can be extremely annoying.”
“In that case, just toss my book across the room. That’s what I tell my readers.”
She suddenly regarded me with interest. “You’ve published a book?”
“No. But if I had, that’s what I’d say. Speaking of being published, my fiancé, the very handsome Dr. Gabriel Rosen, is working on a mystery novel, but just after the halfway mark, he ran out of ideas.”
“I believe that’s called the end of the book.”
“Yes, but the publishing guidelines state he needs to have seventy thousand words.”
“I see. Well in that case, tell him to buy the Lord and Spencer Idea Gift Catalogue. They sell single ideas for as low as nine ninety-nine, and you can get a complete plot package for three easy payments of sixty-nine ninety-nine. Believe me, it’s well worth the money.”
I nodded gratefully, and lacking a proper notebook, jotted down the information on the back of an old church bulletin. “Thank you so much,” I gushed. “The Babester—I mean Gabe—thanks you as well.”
“Mmm. Now tell me about Cornelius.”
“Who?”
“My so-called ex-lover,” she said softly.
“Ah yes. You see, a preliminary autopsy indicates that he died of a heart attack, possibly brought on by an overdose of amitriptyline.”
“Elavil.”
“You know this drug?”
“I suffer from depression, Miss Yoder. A lot of artists do.”
“You paint as well?”
She sighed needlessly. “Writing is an art.”
So is acting, I thought. Drustara Kurtz wasn’t nearly as upset as I thought she should be. Not that there is a right way to be upset, but there is a wrong way—if one doesn’t want to draw suspicion to oneself.
“Perhaps, Drustara, and my, what a lovely name that is—you have missed my point.”
“That Cornelius was murdered?”
“Or perhaps not. You certainly don’t seem taken aback.”
“You mentioned four other women; that’s your clue right there.”
“I don’t get it.”
“If you’re looking for a one-word answer, try jealousy on for size. Cornelius was living dangerously, making five women promises that he couldn’t keep. Dangerous living often leads to death. Why should I be surprised?”
I shook my head in wonder. “Just a few short years ago you were horse-and-buggy Amish. How did you get to be this cynical so fast?”
“
I was always cynical. That’s one of the many reasons I left the community.”
“You just said five women. I assume you’re including yourself. But you do know that Cornelius was planning to marry Priscilla Livingood—don’t you? In just three days.”
“Of course I do. But it never would have happened; Cornelius would have found a way out of that as well. As to the fifth woman, she’s your buddy the chief, am I right?”
This time I caught my jaw before it hit my bosom. “How did you know that? Nobody is supposed to know that.”
“Miss Yoder, surely you are aware that men are the biggest gossips.”
“Isn’t that the truth! Drop a kernel of gossip at the Mennonite Ladies Sewing Circle, and it will take two weeks before it gets back to you, and by then it’s so twisted, you almost think it’s something new. Take the same nugget of info to the blacksmith’s shop, and the very next day it gets back to you highly embellished, but other than that, none the worse for wear.”
Her laugh was surprisingly melodious. Our similarities were almost frightening.
“You’re a hoot, Miss Yoder.”
“And a holler. So you’re saying Cornelius told on himself.”
She nodded. “I think he would have burst otherwise. Sleeping with the chief was so exciting for him, and on many levels. He just had to tell someone. But I think I’m the only one he shared this with.”
Since no one else had brought up the chief, Drustara was probably right on that score. “There’s something else I don’t get: You’re beautiful, wealthy, successful, outspoken, wealthy—did I mention wealthy? I can see why the others threw themselves at Hernia’s most eligible bachelor, but why you?”
“He had enormous feet, Miss Yoder, and you know what they say about men with big feet.”
“They require large shoes?”
“Exactly.” Her delightful laughter enthralled me for another minute. “Seriously, Miss Yoder, as I’m sure you have discovered, my healthy bank account limits the playing field considerably. I knew Cornelius was a cad—may he rest in peace—but he wasn’t after my money. He was intelligent, handsome, and wore big shoes. What else can I say?”
“So you weren’t interested in marrying him?”
“Ach, du lieber!” she said, reverting to her native Amish dialect. “Why on earth would I do that? I have Clementine to consider. You don’t honestly think Cornelius would have made a good father, do you?”
“Touché. So you were just—uh—friends with Cornelius.”
“Is that judgment I see written all over your face?”
“Moi?”
“Yes, we were friends and more. But you don’t have the slightest idea what it’s been like for me to move out into the world. Sure, you’re a Mennonite, and granted, even a conservative one, but that’s a far cry from being Amish. When your sister married a Presbyterian, she wasn’t excommunicated. It’s darn hard for me to make friends, because even though I’ve managed to remove all traces of dialect from my speech—and what you just heard was an exception—my life experiences are not something to which most people can relate. That makes me seem odd, and, believe it or not, most people are afraid of odd. They are biologically programmed to be. At any rate, the only two people in this town who ever gave me the time of day were Cornelius and Zelda.”
I gasped. “My half-sister Zelda Root? The one who is two sandwiches short of a picnic?”
“Why do you say that? Because she practices a different religion?”
“Not just different—it’s wrong! She worships a man, for crying out loud. A live human being.”
“And that makes less sense than worshipping a dead man?”
“Jesus was not just a man; he was God as well.”
“Says who?”
“The Bible.”
“Her holy book says different.”
“She wrote it, for Pete’s sake! You can’t compare the two. That’s absurd. Besides, a billion Christians bear witness to the fact that Jesus is the only way to know God.”
“There are a lot more Buddhists than that, and they don’t go to war over denominational differences. Let me ask you, Miss Yoder, where does it say in the Bible that God has a penis?”
“What?”
“Well, he’s male, isn’t he? What makes him male? The Bible refers to him as ‘father.’ You can’t get any more male than that.”
It was a good thing the heretic hadn’t offered me a seat. I plugged my ears with my fingers and thumbs and, with the exception of one awkward moment when I opened the door, kept them plugged until I was safely in my car. Meanwhile my purse, which was hanging from my arm, slapped me in the face several times. I’m sure I deserved it; I should not have hung around for even a second of Drustara’s blasphemy.
If the Good Lord wanted us to think for ourselves, he wouldn’t have given us 1,074 pages of instructions, as per the well-known King James version of the Holy Bible, which has the place of honor on my nightstand. Independent thought is dangerous, in that it leads to the abandonment of traditional values. Traditional values are like fluoride; without them decay sets in. Drustara Kurtz is the perfect case in point.
On the other hand, if I couldn’t hold my own in a religious discussion with an ex-Amish woman, how on earth was I going to make a marriage work when my other half had never believed the way I do? Just having a service conducted by a Mennonite minister in conjunction with a rabbi was not going to change anything. With my heart resting on the floorboards of my car, I drove across town to do what I had to do next.
20
Kheema Mattar
(Mince Meat and Peas)
Ingredients
¼ cup oil
2 cloves
1 pound ground beef
2 cardamoms
1 cup yogurt
Salt to taste
1 tablespoon ginger-garlic paste
3 tomatoes, finely diced
2 medium onions, finely sliced
1 cup frozen peas, thawed and rinsed
1–2 green chilies, finely diced
¾ cup water
¼ teaspoon turmeric
Pinch coriander leaves, finely chopped
1 cinnamon stick
Yield: 8 servings
Preparation
1. Heat oil in pan and add beef, yogurt, ginger-garlic paste, onions, and chilies. Mix.
2. Then add turmeric, cinnamon, cloves, cardamom, and salt.
3. Stir thoroughly and cook on medium-high heat till all the liquid is absorbed.
4. Cook this mixture till it reaches a light brown color, stirring periodically. Be careful not to allow it to burn; sprinkle a little water in if need be.
5. Now add tomatoes, peas, and water and stir thoroughly. Mixture will be liquidy. Allow to cook for a few minutes.
6. Cover and cook on low heat till peas are tender. If mixture is still too liquidy, cook uncovered.
7. Garnish with coriander leaves and serve with naan.
Notes
Fresh peas will need more cooking time than frozen peas.
Discard whole spices before eating.
21
I let myself into the Babester’s house. Creeping as silently as a cat in a fog, I searched the place until I found my beloved in his office, hunched over his computer. Quite unnoticed, I watched lovingly for a few minutes. Alternating periods of catatonia and intense clattering of keys clued me in to the fact that he was working on his manuscript. Apparently, without any help from me, or Drustara Kurtz, my would-be author had managed to purchase his own copy of the Lord and Spencer Idea Gift Catalogue.
“Ahem,” I finally said, unable to bear my burden any longer.
“Holy shoofly pie!” Gabe shouted and nearly hit the ceiling with his head. The fact that he’d modified his swearword from cow excrement to a Pennsylvania Dutch dessert was something for which I could take credit.
“Hon, you nearly scared the pistachio out of me.”
“Pistachio ice cream goes well with shoofly pie. May I read what yo
u’ve written?”
“Magdalena, you know I don’t like to share my work in progress.”
“But you’re never done, so it’s always in progress. Now I’ll never get to see it.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Gabe, where’s your mother?”
“Outside, choosing a location for her garden.”
“Garden?” Trying to imagine Ida tilling the soil was like trying to picture a rap singer performing at the court of Louis XIV. Like oil and water, the ideas didn’t mix.
Gabe nodded in mock solemnity. “Someone told her there was a lot of money to be made by planting polyester bushes.”
“It was a joke. I didn’t think she’d actually consider it. Why didn’t you stop her?”
He chuckled. “Because it got her off my back. I swear, Mags, she’s worse than you; she’s always trying to read over my shoulder.”
“Well, you won’t be having that problem any longer.”
“Yup. As soon as she finds out that Miller’s Feed Store doesn’t sell polyester seed—”
“Not her—me.”
“What?”
“Darling,” I said, daring to use the word for the first time, “do you mind if we go downstairs to your buttery-soft Italian leather sofa to talk about this?”
“I think maybe I do very much. At the very least, I don’t like where this conversation seems to be headed.”
“But darling, you knew from the beginning, like I did, that we really didn’t stand a chance.”