by Tamar Myers
“Thank you, dear,” I said, dropping the fake accent, which is frankly a lot of trouble. “Now come on inside, before every fly in Hernia does the same.”
The elderly pears moved in tandem, as if joined at the hip. But even though my front door is six inches wider than the standard, they could not enter as a pair. They laughed as they tried to squeeze their respective bulks simultaneously through that generous frame. I, on the other hand, was genuinely concerned. What if they got stuck? I wasn’t about to take a crowbar to my brand-new doorjamb. They would have to remain stuck until one or both lost enough weight to make a difference. If Winnie the Pooh could do it, so could they.
“Why not let go of each other and come through one at a time like normal human beings?” I asked sensibly.
“Today’s our golden wedding anniversary,” Jimmy said.
I must have showed them the whites of my peepers.
“It’s bad luck to cross a threshold separately,” Doris screeched. “Jimmy would carry me over like he did when we got back from our honeymoon, but he has a hernia.”
“I wonder why,” I muttered.
“He was helping a neighbor stack stones.” At least that’s what I think she said, before her voice went soaring off the register. She might have said “hack bones.”
Jimmy grinned. “Doc says I shouldn’t do any lifting for a while. We figured an embrace was almost as good as my carrying her. Although as you can see, we’ve been having a little trouble.”
“Then just hold hands,” I snapped. “That’s what the flies are doing.”
Of course, they ignored me. But after a few more minutes of groaning and jostling—during which flies from as far away as Pittsburgh showed up—they discovered it was possible to squeeze their tubby bodies through the door if they moved sideways. Since I wasn’t about to let Philadelphia flies in as well, I volunteered to get their luggage.
“Ooh, this is charming,” Doris squeaked, as I struggled in with an overstuffed American Tourister.
“Just perfect for a second honeymoon, isn’t it, love bug?” Jimmy was, of course, talking to his wife.
Doris giggled, and her eyes all but disappeared.
“Do you have heart-shaped beds?” Jimmy asked. “Vibrating ones?” Doris giggled again.
“This isn’t Sodom and Gomorrah,” I hissed. “You’re going to have to try the Poconos for that.”
Jimmy shamelessly kissed his wife on the lips. “A king-size bed will do just fine, won’t it, sugarplum?”
I shuddered. “You break it, you buy it.”
“Been there, done that,” he said gaily.
It was time to lay down the law. “I’ll have no disturbing the other guests—myself included. And no unseemly displays of affection now that you’re inside.” They nodded, giggled, and smooched again. I was going to have to reinstate a screening process. Clearly there was such a thing as being too happily married. And at their age, yet!
Thank heavens the couple from Minnesota were pleasantly sedate, like proper senior citizens. Although they both insisted on shaking hands, they did so quickly, and their palms were dry. They even carried in their own luggage. What’s more, they were one of the most attractive couples I’d seen in years. Sure, they had gray hair and a few wrinkles—they were in their sixties, after all—but they were the kind of couple you might expect to see in a Geritol commercial.
“What a beautiful state Pennsylvania is,” Scott Montgomery said with just a hint of Scandinavian lilt.
“Thank you. I’m sure Minnesota is beautiful too.”
“And this really is a charming inn.”
I beamed. “Thank you again.”
“Here, we brought you a present.” Dixie Montgomery reached into an oversized stitched leather handbag and withdrew a beautifully wrapped present.
I kept my hands to my sides. “Oh, my, you shouldn’t have.”
Dixie smiled down at me. At six-foot plus, she was even taller than I. She also had much whiter teeth.
“It’s just a little something to bring the flavor of Minnesota to you.”
“I mean, you really shouldn’t have.” The last time a guest gifted me, she tried to stiff me as well. The seven- carat “diamond” ring that harlot starlet gave me may very well have once been the bottom of a coke bottle. Fool that I was, I told her she could owe me the money for her bodacious bill. Of course, I never saw a penny of it. Since then I’ve been wary of Greeks bearing gifts. Minnesotans too.
“Go ahead, take it,” Scott directed. He was tall, broad shouldered, and the picture of mature health. To resist a directive from him would be contrary to nature—well, mine at least.
I took the present reluctantly. “You’re still paying in full, you know.”
Scott’s teeth were as white as his wife’s. “Of course. Now open it.”
I shook it. Nothing rattled. Nothing yelped. They were both good signs.
“Bet you can’t guess what it is.”
“Yes, make her guess,” Dixie said.
I sighed. I hadn’t the foggiest idea, and I hate guessing games. Aaron tried to make me play one on our wedding night, and I was nearly traumatized for life. Who knew that something so little...
“A tin of SPAM® luncheon meat,” I said off the top of my head.
Their handsome faces fell. “How did you know?”
“I didn’t—you mean it is?”
Noble heads nodded.
I ripped off the silk bow, and the heavy, embossed paper. “It is SPAM®!”
Dixie looked particularly crestfallen. “You’ve had it before?”
“When I was a child. I love the stuff, but I haven’t eaten it in years. Thank you very much.”
“We’re particularly fond of it in Minnesota,” Scott said. “There must be ten thousand ways to fix it. Go ahead, Dixie, tell her some of our favorites.”
“That’s ten thousand lakes, dear,” Dixie said gently. “There are a million ways to fix SPAM®.”
I was still wary. “I’m sure there are dear, but do you always give tins of food to your hotel hostess?”
Dixie blushed. “Well, you see, Scott is on a low-fat diet, and this is SPAM® Lite.”
“So?”
“So, I heard that Amish and Mennonite cooking is— uh—how should I say this—uh—”
“Spit it out, dear.”
“Heavy.”
She had heard right. We are a people of the soil, farmers by tradition, and have developed the highly caloric cuisine needed to fuel intense physical labor.
“You could have asked for a low-fat diet,” I snapped. “You didn’t need to beat around the bush.” Although frankly, as long as Freni wielded the ladle, they would be lucky to get the occasional overcooked vegetable.
“Sorry about this,” Scott said. “It was my idea.”
“I’ll give this to the cook, dears,” I said graciously. It was time to move on. “Say, there’s another guest staying here who hails from the land of ten thousand lakes. Maybe you know him.”
Yeah, right—like I know everyone in Pennsylvania. Still, it was possible for two acquaintances to meet unexpectedly in another state, especially if they were both from Minnesota. I mean, with that much water, how many people could there be?
“Oh?” Apparently, Scott Montgomery didn’t think it was such a silly comment.
“His name is John Burk. He’s from a little town in western Minnesota on the Canadian border called New Bedford.”
Scott shook his head.
“About your age, a bit taller than me, and almost bald?”
“I mean I’ve never heard of the town. I’m from Noyes, and you can’t get any closer to the Canadian border than that.”
“Well, that’s what he said. I remember, because we have a Bedford in Pennsylvania. In fact, you probably saw the signs for it on the turnpike.”
“We did,” Doris said. She yawned, and then quite unexpectedly stretched. Her fingers almost touched my nine-foot ceilings. “Excuse me. We had to get up real early t
o catch our flight. Is the room made up now?”
“Indeed it is. But your group leader—I mean, Bob Hart—did explain that you will be on the A.L.P.O. plan, didn’t he?”
Two gorgeous sets of teeth presented themselves for my inspection. “He did indeed,” Scott said. “Dixie and I think it will be fun.”
“Loads,” Dixie said, and yawned again.
I thanked them again for the SPAM® Lite.
I would have opened the SPAM® Lite right there in the lobby, sliced off a piece with my letter opener, and had myself a nice midmorning snack had not the frost been on the pumpkin—well, in a manner of speaking. Allow me to explain.
You see, I have a pumpkin-shaped doormat that was a Christmas present from Susannah. I don’t do kitsch, and I would have thrown the pumpkin rug out, along with the ceramic geese with the bows tied around their necks, had they not been the very first Christmas presents my sister ever gave me. And also the last. At any rate, I was just fitting that cute little key over the metal tab when I heard a loud thump against the front door and felt the ground shake. Having just recently survived a tornado, and in the not-too-distant past a fiery outhouse, an earthquake seemed like the next logical calamity. It was getting to be more than I could bear.
“Oh Lord, take me now!” I begged.
Alas, no welcoming angel appeared, but a second thud rattled the panes in the lobby window.
“Not the other place,” I wailed. “Yes, I stole Granny Yoder’s scented soap, but it was just a sliver, and I was five years old. And what happened that time I sat on the washing machine during spin cycle was purely an accident. But I’m sorry for both of these things!”
The building shuddered and shimmied a third time, causing the coach-style lamp above my head to swing like a metronome.
“I said I was sorry! I’ll donate a dozen bars of lavender soap to the Mennonite Home for the Aged. I can’t get rid of my washing machine, Lord, but I’ll throw away most of my vacuum attachments.”
Mercifully my prayer was answered. The inn settled back on its foundation and all was well with the world. I breathed a quick prayer of thanksgiving.
But before I could even say amen I heard a distinct moan coming from the front porch. No doubt it was the devil himself come to get me.
“All right, you can have the washing machine!” I wailed.
There was one final thud. “Oh, shoot!” my supernatural visitor said.
I cocked my head. The devil I learned about in church, and the one I taught about in Sunday school, was most likely to use stronger language.
“Who’s there?” I called.
“It’s me, Marjorie Frost.”
First I locked the door, and then I peered timorously through the peephole. It looked like the cargo hold of an airplane had dropped its load of baggage on my walk and porch, but I didn’t see any living creatures. Certainly, not the Prince of Darkness.
I unlocked the door, and using my shoulder as a defensive brace, cautiously opened it a few inches. That’s when I saw Marjorie Frost, sprawled across the pumpkin rug, like a newborn colt who had yet to find its legs.
She looked up at me, grinned foolishly, and got awkwardly to her feet. “Sorry about that. I’ve always been a klutz. My husband says I’d be better off with just one leg—then I wouldn’t accidentally trip myself.” She held out a hand. “My name’s Marjorie Frost.”
“Just a minute, dear.” I looked up at the sky, where one wispy cloud was floating overhead. “This wasn’t an earthquake, so what I said before doesn’t count! But just so you know I meant what I said, I’ll look for soap on sale in Wednesday’s paper.”
“Is there someone on the roof?” Marjorie had a pleasant, eager-sounding voice.
“In a matter of speaking. I’m Magdalena Yoder, but if it’s all the same to you, dear, I’d rather not shake hands. It’s the most effective way there is to pass colds along, you know.”
She looked confused, but thankfully did not insist on pressing the flesh.
“If you’re looking to book a room, dear, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. We’re full up.”
“Oh, but I’m sure we have reservations. We’re here for the reunion of World War II tank drivers.”
I examined her more closely. She was of only medium height, but big boned, and with long legs. She reminded me of a foal I’d seen just the day before. Both had chestnut brown hair, but Marjorie’s was shoulder length, and her hazel eyes peered earnestly out from a face as soft and smooth as gardenia petals. Despite what she had just said, the girl couldn’t have been a day over eighteen. I had bunions older than she.
“Then you must be the Frosts’ granddaughter. They’re the last couple to show up, but nothing was said to me about you. I’m afraid you’re going to have to bunk with them on a cot, and/or find a room in town. And by that, I mean Bedford. Back up by the turnpike.”
Marjorie bit her lower lip. “I was afraid this was going to happen. I told Frank—well, never mind. The truth is, Miss Yoder, I’m not Frank’s granddaughter; I’m his wife.”
“Get out of town! How old is your husband?”
She winced. “Seventy-six, but he’s in very good shape.”
“How old are you, dear?”
“Thirty-two.”
“In a pig’s eye,” I said kindly.
She glanced down and studied Susannah’s pumpkin. “Okay, so I’m twenty-four. But I’m mature for my age, and Frank has always been young at heart.”
“Is he rich?”
Her head jerked up. “I beg your pardon?”
“Of course he is. What a silly question for me to ask.”
“Miss Yoder—”
I held up a quieting hand. “I have yet to see a girl your age attached to a poor man in his dotage.”
She gasped. “Frank is hardly in his dotage!”
“Don’t feel embarrassed, dear, I’ve seen it a hundred times. It happens the other way around, too. You may not read about it much in the papers, but take it from me, Cher has had her share of boy-toys.” I smiled brightly and waved at the jumble of suitcases. “Are all these yours?”
“Oh, yes. Well, there’s a few more small things in the car. But we won’t need them until later.”
I scanned the small parking lot. There was my red BMW, and three other cars. Since neither Susannah nor Freni drives a car, that left one vehicle unaccounted for—presuming the couple hadn’t been so foolish as to hire a cab to bring them out from Pittsburgh.
“Where is your car, dear?”
She colored. “Uh—er—we forgot something. Frank had to run back into town.”
“To a pharmacy?”
Her color deepened.
“Just remember, you break it, you pay for it, dear.” I’ve had two bedsteads broken by amorous couples, and one downed chandelier.
She studied the pumpkin again.
“Well, come on in, dear,” I said. “If we stand out here any longer you’ll turn twenty-five.” I chuckled pleasantly.
“Is there a bellhop?” she asked tentatively.
While I might be willing to schlep a few bags up my impossibly steep stairs, I was not about to move a mountain of baggage—no, make that a mountain range of luggage. It may have been just the shadow of the passing cloud, but I’m positive I saw a Sherpa wearing an oxygen tank disappear over the rim of one of the higher piles. I mean, why should I risk my back when the co-owner of all these suitcases was younger than my hairnet?
“You get to be the bellhop,” I said cheerily, “and it will only cost you fifty dollars extra.”
The hazel eyes blinked.
“Oh, don’t worry, I’m sure Daddy Warbucks will pay for everything.”
Okay, so that was mean of me. I had no reason to pick on her, other than jealousy. Would that I had married a rich man when I was young and of breeding age!
Just so you know, I paid mightily for my callousness. The nicks and scratches on my floor, doors, and walls cost hundreds of dollars to repair. A troop of chimpanzees could
have done a better job of schlepping bags upstairs, and at least they wouldn’t have gotten lipstick on the stairs carpet.
“Ach!” Freni clapped her hands together. “This SPAM® Lite luncheon meat is wonderful! Are you sure the English invented it?”
To Freni, anyone not currently of the faith—and sometimes, depending on her mood, that includes me—is “English.” It doesn’t matter if you were born in an igloo, or happen to be a tribal chieftain in Botswana. If you’re not a practicing Amish person, you’re “English.” I only barely qualify as “non-English” because I have four hundred years of Amish and Amish-Mennonite forbears, and am still a practicing Mennonite. But even in Freni’s eyes, I’m definitely fancy. I drive a car, after all, use electricity, and once during a shameful period of rebellion wore clear lipstick.
“Yeah, I’m sure that SPAM® Lite is an English invention. But hey, Freni, thanks for coming in today. I really appreciate it, what with a full house and Susannah getting married on top of it all.”
Freni’s dark eyes blinked behind her thick lenses. “Susannah is getting married?”
“Didn’t she tell you?”
Freni shook her head. “Who to this time?”
Despite the fact that my sister has threatened marriage on numerous occasions, she has actually been married only once. The man was a Presbyterian, which is just about as “fancy” and “English” as you can get around here. Predictably, the marriage ended in divorce—not because of the Presbyterian’s progressive ways, but because Susannah was too fancy for him. At any rate, divorce is not an option to the Amish, and as for remarriage—well, Susannah might as well apply to have her name legally changed to the Whore of Babylon.
I looked away from Freni. “She’s marrying Melvin Stoltzfus.”
“Ach!” Freni threw herself on to the nearest kitchen chair. “Elvina’s son?”
“I’m afraid that’s the one.”
“Does Elvina know this?” Although no longer Amish, but a mere Mennonite, Elvina is Freni’s best friend. They grew up together—“shared the same cradle,” so they claim.
I nodded, still not daring to look.
“When is this so-called wedding?”
“Wednesday morning at ten.”
“Where?”