Just Plain Pickled to Death

by Tamar Myers

  His shoulders, already sagging under the weight of eighty years, sagged further. “I don’t make jokes about money, Magdalena. If I sold the farm tomorrow and paid off all my debts, I would still owe money.”

  “How much?”

  “Maybe a couple of thousand.”

  “I could loan you that,” I said charitably. I tithe from my income, and it could just as well go straight to Aaron Senior instead of taking a bypass through the offering plate. That being the case, I wouldn’t even ask for the money back.

  He smiled, revealing teeth that were obviously his. “Thank you. That’s very kind. But you wouldn’t tell Aaron about it, would you?”

  “He doesn’t know?”

  “I’m sure he suspects, but he doesn’t know the details. Not unless one of the others told him.”

  “The others?”

  “My sisters.”

  “The Beeftrust?” I clamped my hand over my mouth, but it was too late. Words can’t be stuffed back in like cookie crumbs.

  He chuckled. “Why do you think they call themselves that? It’s not their size, you know. It’s because they’re co-owners of my farm.”

  “What?”

  He nodded. “The farm was left jointly to all of us. I would have bought them out, but like I said, I didn’t have two nickels to rub together at the time.”

  “You still don’t,” I said gently.

  “My sisters didn’t want to sell anyway. They’d all grown up on the farm and liked the idea of owning a piece of it. They also liked the idea of running things, even if they didn’t like the work.”

  “Tell me about it, Pops. Susannah wants me to turn the PennDutch into a retirement home for movie stars. Gollywood, she wants to call it. But she can’t even take out the trash without being told three times.”

  “My sisters—well, you’ve seen them—could have each done a man’s job. We could have turned the farm into the biggest cattle spread east of the Mississippi if they had done more than just talk about what they wanted.”

  Our eyes met in sibling-inspired sympathy. Sisters! There when you don’t need them, gone when you do.

  “But cheer up,” I said brightly, “from now on things are going to be looking up.”

  “No, they won’t.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “The money I owe is to my sisters.”

  “You are the Bottomless Pit?”

  “The farm, Magdalena, not me. You can’t run a farm with a bunch of bosses and just one working hand. Even the Bible will tell you that.”

  “They all have different ideas?”

  “They and their husbands. No two of us could ever agree on anything. I thought we should stick with Aberdeen Angus, but Lizzie thought Shorthorns were more practical. Leah wanted Herefords, but oh, no, Vonnie just had to have Charolais. They were so pretty, she said. As for Magdalena—”

  “So you went in every direction but up?” Some folks need a little help in summarizing.

  “Yes. And guess who gets the blame?”

  “Well, they’ll get over it as soon as you sell the farm and pay them back.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then you’ll finally have some peace.”

  He stared at me. His eyes had once been an intense blue like his son’s, but they were faded now, like bleached denim. And the irises were crosshatched, like denim, with tiny lines.

  “Won’t you?” I asked.

  “But where?”

  I waved a hand. “Wherever you decide to go. Florida, maybe. Or the Mennonite Home for the Aged over in Somerset.”

  His throat laughed, but his eyes didn’t. “Just like I thought. You don’t really understand, Magdalena. I am broke—or I will be as soon as I get out of debt. Farmers don’t have pensions.”

  I stared back. I felt like I had that time, after Susannah’s divorce, when she stopped by the inn on a pretense of borrowing a vacuum cleaner. I should have bolted the doors and piled heavy furniture in front of the windows. I should have had my mail held and my phone disconnected. I should have remained in seclusion, until somebody—perhaps God Himself—sent a white dove down the chimney with a note attached telling me that Susannah was now a safe six states away, married, and the mother of five children.

  Imagine! Susannah Yoder Entwhistle wanting to borrow a vacuum cleaner! Imagine Aaron Miller Sr., a man of fewer words than Michelangelo’s David, pouring out his troubles to me. And broke? Mennonites may be poor, but they are too frugal ever to be broke. Or so I had thought. Yesiree, if I had had half the sense of a heifer, I would have hoofed it out of there right then. I would have galloped right past Aaron, thrown everyone out of the inn, and barricaded the windows and doors just like I should have done with Susannah.

  “Just what is your point, dear?” I asked kindly.

  Aaron Senior swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a tied cork with a big bass on the other end.

  “I’m asking you and Aaron to take me in, Magdalena.”

  I’m sure my Eve’s apple bobbed a few times at that point. “Me? Us?”

  “Yes.”

  “But what about your sisters?”

  “They wouldn’t have me. Far too much resentment. On all our parts,” he added with admirable honesty.

  “Your nephews and nieces?” I asked. Hope does indeed spring eternal—especially when in-laws are involved.

  He shrugged. “I’ve never been close to any of them. Besides, Aaron is my son. Folks would expect him to take me in first.”

  To his credit, Aaron Senior stopped just short of saying that it was his son’s duty. It might not seem like that to you now, but believe me, there is a world of difference between performing an act of generosity and an act of duty. The former might possibly stir up feelings of noble pride in one’s breast, the latter only resentment. Again, I am talking about in-laws.

  The rock and the hard place waited patiently for me to answer while I gasped, snorted, cleared my throat, and repeated the combination in every possible sequence. Eighty years had given him a different perception of time.

  “Well,” I said at last, “Aaron and I would be delighted to have you come and live with us.”

  “You would?”

  I broke the ninth commandment twice in a row.

  I’m not saying the blue returned to his eyes or his shoulders stopped sagging, but Aaron Senior suddenly seemed years younger.

  “I wouldn’t be any trouble, honest. And I promise not to give you unsolicited advice about your marriage.”

  “And think twice about solicited advice,” I warned him. “I’ve been known to kill the messenger—so to speak.”

  “I understand.”

  I took a deep breath. “But of course it will cost you.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What I mean is, I need something from you in return for free room and board for the rest of your life.”

  The poor man blushed deeply.

  “Why, Pops Miller, watch what you think! I’m talking about some information.”

  He sighed. “Freni told me you’d ask. The truth is, Aaron really is two years younger than you.”

  I waved a hand impatiently. “I don’t care about that,” I said, breaking that same commandment yet a third time. “I want to know what really went on between your sisters and that accordion-playing evangelist, Benjamin Somebody-or-another.”

  “Ah, that. It’s important, is it?”

  “If you want a roof over your head, it is,” I said. I didn’t mean to be insensitive, it just slipped out. “You see, I don’t feel right marrying your son until we’ve had a funeral for your niece, and—”

  “Rebecca did not run off to the Poconos with that two-bit, small-tent evangelist,” he said emphatically. “I know that’s probably one of the versions you’ve heard, but it isn’t true.”

  “How can you be so positive? I mean, no one ever heard from her again.”

  Like many men of his generation, Aaron Senior prefers to wear suspenders. He hooke
d two claw-like thumbs under them and pulled hard. One slipped digit and his tummy would be in for quite a smack.

  “I just know.”

  “Yes, but Freni says she did. Lizzie, however—”

  “I’m positive because it was my Catherine who ran off with the accordion player.”

  My mouth opened and closed like a hungry baby bird. Fortunately I was given the grace not to put my foot into it.

  “I see. I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. She came back the very next day—apparently that preacher fellow couldn’t practice what he preached. If you get my drift.”

  I did, and nodded. I am not as naive as Susannah thinks I am.

  “But by then Rebecca had disappeared. Of course everyone thought that it was she who ran off with the guy. I only wish she had. She might still be alive!”

  He choked back a sob. I waited until he motioned me to continue.

  “Pops, why didn’t you tell people what really happened?”

  “Because of my son. Catherine begged me not to tell anyone about her ‘mistake.’ She said it would destroy Aaron.”

  “Kids are tougher than you think,” I said stupidly. “Besides, Aaron was already a young man then.”

  “I know. Hindsight is always perfect, isn’t it? In the end our nasty little secret destroyed both Catherine and Rebecca, but not Aaron.”

  “He knows?”

  He looked startled. “No, of course not.”

  “I’d tell him if I were you. He’s bound to find out someday.”

  “You?”

  “No, not me. The truth always has a way of coming out—eventually. But tell me what you meant about Catherine and Rebecca both being destroyed by the secret.”

  “Yes, that. Rebecca was the first victim.” Even after twenty years I could hear the pain in his voice. “If we hadn’t been trying to protect my wife’s reputation, we could have stopped the rumors that it was Rebecca who ran off with the preacher. Then the police would have taken her disappearance more seriously. They might have found her before it was too late. As for Catherine, she wasn’t a wicked woman, she was—uh—”

  “Wanton?”

  “Yes. She felt horrible about what she had done, and what the consequences might have been for Rebecca. She died a year later. Influenza was only partly to blame.”

  “And then there was Catherine’s third victim,” I said.

  He looked at me, surprised.

  “Sarah. Your niece. I’d say it’s a sure thing that Rebecca’s disappearance and Sarah’s murder are related.”

  Huge tears welled in the corners of his eyes, wobbled there for a second, and then threaded their way through the maze of furrows that formed his cheeks.

  I turned discreetly away and studied the cornfield. We’d had a dry spring, and the crop was going to have to do some fancy growing if it was going to be knee-high by the Fourth of July.

  If only it was already the Fourth. Sarah would be buried, I’d be married, and the aunties would be out of the house. Everything would be on track again, and I could settle down for a life of married bliss—except for two very obvious flies in the pie of my dreams.

  Susannah, of course, was one of the flies. But she had been buzzing around the periphery of my happiness for as long as I could remember, and I was used to her. No, the fly that stood the greatest chance of tainting this pie was an eighty-year-old man with a guilty conscience and pockets full of nothing.

  “Damn,” I said. It was only the second time I’d ever used the word, so I didn’t deserve getting caught.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Uh—well, Pops, I’ve been thinking.”

  “You’ve changed your mind about taking me in, haven’t you? Well, I understand.”

  If only it was so simple. My Pooky Bear would never forgive me if I put his Pops out in the cold. The truth is, I would never forgive myself—no matter how much I wanted to do so with half of my heart. The wrong half, of course.

  “No, Pops, like I said, I’m delighted that you’ll be living with us. I changed my mind about waiting here for Aaron.”

  The relief on his face was one of my rewards for those times when the good half of my heart prevails. “I’m sure Aaron will only be a few minutes more.”

  “Yes, just a few minutes more. That’s why I’ve decided to leave you here alone—if that’s all right—and hoof it on back through the cornfields. After all, I’ve got on a comfortable pair of shoes and I know a shortcut.”

  “Ah, yes, so my son and I could have that talk.”

  “Yes, the talk.”

  But it had nothing to do with any talk. I needed the time to think, and what better place than a cornfield? Without cow pies and cats to dodge, without phones ringing off the hooks, without aunties and temperamental cooks, I might actually reach some much needed conclusions.

  And I did.

  Chapter Ten

  Magdalena Yoder’s Wedding Feast, from Soup to Nuts

  Freni Hostetler’s Wilted Dandelion Salad

  The best dandelion leaves are gathered in the early spring before the plants have had a chance to bloom. Be sure that the plants have not been sprayed with toxins. If suitable dandelion leaves are not available, endive may be substituted.

  5 or 6 cups of leaves, broken into bite-size pieces

  Dressing:

  4 slices bacon

  bacon grease

  1 tablespoon flour

  1 cup sugar

  ½ teaspoon salt

  ½ teaspoon pepper

  1/3 cup vinegar

  1 cup water

  2 hard-boiled eggs, peeled and sliced

  Fry bacon until crisp. Remove from pan and crumble. Sprinkle flour over bacon grease remaining in pan and stir well. Add sugar, salt, pepper, vinegar, and water. Bring to a boil, stirring constantly. Pour hot liquid over salad greens and stir well. Garnish with egg slices and bacon bits.

  Serves 4.

  Chapter Eleven

  Walking home gave me plenty of time to think, but take my word for it, no matter how comfortable your shoes, don’t walk six miles across cornfields in your Sunday dress—at least not in Pennsylvania. Our fields are anything but flat, and sometimes they are interrupted by streams and patches of brambly woods. By the time I staggered in the back door, I was covered with more scratches than a declawed tomcat and I had chafe marks in places my Pooky Bear had yet to see.

  I would have tottered straight off for a long soak in my tub if it hadn’t been for one of my Pooky Bear’s relations. Auntie Veronica, she of the protruding proboscis and tiny feet, was sitting at the kitchen table, a dish towel knotted around both hands. She looked like she was going to strangle me with it.

  “Just because Leah made lunch doesn’t mean I’m going to wash dishes,” she said.

  “Of course not, dear. Speaking of which, how was it?”

  “The roast was dry, the potatoes overdone, and the beans didn’t have any flavor. I know Leah thinks she’s a good cook, but I’ve seldom had worse.”

  I smiled charmingly. “Actually, I made the lunch. It only needed to be reheated when we got back from church. But as you can see, I’m just now getting back.”

  She looked me up and down. “Our little Aaron doesn’t know what he’s getting into, does he?” she clucked.

  “He knows enough. By the way, where is he?”

  “Beats me. Neither Aaron was here for lunch.”

  Ever the worrier, I felt a twinge of panic. Perhaps Aaron Senior had suffered a heart attack out there on the road by himself. Perhaps at that very moment my Aaron was sitting outside the intensive care unit of Bedford Hospital, blaming it all on me.

  “You mean they didn’t make it back from church?”

  “Oh, they made it back all right,” she snapped. “Popped in just for a second, though. Just long enough to say that they were skipping lunch because they had a lot to talk about. Imagine that!”

  “Actually, I can.”

  I tottered past her and through to the dining ro
om. It was deserted. Good Mennonites refrain from quilting on Sundays. Undoubtedly the rest of the Beeftrust were upstairs in their rooms, reading or napping. Whichever it was, they had their privacy, because the uncles—to a man—were sawing wood in the parlor. The faith of my fathers lived on still.

  I should have been ravenous, but all I could think of was a long, hot bath. By the time I was through soaking I had probably absorbed enough water through my skin to fill me up. At any rate, as soon as I was dressed I called telephone information.

  “For what city, please.”

  “Sarasota, Florida.” It was a wild guess. For reasons I know not, Mennonites, and some Amish, are particularly fond of Sarasota.

  “Go ahead, please.”

  “Yes, I’d like the number of a Jonas Weaver.”

  There was a long pause. “Do you have a middle initial, ma’am? I show six listings by that name.”

  I took down all six numbers and began with the first given me.

  “Weavoh wesidence.” The speaker couldn’t have been more than three years old. “Jonas Weavoh speaking.”

  “Hello. Is your mommy home?”

  “No, Mama died Fwiday night. Didn’t they tell you that at chuch?”

  “No, they didn’t. I’m sorry.”

  “Why be sowee? She lived to see huh hundwedth buthday, didn’t she?”

  “She did? Say, the Jonas Weaver I’m looking for is originally from Hernia, Pennsylvania, and—”

  “I’m not that Jonas,” the pipsqueak squeaked. “Ahm fwum Geoge-uh!”

  The second Jonas hailed from Intercourse, Pennsylvania. Did I want to know how the town got its name, he asked? I did not!

  Not only was the third time the charm, but the man on the other end of the line was quite charming. “Guilty,” he purred in response to my Hernia question.

  “This isn’t a trial, Mr. Weaver. It’s just that I have something very important to tell you.”

  “Tell me, then, and please don’t leave out a word. I could listen to you talk for hours.”

  Something wasn’t right. So, to put it in terms my Aaron understands, I decided on a lateral pass to the left.

  “Did I say the Jonas Weaver I’m looking for is from Hernia? How silly of me. The one I’m looking for lived in Hernia briefly, but he’s really from Truss, Pennsylvania.”