by Tamar Myers
While Ida panted, and Little Jacob splashed merrily in the remnants of his breakfast, Gabriel and I had a breakthrough conversation. I take that back. If I had been a castle door, and my husband a battering ram, then yes, one could rightly say that a breakthrough occurred. As it was, I capitulated. I did so because it was the course of least resistance, and I thought that it might offer me at least a temporary reprieve from my mother-in-law’s incessant hectoring.
‘You see,’ Gabe explained, ‘for the umpteenth time, the lyrics to “Puddin’ on the Ritz” are all about how what you wear can change how you feel. Trust me, I’ve travelled extensively and seen some grinding poverty. I’ve seen people living in shanties that are constructed from corrugated iron and even cardboard boxes, but to the best of their abilities, they keep their personal space – their bodies and their clothes – clean and neat.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘the Sisters of Perpetual Apathy might live in crowded conditions, but that’s by their own doing. And they have money. They don’t need “foonds”.’
‘I’m not finished making my case,’ Gabe said.
‘By all means, proceed,’ I said. I know, sarcasm does not become me. Perhaps if I had my tongue pierced like so many of the young people that I see today, I would be reminded not to let it wag unless it had good things to say.
To his credit, the Babester dove straight back into his spiel. ‘I believe that the common denominator among these women is depression. Not just sadness, or a case of “the blues”, but real clinical depression. Ma just happened to tap into their vulnerability on that score.’
‘What you’re saying is that she’s using them.’
Gabe flushed. ‘Uh – that’s a little harsh, isn’t it? Never mind, let’s concentrate on something positive. We can take a lesson from those song lyrics, and the slum-dwellers and dress up the Sisters of Perpetual Apathy. Have them “put on the Ritz”, so to speak. I bet that they’d have a whole new lease on life, and you might find yourself three presentable waitresses.’
Ida ceased to pant. ‘Vhat? No vay! Vee vill not change habits.’
‘Good habits, Ma, not bad habits.’
‘Nu, you vant dat I should look frumpy like dis one?’ Ida pointed at me.
‘Ma, this one is my wife!’
‘Yah? Mebbe.’
‘Gabe,’ I said, ‘I really don’t have time for this.’
To everyone’s astonishment, including his own, Gabe threw himself down on one knee and grabbed both of my hands in his. If it hadn’t been for his strong grip, I would have toppled over backward in my chair.
For her part, Ida squawked in indignation.
‘Da-dee down,’ Little Jacob chortled. ‘Da-dee down.’
‘Hon,’ the Babester said, ‘I’m picturing smartly tailored tuxedos – styled for women, of course, so that they don’t break any laws in Leviticus. Yeah, I know, a lot of people would interpret that verse as meaning that women should only wear dresses, and men should only wear pants. But the truth is, back in those days everyone wore robes and tunics, which are nothing more than dresses. Besides, pants are a heck of a lot more modest than skirts, because a man can’t pretend to drop change on the floor, and then sneak a peek on the pretext of picking it up.’
‘Harrumph,’ I said. ‘Jonathan Beiler tried that stunt in front of my locker in high school, but since I was wearing sturdy Christian underwear, he may as well have been looking up at a concrete wall.’
Gabe grinned. ‘Same impression I had on our wedding night. Anyway, these tuxedos will be trimmed in satin, with pearl buttons, and the ladies will be wearing black patent leather pumps.’
‘What about their hair?’ I said. ‘They’re not going to wear their brown burlap hoods, will they? You know, to cover up what’s left of their locks after being shorn with a big old hedge trimmer.’
Just when I’d almost been persuaded, Ida piped up. ‘Eet vasn’t a big old hedge treemers. Eet vas a leetle garden shears.’
Gabe squeezed my hands tighter. ‘Focus, Mags. Please. I promise. No hoods, just normal, easy to maintain hairstyles. Pick any three of Ma’s disciples whom you please. I’ll drive them into Pittsburgh, to a first-class beauty salon, and see that they get a total makeover. Hair, nails, the works. I’ll take them to a tailor and get them measured for their uniforms.
‘What I don’t know is if any of these ladies have ever worked in a restaurant or have ever had a job that involved serving the public. That might be something you might want to look for when you select your three – or however many that you want – trainees.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ I said.
The Babester lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Sweetheart, by hiring your waitresses from among Ma’s followers, you will be achieving three things: you will be getting Ma off your back, you will be calling off the pit bull named Ida Rosen, and you will be giving her one last reason to give you a pain in your tuchas.’
‘OK,’ I whispered. ‘But I’m doing it for shalom bah-yeet.’
‘Way to go,’ Gabe said proudly. ‘You remembered the Hebrew expression for “peace in the house”. I’ll tell Ma.’
He stood. ‘Ma, my wife will employ three of your women in Asian Sensations. But Magdalena will do the interviewing and the hiring, and have final say on their uniforms. Is that understood?’
‘Vhat is she,’ Ida mumbled, ‘a dictator?’
‘I heard that,’ I said.
‘You didn’t hear nothing,’ Ida said.
‘Ma,’ Gabe said sternly, ‘may I remind you that my wife can hear a rose petal land on a pool of water. So, I suggest that if you really want your ladies to work as waitresses, you start playing nice.’
‘Nice, nice,’ Little Jacob chanted. ‘Pway nice.’
Despite the extraordinarily keen hearing attributed to me by my Dearly Beloved, I could only imagine that I heard Ida’s dentures grinding in agitation. At the moment the ball was in my court; I could either swallow my pride, thereby pleasing my family, or else demand that the domineering, accent-switching mother-in-law from the Lake of Eternal Fire apologize and promise to toe the line – perhaps even to curtsy to me.
I forced my lips into what I hoped resembled a somewhat gracious smile. But without showing any teeth, I reminded myself. I’d recently read an article stating that the English are critical of the way we Americans insist on baring our fangs when we greet them. (Truly, the majority of us do not mean to eat them when we smile.) Since the English are the undisputed arbiters of good manners, I henceforth intended to mend my toothy ways, even if it did make me look constipated.
Having smiled correctly, I had to manually return my lips to speaking mode. ‘Ida, dear, I am delighted to welcome three of your most vivacious ladies to the wait staff of Asian Sensations. I am quite sure that they will be a wonderful, enthusiastic, and, of course, energetic, addition to our well-oiled team.’
‘Vhat?’ Ida turned back to her son. ‘You see? Dat vife of yours is crazy, I tell you. Zee Seesters vill not like zee oil, Gabeleh. Dey are not wrestlers; dey are noons.’
I try to be a good Christian, but that woman is like a burr under my saddle. ‘Me crazy? Gabe, your mother’s wheel is spinning, but her hamster is dead!’
‘Ladies, please,’ my husband begged, ‘leave me out of this. I love you both. Don’t force me to mediate your little squabbles.’
‘Und for zees I gave you life,’ Ida said.
‘And for this I gave you a healthy, happy, bouncing baby boy,’ I said, ‘one who will give you many grandchildren, both boys and girls.’
‘Oy gevalt,’ Ida said, throwing up her hands in submission. At least she set aside her accent for the third time. ‘OK, you have a deal. But that’s only because we Sisters of Perpetual Apathy really could use some outside income.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Gabe said. ‘I thought all your postulants had to sign over all their assets to the convent before they could officially be inducted into the – uh—’
‘Cult,’ I said.
‘I vas hoodvinked,’ Ida said. ‘Some of zee vomen still sink dat zee Sisters is yoost for having a good time.’
‘How many is some?’ I asked hopefully.
‘Mebbe most.’
My heart soared with gratitude (metaphorically, of course). That lasted just for a second, before my heart plummeted, weighed down by guilt and shame. Jews, and even Catholics, do not have the market cornered on guilt. Look the word ‘guilt’ up in any dictionary, and if ‘Mennonite’ is not listed as its first definition, I will eat a pair of my sturdy Christian underwear.
‘Well, if it’s any consolation,’ I said, ‘since this will be an upscale restaurant, unlike the former Sausage Barn, your ladies will be paid a fair hourly wage, plus they could receive some handsome tips. In fact, some celebrities have been known to go overboard and leave really extravagant tips.’
That’s when the Babester actually stepped up to the plate. ‘But that will only happen, Ma, if your ladies act like they’re “Puttin’ on the Ritz”. No more of those blank stares that you had them learn. Those expressions freak people out.’
‘Fweek, fweek,’ said little Jacob.
For the first time ever, Ida glared at her grandson. ‘Shtop dat!’
‘Ma,’ Gabe said plaintively, ‘he’s just having a good time.’
‘Yah? Is dat so?’ I have absolutely no imagination, but even then, I thought I observed wisps of steam emanating from Ida’s ears.
‘You know that you’re his favourite grandparent,’ I said. I grabbed her voluminous sleeve and tried to steer her from the room, before she could recall that both my parents were dead.
‘Yah?’
‘You bet your bippy, dear,’ I said. ‘Now let’s focus on the money that your ladies will soon be bringing in. Nice, green dollar bills.’
Ida smiled slowly. ‘So now mebbe I’m not sorry dat I tell zee man I vill not sell him zee convent.’
‘What man?’ Gabe said.
‘Frum big religious real estate company,’ Ida said. ‘Dey vant to make big tourist teem park, like zee Noah’s Ark in Kentucky, but much bigger. Dis von they call Armageddon. Vhat is Armageddon, son?’
‘Ma, it’s nothing you want to get involved with. Trust me.’
Ida’s head bobbled. ‘No matter, because vhen he asks if convent is inside Hernia, or outside, and I say “inside”, den he doesn’t vant. Gabeleh, mebbe if not for your Magdalene, den I make a lot of money.’
I released my mother-in-law’s shmatta. ‘Hold your horses, You Homespun Holiness! I wasn’t the only one who voted to incorporate the former Miller farm into Hernia proper. By the way, that could only have been done with the consent of the present owner, who did so when he realized that his precious Ma was going to turn a once productive Mennonite farm into a rest home for a tribe of dropout geriatric whackadoodles.’
‘Doo-dee, doo-dee, doo-dee, doo-dee.’
I’m sure that the majority of mental health professionals would have been appalled at the grownups’ behaviour that morning. I’m also positive that they would have been quite certain that Little Jacob had been profoundly affected by our bad behaviour, even though it was obvious that he was not in the least bit traumatized. Or was he? Perhaps only time would tell.
In the meantime, my revelation appeared to have stunned my querulous nemesis into silence. When she’d regained a modicum of composure, she shot daggers at her son, but not me, and then made a beeline for the back door. As for the Babester, he seemed strangely at peace. If pressed to hazard a guess, I would opine that my husband was relieved that his mother had finally been told of his betrayal. Of course, only a fool, or a psychiatrist, would dare wager that Gabe and his mother would let such a trifling thing as this come between them.
As for Little Jacob, almost immediately he started singing a new tune, and quite merrily as well. ‘Daddy doo-dee, Daddy doo-dee, Daddy-doo-dah!’ It had several more verses, all punctuated by giggles, but they all involved ‘doo-dee’, and were therefore not entirely spiritually uplifting.
Although Gabe has the patience of Job when it comes to his offspring, nevertheless, I didn’t want to push my luck that morning. To that end I scooped up my sweet son and strode from the room. My exit could not have been better timed, because as I left through the door that opens into our master bedroom suite, a storm blew into the kitchen from the outside.
SIX
There is just so long that one can ignore the sound of slamming cupboard doors and the crash of pots and pans upon our cast-iron stove and polished concrete floors. Finally, I had to return to the kitchen and face the discordant music, if only to halt the wear and tear on my implements and furnishings.
The ‘musician’, as I knew it would be, was my kinswoman Freni Hostetler. The dear woman is Amish, which means that she is considerably more conservative than I am. Freni wears a longish black skirt, navy blouses, black bibbed aprons, and white pleated bonnets with the strings hanging untied over her collarbones. Outdoors she dons a black bonnet. Freni and her husband, Mose, travel only by horse and buggy.
Both Freni and Mose Hostetler are more closely related by blood to me than I am to Bindi Stodgewiggle. Freni and I could share the same shadow, were I not tall and spindly and Freni short and squat – bear in mind I say that with a good deal of Christian love. But even if I was cut off at the knees (as some have threatened to do to me), or Freni was stretched on a rack, we still wouldn’t look alike, because Freni was my mother’s contemporary. However, despite the fact that Freni is twenty-six years my senior, I am her boss.
The reason that Freni is usually found in my kitchen is because she works as my cook. Although she is many years past the age when many women would retire, Freni and her husband live with their only son and his wife, because the Amish don’t believe in collecting Social Security. This poses a problem, because Freni can’t stand her daughter-in-law Barbara. All that aside, there was absolutely no reason for a seventy-six-year-old woman to be bashing pots and pans about as if she were trying to exterminate an invasion of rats.
‘What in tarnation is going on?’ I shouted above the din. For the record, by then the Babester must have fled from the premises entirely, for he was nowhere in sight.
Using both hands Freni raised a cast-iron skillet to shoulder level and slammed it down on our six-burner stove. The exertion required to do this left her momentarily breathless. It also set into motion her not insignificant, and quite unfettered breasts (her sect does not believe in wearing brassieres). Freni is constructed rather similarly to Mother Malaise, but unlike the latter, Freni does have a hint of a neck. Also, Freni’s mother was a Yoder, which means that she was cursed with the infamous Yoder ankles. That is to say, their circumference exceeded that of the aforementioned cast-iron skillet.
Having at last succeeded in getting my attention, Freni turned her fury on me. ‘You, Magdalena! You are the problem.’
‘Moi?’ I asked sweetly. Quite frankly, I was astonished at the level at which she was expressing her anger. Amish and Mennonites have the reputation as a gentle and peaceful people, who seldom raise their voices. We are human, of course, and we do reach our limits when our buttons are pushed just like people everywhere. However, by and large, we strive mightily to live by the wisdom found in that Beatles’ song ‘Let It Be’. Yes, I know, I am a country bumpkin, and a Conservative Mennonite woman who ought to have never heard of this song, but bear in mind, that I am married to a liberal Jewish man from New York. So, let it be.
‘What is this moi mean, Magdalena?’ Freni said. ‘You know that I do not speak this foreign language.’ Already I could feel her wrath turning – away from me and to the contents of the white enamel pot at the back of the stove. In order to reach it, Freni had to drag over a low wooden stool and mash her bodacious bosom into the cold burners of the stove. Of course, she could have asked for my help, but she would sooner have died, and had I offered assistance, she most probably would have stomped out of the kitchen and returned home. She might even have thr
eatened to quit working for me. No, she would have quit.
‘Freni, dear, I say “moi” all the time. You know what it means.’
‘So?’
‘Hmm. Since you’re already mad at me, I think I’ll press my luck. Have you suddenly decided to go “fancy”?’ Heaven forfend that any Amish person should dress in clothing other than that proscribed by the bishop or drive a buggy that didn’t conform to the community standard. To do so, was to become ‘fancy’, and could eventually lead to shunning for unrepentant church members.
Poor Freni recoiled, snapping her head back as far as her hint of a neck permitted. ‘Ach! What do you mean?’
‘Well, as soon as you took off your black travelling bonnet, I noticed that you have a ring of rose petals tucked inside each of the pleats of your white bonnet. What’s up with that?’
Freni whipped off her white bonnet and squawked with dismay. Then she muttered up a storm in Pennsylvania Dutch as she shook the white bonnet in all directions, but with the vigour one might shake a can of spray paint that needed a good mixing. Rose petals flew everywhere, drifting to my kitchen floor like giant pink snowflakes. By then my kinswoman was quite out of breath, so I pushed a sturdy chair under her enviably ample behind and bade her catch her breath. I also brought her a glass of cool, but not cold, water. I’d seen enough of Gabe’s movies to know that water was de rigueur in traumatic situations, but Freni waved away my proffering.
‘It must have been my granddaughter,’ she said at last. ‘The one I named after you. This is your fault, Magdalena.’
I was dumbstruck, but of course not for long. ‘And just how old is Little Magdalena?’
‘You know.’
‘How old?’
‘Six.’
‘Aha. Were you dozing off on the front porch after breakfast again this morning, Freni?’
‘So?’