by Tamar Myers
After Wanda graduated from high school, her uncle moved to another state, and I am told that he eventually married a much younger woman, or a series of much younger women. It didn’t matter to me. What mattered was that Wanda stayed behind in Hernia, where she married Geezer Hemphopple, who stacked lumber at Weirton Woods over in Bedford. Three months after they were married another car struck Geezer’s car broadside, and he conveniently passed away at once, leaving Wanda a widow with a sizable insurance settlement. Overnight Wanda went from being nearly penniless to having enough money to open The Sausage Barn. In a very short time, the restaurant was a tremendous success. If living well is truly the best revenge, then Wanda certainly got revenge on everyone who snubbed her in high school, whether on account of her poor hygiene, or her rude behaviour.
As long as I’m being honest, then I have to admit that it wasn’t just timing or insurance money that got Wanda her measure of success. That gal really knew how to cater to changing American appetites: make it greasy, or make it sweet, just make individual servings large enough to feed a family of four. Wanda’s restaurant, The Sausage Barn, had a reputation for dishing up the best breakfasts in a fifty-mile radius. But then, after Wanda tried to kill us, right there in her restaurant, the place was closed down until further notice. With Wanda safely locked up in the state penitentiary for a minimum of ten years without parole, the fate of the empty building was a mocking reminder of how good we all had it.
At any rate, it came as quite a shock to find my would-be killer’s progeny perched on my doorstep. As for Hortense’s state of mind, I can only guess that the poor dear appeared to be shaking from nerves. Judging by her demeanour, I thought that she might turn and fly away at any second.
‘Don’t just stand there, Hortense,’ I said kindly, ‘unless you plan to chip in on our heating bill. It’s been so cold lately we’ve been getting sympathy cards from penguins.’
‘Really?’ she said.
I nodded vigorously, which isn’t the same as lying. ‘Although frankly their writing is so illegible, they may be writing anything. I do wish they’d learn to text.’
Hortense smiled wanly. ‘Miss Yoder, might I please have a few private minutes of your time?’
‘Certainly. Just remember to give them all back when you’re through.’
‘What?’
‘Never mind, dear. Step right into the parlour and I’ll close the door. My family knows not to disturb me in there – well, all except for Granny Yoder, and she’s dead. Granny almost never bothers anyone but me, and Police Chief Toy.’
‘Boogers,’ Granny said from within the parlour.
I waited long enough to see if Hortense would react to Granny’s less than melodious voice. She didn’t, so I ushered her into my cosy, warm parlour and directed her to sit on a hard, wooden chair with a seat that sloped forward. I intentionally designed this piece of furniture to be uncomfortable; guests should be doing chores, not lounging about on their backsides.
‘I’m sitting here,’ Granny said.
‘Then move,’ I said.
‘OK,’ Hortense said meekly. She headed to another chair, one which I’m proud to say was equally as uncomfortable.
‘I’m sitting here now,’ Granny chortled. Indeed, she was, for ghosts are capable of what I can only describe as time travel.
‘Make yourself like a statue and freeze,’ I said crossly.
Hortense did just that. More accurately, the young woman’s limbs were locked in mid-step, her elbows akimbo, reminding me of the Pompeii victims I’d seen pictured in National Geographic.
‘No, not you, dear,’ I said to my caller. ‘Please just sit anywhere.’
‘You better not pass gas,’ Granny growled when Hortense eventually did sit squarely on the old woman’s lap – well, in a manner of speaking, since ghosts don’t possess solid laps. It might be said that the two women occupied the same space at the same time. I fully realize that talk like this sounds far-fetched to some, but unless one has ever personally encountered an Apparition-American, one would be wise not to pass judgment.
‘Now dear,’ I said pleasantly, ‘normally I might offer my guests tea and biscuits, but given that your mother tried to murder me and my sweet young daughter, and that you are an uninvited visitor, all that I am prepared to serve are fried ice and doughnut holes.’
Hortense nodded nervously. ‘Fried ice and doughnut holes sound lovely.’
‘Boogers,’ Granny said. ‘This girl has the brains of a lamppost.’
Although I hate feeling guilty, it is one thing that I am rather good at. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I thought that you knew: fried ice and doughnut holes are nothing more than water and air.’
Hortense frowned. ‘Uh – I don’t get it.’
‘Never mind, dear,’ I said. ‘Please just tell me the nature of your visit.’
THREE
‘It’s about the restaurant, The Sausage Barn.’
‘Ah, the site of my near demise. I made it quite clear to your mother that giving me half ownership of the restaurant was not going to make me drop the charges of attempted murder against me and my daughter Alison. Besides, it is not in my purview to dismiss homicide charges. It’s not like she tried to snatch my purse, for goodness’ sake. Not that it would have made any difference, because she did manage to kill that bestselling author, Ramat Sreym. And then after I refused her bribe, your mother wrote me an excoriating letter from prison because I testified against her. Talk about chutzpah!’ Being married to a Jewish man, I pronounced it correctly, as if clearing my throat.
‘You pronounced it wrong,’ Granny said. ‘Pronounce the first two letters like in “church”.’
‘How would you know?’ I said.
‘Calm down, Magdalena,’ Granny said. ‘You’re making a scene.’
‘I will most certainly not calm down,’ I said.
Poor Hortense started to wilt before she’d even had a chance to state her business. Clearly, an audience with Magdalena Yoder and her unseen granny was no place for the faint-hearted. She fumbled inside her purse and eventually fished out a wrinkled piece of paper.
‘This is a notarized copy of a new deed which makes us co-owners of The Sausage Barn. And’ – she paused to suck air through her bottom teeth – ‘Mama gave you sixty percent ownership and me just forty percent.’
I studied the paper. ‘That’s quite true, dear, but what has that to do with the price of steel in China?’
‘What?’ Hortense said.
‘Boogers,’ Granny said.
‘It’s not boogers,’ I snapped in a most unchristian manner. ‘The saying used to be “tea”,’ I said in a gentler tone. ‘What I really meant to say is that I really don’t understand why we are having this conversation. That restaurant is history. It’s done. The Sausage Barn is kaput. Your mother – and I’ll give her that much credit – was a genius at selling sugar and grease to a willing public from a most unsanitary kitchen. Even the cockroaches died in her kitchen, and she never had to worry about rats in her storeroom – they texted each other to stay away.’
Hortense smiled wanly. ‘Yeah, Mama told the dishwasher to just rinse the dishes in hot water, and then wipe them down with a rag. No need to waste soap or electricity on running the machine or taking the time to actually handwash them. Do you want to know why all the plates were yellow?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t. But why is it that the Board of Health never shut her down? Never mind. Ask a silly question, you get a silly answer. Money talks, and that’s the way it’s always been.’
Hortense squirmed, causing Granny to make a face. ‘Miss Yoder, I came here today to ask for your help.’
At last, we were getting somewhere. ‘You mean like a handout?’
‘No, ma’am. I don’t want your charity.’
‘Good for you, girlie,’ Granny said.
‘Then a loan?’ I said. ‘That’s what banks are for.’
‘Miss Yoder, I want – I need to get the restaurant back
up and running again, because I need any income generated from it to help pay for my school expenses.’
‘School expenses?’ I said. ‘Are you taking college courses at night? It’s never too late to get an education, I always say.’
‘No, ma’am,’ Hortense said. ‘I’ll be a full-time freshman at Penn State. I start in just a week. I paid my tuition with the last of Mama’s savings. Everything that was left after her trial.’
I tried not to stare too hard. ‘No offense, dear, but aren’t you a little long in the tooth to be a regular college student? Say twenty-five, pushing thirty?’
For the first time her yellow lips spread into a cartoon smile. ‘That’s the same expression that Mama says about you: “long in the tooth”.’
I gasped. ‘Why I never! Your mama and I are the exact same age. Come to think of it, she’s six days older than I am.’
The yellow crescent morphed into a small ‘o’. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you, Miss Yoder. Anyway, I’m nineteen.’
‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘It’s probably just because you have such a sincere-looking face. Sincerity can often be confused with maturity.’
‘What do you mean?’
I gave her my slowest and wisest smile, hoping against hope that she didn’t read it as me being constipated. ‘At one time or another we are all fortune cookies without messages,’ I said.
Hortense tugged on her lower lip, getting its bright yellow colour on her fingers. ‘And what is that supposed to mean?’
‘It means that at other times, we are all wonton in search of soup,’ I said.
Hortense nodded, perhaps acknowledging my wisdom. Or perhaps she was dozing off. I clapped my hands loudly.
‘OK, dear,’ I said, ‘let’s get on with the show. That is to say, you may continue.’
‘Thank you, Miss Yoder. At Mama’s trial you said that you’d forgiven her, because Jesus told us to forgive each other like a bazillion times, and somewhere I heard that you and Mama even used to be childhood friends.’
Granny giggled as I jiggled pinkies in both ears, just to make sure that they were in working order. If not properly addressed, a stopped-up ear, like a blocked toilet, can lead to avoidable regret.
‘Did you read that on Facebook, dear?’ I said.
‘No, ma’am. Maybe I just got that impression from the fact that Mama used to talk about you all the time.’
‘I’m sure she did,’ I said. ‘But the truth is that even when we were little girls, your mother and I were enemies. Sadly, we stayed that way. I know that sounds wrong for a church deacon to speak of herself as having an enemy, but there it is.’
‘Oh, get over yourself,’ Granny said. ‘In my day there weren’t any women deacons.’
‘You know something, Miss Yoder,’ Hortense said, ‘when I came here, I was afraid of you because of all the things that Mama used to say – because she really did talk about you all the time – but you’re much nicer than I expected.’
I leaned in her direction. ‘What exactly did she say about me? Tell me the worst thing she ever said.’
Hortense scratched her receding chin. ‘Hmm. That you’re the Whore of Babylon?’
‘Why the rising inflection, dear? Are you unsure that she said that, or are you a secret Canadian?’
‘Huh?’
‘Never mind.’
‘Miss Yoder, please help me get the restaurant back up and running. I’m begging you to. You’re like the world’s smartest businesswoman. If you don’t want it to be a breakfast place anymore, you can turn it into an Amish style restaurant. They’re very trendy along the interstate highways now. Or maybe an organic vegetarian restaurant. Or even Chinese. Anything. But I have every confidence that if you set your brilliant mind to it, whatever it is will be a huge success.’
‘Get behind me, Satan!’ I cried.
Hortense unknowingly shrank into Granny’s open arms. ‘Huh?’
‘Never mind, dear,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I got a mite carried away. It’s just that flattery can lead to pride, which is a major sin.’
‘And she has a big enough head as it is,’ Granny said.
‘On the other hand,’ I said through gritted teeth, ‘I do enjoy a challenge. What would you say to a hybrid restaurant, the likes of which have never been seen in these parts before? In fact, I doubt that there has ever been a restaurant like one that I am about to propose in the history of the world.’
‘Hubris,’ Granny said. ‘I told your mother to name you that. I said it had a nice feminine sound.’
‘I think that a hybrid restaurant sounds exciting,’ Hortense said, sounding a tad unenthusiastic. ‘But like what?’
‘Well,’ I said, with slow, dramatic emphasis, ‘a fusion of Chinese and Amish cooking.’
Granny snorted. ‘Sounds disgusting. I’m about to lose my lunch just thinking about it.’
‘Hmm,’ Hortense said. ‘Hmm, well.’ Leave it to the young to be more diplomatic.
‘It’s all in the marketing,’ I said. ‘The same folks who bought pet rocks a generation ago, and then food for their pet rocks, will buy Amish-Chinese fusion.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Hortense said. ‘People actually bought pet rocks? Where did the rocks come from? Were they from mass breeders, you know, like pebble mills? Or from licensed Rock Hound shops?’
‘Ding-a-ling,’ Granny said.
‘You are joking,’ I said to Hortense. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘Miss Yoder, because I was an only child, and because Daddy was always drunk and lying in some gutter, Mama bought me lots of stuff that she didn’t need to. I not only had a pet rock, but a pet rock house that came with a pet rock rocking chair.
‘But about the restaurant, I really meant it when I said that I know that whatever you do with it will be a huge success. So Miss Yoder, again I’m begging you to help me. Will you?’
‘Oy vey,’ I said, having picked up that much Yiddish from my Jewish husband.
‘Pleeease.’ With that, tears the size of lollipops began rolling down her pallid cheeks.
‘Don’t you dare get me wet,’ Granny managed to hiss without a single ess. (Ghosts can do that, but human characters in literary fiction should not.)
‘But dear,’ I said, ‘I have a teenage daughter who can be a handful, a retired husband who’s finally so into being a father that he practically ignores me – OK, let it be said that Magdalena Yoder loves a good challenge.’
‘Sucker,’ Granny hissed. That time she was so sibilant that she sounded like a bag full of snakes.
‘Hallelujah!’ Hortense shouted, betraying her affiliation with a church less sedate than we Conservative Mennonites.
‘Now hold your horses, dear,’ I said. ‘There are going to be some ground rules. For starters, I am not a team player. I am good at delegating, for instance—’
‘She means bossy,’ Granny said.
‘Miss Yoder,’ Hortense said, sounding worried, ‘I’m sorry about my outburst a minute ago.’
‘Outburst, cloudburst, what does it matter? We’re on the same team now, dear.’ Ideas for implementing this innovative projective were firing off in my brain like a bag of perfectly heated popcorn.
‘I can’t tell you how relieved and happy that makes me, Miss Yoder.’ She paused to lick her yellow lips, and perhaps fluff her hypothetical feathers – or were they petals? ‘I’m just curious about one thing, and that is where are we going to find a qualified cook to add the Chinese element that we need?’
‘Problem solved, dear,’ I said.
‘You?’
‘Heavens no! I can’t even fry ice without burning it.’ I paused, giving her ample time to let her laugh at my little joke, but when she didn’t even crack a smile, I ploughed on.
‘However, I know a superb cook, who is an extremely hard worker. She isn’t Chinese, but she can read. That’s really all one needs to be able to do – read a recipe and then tweak it here and there as needed. You see, the recipes will need some fine-tuning to adjust for local
taste and which ingredients we can – or can’t – procure, but that is where the talent part of being a good cook comes in, and my gal has it in spades.’
Hortense frowned. ‘But where are we going to get the recipes? I don’t mind travelling around Pennsylvania, Miss Yoder, during my term breaks, but I don’t see myself going to China. Besides, I don’t have a passport.’
‘No need to go anywhere – other than cyberspace.’
‘I should go to Outer Space?’
‘Ding-a-ling,’ Granny said as she twirled a finger bone in tight circles next to the right side of her skull.
‘Maybe you should go to Outer Space,’ I snapped at Granny. ‘After all, you’re halfway there already.’
‘Miss Yoder,’ poor Hortense said, her face clouding over, ‘did I do something to offend you?’
‘Oh no, dear, not at all. Just wait until you get to be my age, then you’ll sound every bit as confused. What I meant to say is that one can download tons of recipes for Chinese food from the internet. When do you want me to get started?’
Hortense hopped spritely to her feet. ‘Immediately! Oh Miss Yoder, I can’t tell you how excited this makes me. Now I can show Mama that I’m not the birdbrain that she always said that I was. With your help I’m going to make Asian Sensations ten times more successful than The Sausage Barn ever was. Just you wait and see.’
‘Asian Sensations?’
‘Like I said, just you wait and see.’ With that the girl practically flew out of my parlour and the front door and beyond.
‘Whew,’ Granny said. ‘Now that she’s off my lap I can breathe again.’
‘Boogers,’ I said.
FOUR
News of an exotic restaurant coming to Hernia spread like influenza through a crowded church. Overall, our citizenry was happy to learn that the shuttered Sausage Barn was going to reincarnate as Asian Sensations. There were folks like my dear husband, a New Yorker, who rejoiced at the prospect of eating exotic fare, although he immediately expressed his doubts that the food would resemble anything like the ‘real’ Asian food he’d had the privilege of eating in the cosmopolitan city of his birth.