Puddin' on the Blitz

by Tamar Myers

  The sheriff took two steps back so that he had enough room to view the corpse without having to bend at the waist, which was now virtually a physical impossibility. I could tell by Gabe’s bright red face, now framed by the door, that my beloved had been coerced into pushing the sheriff up my wickedly steep stairs. It was a wonder that the two of them had survived. How were the two of them to get down safely? More to the point, how was Gabe to get down safely?

  And where was Alison? Had she been left behind on the stairs, after being turned into a teenage pancake? As one can imagine, my mind, supposedly given to exaggeration, was reeling with tragic possibilities. At least I was no longer thinking of myself, which must prove to someone that I’m not all bad.

  ‘Hmm,’ I heard the sheriff say. ‘Aha! Yes, I see. It’s exactly like those twin cases over in Lancaster last year, and the year before down in Frostburg, Maryland.’

  ‘What is, Sheriff Stodgewiggle?’ Toy said. I could hear tension in his voice.

  ‘The type of poison. Of course, we’ll have to wait for the lab report to get back to the specifics on that to make it one hundred percent. Right now, I’d put it at ninety-nine percent probability.’

  ‘You’re that certain?’ Toy said incredulously.

  Instead of answering, Sheriff Stodgewiggle pivoted slowly in my direction. ‘Magdalena Yoder, you’re under arrest for the murder of Sarah Conway. You have the right to remain silent …’

  I didn’t need to listen to my Miranda Rights being read. I knew them by heart. Instead I stared in disbelief over the sheriff’s shoulder, at the man who had betrayed me.

  NINETEEN

  If I have the face of a horse, as I so often claim, then it’s possible that my entire head is sculpted from stone. Mama always said that I was hard-headed, and more than one teacher called me ‘dense’. Perhaps more than anything it was spite that motivated me to turn a deaf ear to Gabe’s insistence that we spare no expense and hire the best attorneys in Pennsylvania, even the nation. Or, it could have been hubris.

  As a mild-mannered Mennonite woman, one who was raised to be proud of her humility, I have found the sin of pride one of the hardest to conquer. I won’t elaborate on my other failings, lest I come across as a truly horrible person. Anyway, I’m not artistic, musical, or athletic, but I was born with a head for business and what some would call a ‘gift for gab’. That is to say, I have, upon a number of occasions, displayed a talent for talking myself out of some pretty sticky wickets. Therefore, I declined any sort of representation other than Yours Truly. After all, I had done nothing wrong.

  Judge Evelyn Stehly, who presided over my arraignment the day after my night in the pokey, shook her well-coiffed head when informed of my decision to defend myself. She shuffled papers for a minute before responding.

  ‘I usually don’t recommend that, Miss Yoder.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, Your Honour.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I will allow it.’ She then addressed the state prosecutor, Attorney Mike Avey. ‘What are the charges?’

  Mike Avey is known locally as ‘El Zappo’, because of the number of people he has managed to put on death row, where the electric chair is the means of execution. I will admit that Mr Avey is an exceedingly handsome man with piercing blue eyes. They might have sent a surge of electricity through me, menopause notwithstanding, had my life not been on the line.

  ‘Magdalena Portulacca Yoder is charged with murder in the first degree, in the death of Sarah Ruth Conway,’ Mike Avey, a.k.a. El Zappo, said.

  ‘How do you plea, Miss Yoder?’ Judge Evelyn Stehly said.

  ‘Not guilty, Your Honour.’

  ‘So noted. Your bail is set at one dollar.’

  The courtroom rocked with laughter. Surely the judge had been joking, they must have thought. Handsome Mike Avey just stood there with his mouth open, uncertain how to make sense of her statement. After allowing a moment of merry mayhem, Judge Stehly brought her gavel down on the podium with the rapidity of a manic woodpecker.

  ‘Order,’ she shouted. ‘Order, or I shall instruct my bailiff to clear the room.’

  Since not a soul wanted to miss what was to come, the room became so still that one could have heard frog flatulence fifty furlongs away, had the space been that large. I realize that this will sound like hubris again, but I already knew what the judge was going to say. Not only that, but why she was going to say it.

  ‘I will say this again just one more time. Bail for the defendant is set at one dollar.’

  The spectators gasped in unison as Mike Avey jumped to his feet. ‘Your Honour, this is outrageous! The defendant is a very wealthy woman, capable of flying anywhere at a moment’s notice. Rio, Tahiti, London, Amsterdam – you name it. She’s the very definition of a flight risk.’

  Judge Stehly brought her gavel down again. Twice. ‘Miss Yoder is also the Mayor of Hernia, Pennsylvania, as well as a deacon at Beechy Grove Mennonite Church. She was born and raised in Bedford County, unlike you, Mr Avey. Her roots here go back for over two hundred and fifty years, unlike yours, Mr Avey.’

  The crowd in the packed courtroom tittered in a controlled sort of way, and I could sense that they were supporting me. I smiled graciously, as was expected of someone whose standing in the community and lineage was known to even a magistrate in Bedford, population 26,732.

  ‘But you see,’ Judge Stehly said, raising her voice to make others lower theirs, ‘I am quite confident that Miss Yoder won’t fly, drive, or even run away, because she is as stubborn as a team of mules, and she has more pride than any peacock God ever created.’ She waited for the inevitable laughter to subside, which was well before my cheeks cooled.

  ‘Miss Yoder has a compulsive personality, with a need to always prove that she’s right,’ Judge Stehly continued. ‘You might ask me “how do you know this this?”.’ Well, I know this because we were best friends in middle school.’

  Then it was my turn to gasp. It has been said that with every breath of air we breathe, we inhale at least one molecule of every person who has ever lived in the past, going back many centuries. I’m not sure if I believe that, but if it’s true, then I inhaled molecules of Jezebel, Nero, and Attila the Hun. On the other hand, my overactive imagination may have been stimulated by what Mr Mike Avey had ingested for breakfast that morning.

  I popped to my boat-size feet. ‘Is that really you, Bug Eyes?’ I inquired of the judge.

  ‘Yes, it is, Horse Face. Now sit down, before I hold you in contempt of court. Magdalena, I got contact lenses in high school, but that was after we moved to Bedford, so you wouldn’t have known. By the way, I must say, you have outgrown your horse face. You are quite a stunning woman.’

  ‘Your Honour, I most strenuously object. This courtroom banter between the bench and the accused is unethical to say the least.’

  ‘Objection noted,’ said Judge Stehly. ‘In that case Magdalena and I will have to visit on our own time. Court dismissed.’ She gave the podium two more whacks with the gavel and I was free to go.

  The courtroom erupted in cheers, whoops and hollers. At least two people whinnied, but I took their teasing in good stride. One of the horse-imitators was Alison, and the other just had to be Judge Evelyn Stehly, a.k.a. Bug Eyes. The judge did it while exiting the courtroom, and from the relative obscurity of her robes. There might have been a third person, but hey, all’s well that ends well, as some English guy once said, and the morning had ended very well for me indeed.

  My mood was so expansive that I forgave Gabe and Alison repeatedly on the way home, although it wasn’t easy. Jesus said in Matthew 18:22 that we are supposed to forgive those who wrong us seventy times seven. Pastor Diffledorf, who’s been to seminary, said once that this was an ancient expression which really meant ‘boundless’. But even if Jesus had said we should forgive only a million times instead of boundless, it’s not easy to forgive someone whose loose lips got you sent to the pokey, no matter how short one’s stay.

  For me, what is even harder tha
n forgiving is forgetting. I realize that it’s not Christian of me, but I can hold a grudge like linen holds an ink stain. When I heard that it was Gabe who had cracked first, and spilled the so-called, incriminating ‘beans’ to Sheriff Stodgewiggle, I was dismayed, but somehow not surprised. Alison spent her early years fending for herself, and thus grew up with a modicum of what some folks call ‘street smarts’. Gabriel grew up with two overly indulgent parents, and at no single point in time wants to be disliked by anyone in the room. In other words, as soon as the sheriff started to lean on him, so to speak, my devoted husband caved. Instead of obfuscating, or clamming up, like a loyal husband should have, Gabe blabbed in order to keep himself in the sheriff’s good graces. No doubt once the big nut had been cracked, it was easy for Sheriff Stodgewiggle to pulverize Alison with threats against her parents.

  The one person whom I most wanted to see since being arrested did not show up for my arraignment, and thus was not with us after I’d been released on bail. When I didn’t see him waiting for me in the hallway outside the courtroom, my blood began to simmer. I’ll just wait, I told myself, and see how long it takes Gabe to tell me where the little guy is.

  Allow me to say this. Had I been a hybrid – part Magdalena, part radiator – my blood would have boiled to the extent that the safety vent on my radiator cap would have popped open, my eardrums would have burst, and steam would have billowed out of my ears, nose and mouth, before the intuitive Alison piped up.

  ‘Look at it this way, Mom, at least Dad made Grandma take Little Jacob across the road over ta her fake convent. That means she can’t be snooping through your drawers or nothing or trying on your sturdy Christian underwear. Anyways, Grandma had herself a baby boy, so it ain’t like it’s something new ta her.’

  ‘That’s true,’ I said, ‘but just look at how your dad turned out!’

  ‘Hey, I resent that,’ Gabe said.

  Ever the peacemaker, Alison ploughed on. ‘Besides, ain’t they always saying on TV that it takes a village ta raise a baby? Well, that’s what they is over there, a whole village full of nuns, even if they is all fakes.’

  ‘They’re not only fakes, dear,’ I said, ‘but their creed is that they are apathetic about everything. That means that they don’t care. If they don’t care about anything, why would they care about changing Little Jacob’s diaper?’

  ‘Mom, that ain’t no problem! Grandma said she weren’t gonna change no poopy diaper, so she was gonna let him run free like God intended in the first place. See? Ya don’t have ta worry.’

  ‘Land o’ Goshen!’ I cried, clutching my chest. ‘That woman is driving me to an early grave. As Mayor of this town – and yes, that fake convent lies just inside the village limits – I am going to shut that place down. But first I am going to retrieve my precious bundle of joy, my late-life gift from God when once I was as barren as the Gobi Desert, from the clutches of that heathen mad woman and her lunatic followers.’

  TWENTY

  The Babester, the second most important male in my life, was a bit upset with me. He pushed the pedal to the metal, as the saying goes, until we screeched to a stop in the middle of Hertzler Road, in front of the drive that led to the convent which was, conveniently for him, directly across from The PennDutch Inn.

  ‘Get out!’ he said.

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ I said.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘If you want to act like a spoiled little boy instead of a mature man, then at least do it after I’ve retrieved our son.’

  ‘Fine!’

  He stomped on the gas pedal and made such a sharp left turn that he left parallel tyre marks in black arcs. But when we stopped, even though he got out of the car, he refused to go in with Alison and me. Instead he thrust the car keys at me.

  ‘Here, take them. I’m walking home.’

  ‘Why?’ Alison said.

  ‘I’ve got packing to do,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ I said, in disbelief. ‘Where are you going?’

  He shrugged dramatically. ‘I don’t know. Maybe fishing.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Gabe,’ I said. ‘You don’t fish.’

  ‘How do you know? Maybe I used to fish before I came to Pine Valley.’

  ‘This isn’t Pine Valley,’ Alison said. ‘This Hernia, Pennsylvania. Dad-Daddy – if you go somewhere, then you aren’t going alone. I forbid it!’

  ‘Honey,’ he said, ‘I appreciate the sentiment, but I think that your mother and I need a little space right now.’

  ‘Fine then,’ she said, as she grabbed his hand. ‘You can sleep in my bedroom upstairs, and I’ll sleep downstairs with Mother.’

  ‘No honey,’ Gabe said tenderly. ‘I need to get a little farther than upstairs. You stay here and take care of your mother and little brother, but you may call me anytime you need me. Or anytime you want to.’ Then my husband looked at me with narrowed eyes. ‘And you, Magdalena, if you need anything, you can reach me through Ma. Or through your precious boy, Toy.’

  Even the words of a childish husband can sting like a swarm of bees, or a field of nettles. I’d eat my hat without ketchup before I went through the heathen huckster he called ‘Ma’, if I needed anything. And I’m not so naïve that I missed his double entendre when referencing our Chief of Police as ‘boy, Toy’.

  Although the Devil immediately supplied me with a quiver full of nasty rejoinders, even worse than the one that had just punctured my thin skin, I opted not to use them. It would only hurt Alison if Gabe and I continued to fight. But neither would I apologize to the man who had fathered my child. I had merely spoken the truth: his mother was a lunatic heathen.

  I mean, one can’t just make up their own religion, co-opt another faith’s religious dress and terminology, and then recruit your adherents from among the emotionally-challenged segment of society. At least not here in White, Anglo-Saxon America where everything is supposed to be picture-book normal – Amish horses and buggies, and eighteenth-century clothing aside.

  So Dr Gabriel Rosen walked back to The PennDutch Inn, leaving a weeping Alison and me behind. As I didn’t want to leave Alison alone for a minute, nor did I want to run into ‘Ma’, I gently suggested that my daughter be the one to go in and retrieve her little brother. I reasoned that she would be focused enough on her errand to be temporarily distracted, and she surely would not be alone, once she stepped inside the massive oak doors just beyond the gates.

  It is a myth that Jewish and Catholic mothers have the monopoly on feeling guilty. The truth is that Mennonite mothers have the market cornered on this emotion, but since we are far outnumbered by either of those two religions, and we Mennonites are too humble to brag about our spiritual defects, how is the general public to know? So there you have it, we poor Mennonite mothers just limp along, the most guilt-ridden mothers on the planet, and without a shred of well-deserved notoriety. What a crying shame!

  This is to say that of course I felt terrible about sending Alison into a den of heathens alone. But I didn’t even have time to wallow in my guilt before Alison came streaking out, with my baby bouncing on her hip.

  ‘Boil my eyes!’ she screamed. ‘Boil my eyes!’

  I grabbed my naked progeny and buckled him into his car seat before attempting to have a conversation with my hysterical teenager. Like her mother, she can be given to hyperbole at times. Even so, a good mother owes it to her child to be informative.

  ‘Alison, dear, if I were to boil your eyes, I would have to scoop them out first with the gadget that we use on melons to scoop out fancy little melon balls, which in itself would be terribly painful. Or else I’d have to hold your head under water and scoop them out with a teaspoon, and you know how much you hate getting water up your nose.’

  By that time my dear daughter was laughing and thinking of other grotesque ways how she might remove her eyes before boiling them. ‘Ba-ya ma ah-ees,’ Little Jacob chanted, clapping his chubby hands. ‘Ba-ya ma ah-ees.’

  Thus far we were still in the parki
ng lot in front of the convent, because I was loath to drive the several hundred metres it took to get us home. Just as long as I didn’t cross Hertzler Road, and drive up to my inn, it was theoretically possible that the Babester was still there. Perhaps he was back in the sitting area of our master bedroom, ensconced in his leather reclining chair, watching a ball game. On the other hand, putting off the inevitable sometimes just compounds the problem, so I put the car into gear and turned toward home.

  ‘Tell me, Alison,’ I said, as I inched the car back down the drive, ‘what did you see that was so awful?’

  ‘What I seen was that all them pretend nuns was naked, every last one of them. Even Grandma Ida. The only people wearing clothes were them two men nuns – ya know – them uncles of your friend, Agnes.’

  ‘Now that’s a switch. Her uncles are long time nudists.’

  ‘Yeah? Anyway, remember the other day when I burst in on ya taking a shower?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes.’

  ‘Ya ain’t gonna believe this, Mom, but them ladies is saggier and wrinklier than you. Every last one of them!’

  ‘Is that a fact?’

  ‘Yeah. They was like elephants, with everything flapping and swinging in the breeze. Mom, I ain’t never gonna grow old, and I ain’t never gonna join no convent that has nudist days.’

  Alison was sitting in the front passenger seat, so I reached over and patted her arm. ‘First, count yourself fortunate if you do get to grow old. Second, if you do, you won’t have to worry that you’ll outlive your finances. And lastly, whether or not you join a convent is up to you. Now let’s go home, shall we?’

  ‘Uh – stop!’ Alison ordered in a shockingly adult voice. We had just reached Hertzler Road. Straight across it was our more modest driveway leading to a circular parking area, with the inn on the right, and the barn and corrals on the left.

  ‘What do you mean “stop”?’ I said.

  ‘There’s one more thing that you should know; it’s something that Daddy was afraid to tell you.’