by Tamar Myers
My heart pounded. ‘Afraid? Why would Daddy be afraid to tell me?’ I’d tried to sound upbeat, but it’s hard to do when one’s voice is quavering.
‘Because ya get too hysterical sometimes, Mom. Ya know that.’
‘I do?’
‘Yeah. Like just then your voice went so high that it cracked, and ya was saying only two words.’
‘All right. I get the point. So give me his message already.’
‘Strictly speaking it ain’t a message. It’s more of an update, I guess ya’d call it. Sheriff Stromboli, or Stoogewillow, or whatever his name is, didn’t want that creepy old man ta leave town for a while – least not until after your raining-mint, so Daddy said that the old geezer could keep on staying at the inn.’
‘Slap me up the side of the head and butter my bread on both sides!’ Yes, I am fully aware that is a hybrid oath, but it was either that, or sit there and be speechless. Magdalena Portulacca Yoder is seldom rendered mute.
Alison giggled. ‘Mom, if your bread was buttered on both sides, and ya dropped it on the floor, then ya’d have a hundred percent chance of it falling face down.’
I grinned. ‘True. But in the olden days, if you could afford to butter your bread on both sides, it meant that you were rich.’
‘Yeah, I can see that,’ Alison said. ‘But who would want to get slapped up the side of the head?’
‘Well, I didn’t mean it literally,’ I said. ‘But before we get back to the inn I need to know where Mr Gaiters will be sleeping. Still upstairs?’
‘Right, but because I’m as strong as a pack mule – that’s what he said – it’s my job ta make sure that he gets up and down them dangerous stairs of yours that is just begging for a lawsuit. Them was his words, not mine.’
‘Understood.’
TWENTY-ONE
One can rest assured that first thing that I did upon returning to The PennDutch Inn, after attending to my children’s physical and emotional needs, was to fall into the warm, welcoming embrace of Big Bertha. Before I married the Babester, and discovered true marital bliss, my extra-deep bathtub, with her thirty-two jet sprays, capable of massaging every millimetre of my body in ways both ordinary, and shameful, was my greatest source of earthly pleasure. There was nothing that I could put in my mouth, no savoury morsel of meat, no delectable sweet, and no garment, no matter how soft and smooth its fabric, that could come close to offering the sensual pleasure of that offered by time spent within the white porcelain embrace of Big Bertha.
However, when I married Dr Gabriel Rosen, I had taken a vow to be a faithful wife in mind, body and soul. Spending half an hour in the arms of Big Bertha, as it were, with the jet functions activated, would certainly be a betrayal of at least one of those promises. Perhaps if I merely soaked in mountains of gardenia-scented bubbles, I reasoned, I would remain a faithful wife.
Mind you, the odour of this particular bubble bath was guaranteed to dissipate rapidly after one finished bathing. Believe me, there is nothing more off-putting than to be pushing one’s trolley through a supermarket in the wake of someone whose scent of lavender is so intense that one could trail them throughout the store if one were blindfolded.
So there I was, with snow-covered mountain ranges of bubbles running the length of the tub, but I was still not enjoying myself. How could I be? My marriage was rocky, to say the least; I had a delightful, but nonetheless rebellious teenage daughter; I still had the mother-in-law from you-know-where to face; and I’d been indicted for murder. Could it get any worse? Oh yes, the vindictive editor of A Woman’s Place had been given a week’s free lodging. In a scrawled note, that looked like a drunken spider wrote it, Gabe explained his decision: This guy’s had a traumatic experience. You don’t want him to sue!
Gabe was right, I couldn’t argue about that. The first thing that I needed to do, and so often neglect to do until I’ve dug my slough of despond even deeper, was to pray. When praying one should always close one’s eyes tightly and fold one’s hands. I don’t care that Gabe says Jews are allowed to get away without doing those things. Mama and Papa both claimed that closed eyes kept one’s mind from getting distracted, and Pastor Diffledorf backs them up on that. But to be perfectly honest, the second I close my eyes, the Devil plays a movie on the blank canvas of my eyelids. Nonetheless, I adhere to the teachings of my youth.
The other thing that was impressed on me at a young age, is that somewhere in every prayer, one should confess one’s sins and ask to be forgiven. After all, one can never be certain when the Lord will choose to take one Home. Ergo, it’s a wise person who is ready to meet one’s Maker. As I had approximately ten minutes before the water cooled too much for my liking, I began to pray aloud. While I know that God can hear all the way up in Heaven (straight up from Hernia, not up from Australia, those poor people!), it has been said time and again that I have an exceptionally thick skull, so I saw nothing wrong in giving him a little assistance with sound.
‘It’s me again,’ I said. ‘But in case you don’t recognize my voice, it’s exceedingly sinful Magdalena. Sin, sin, sin, that’s all I ever seem to do. Anyway, I’m sorry about all that sinning, really I am, and I hope that you forgive me.’
‘Of course I forgive you,’ said the Lord in an oddly feminine voice, ‘but you need to list your sins.’
‘I do?’
‘You betcha.’
‘Well, I’ve been selfish.’
‘Go on.’
‘And judgmental. I’m terribly judgmental when it comes to my husband’s mother, who is a real pain in the patooty, if I can speak frankly without getting zapped. I’m sure there’s no need to remind you, Lord, but getting zapped whilst in the bathtub would cut short my confession, and you wouldn’t get to hear my laundry list of misdeeds. Just a suggestion, Lord, but since you have eternity on your hands, which is an awful long period of time, and which could eventually become a trifle boring, might I suggest that you spare me until I’ve had a chance to enumerate, and bewail, all my manifold sins?’
‘I shall keep that as an option,’ said the Lord’s gender-neutral voice.
‘Thank you, Your Grace. By the way, I just want to add that Ida Rosen – a.k.a. Mother Malaise – happens to be one of your people, you know, of the Chosen Persuasion. Maybe you know her family up there – if they’re even allowed. A lot of folks down here say that they won’t get in, and there is scripture to back them up. Even some very famous TV preachers claim that you won’t let her people in. But I say, what about Abraham, and the Prophet Samuel? Oh well, there I go digressing again, when all I meant to do was confess my contempt for that woman who calls herself Mother Malaise.’
‘Uh-huh. Whom else do you judge harshly?’
‘Oh, lots of people. Too many to name before my bath water gets cold.’
‘Then that is a sin. Just tell me though, what do you think of your lifelong friend Agnes Miller?’
‘Do you want an honest answer, Lord?’
‘Absolutely. “Thou shalt not lie” is one of the Big Ten, right?’
‘Well, in that case, I think that Agnes Miller is a busybody snoop, a social climbing blabbermouth who is twenty IQ points shy of being half as clever as a brook trout.’
‘Magdalena, how could you?’ Agnes shrieked and then burst into gales of laughter. ‘Mags, at what point did you know that it was me talking to you, and not a direct line from above?’
‘The second you walked into my bathroom – behind your lavender bath salts, which far overpowered my gentle Gardenia Garden.’
‘A bit much, eh?’
I nodded. ‘So what brings you here, and who is managing Amish Sinsations? Don’t tell me that Sheriff Stodgewiggle closed it down!’
‘No, in fact, after he booked you he circled back and expected me to give him a table for lunch.’
‘Why the nerve of that man! What did you do?’
‘I told him I’d be happy to seat him for lunch six weeks from now, at the second seating, because that was the earlies
t possible reservation I had available.’
‘What did he say?’
Agnes giggled. ‘He cursed and stormed out.’
‘Really! Do tell, Agnes, how bad a curse word was it?’
‘Too bad for your Conservative Mennonite ears, Mags.’
‘Oh, come on. We’ve been best friends since we were babies. You can tell me anything.’
‘Yeah, but you can’t hear everything.’
‘That’s what you think. You forget that now I’m a married lady, and my husband is a New Yorker. They say everything in New York. You can’t shock me.’
‘Maybe, but your ears might shrivel up, and you could spiral straight down into you-know-where.’
‘That’s mocking my faith, and you know it. Go ahead and try me; I dare you to.’
At that Agnes leaned down so that she could whisper into my ear. Even though it was just the two of us in my bathroom, so strict was my upbringing that my dear friend felt the need to whisper the obscenity behind a cupped hand.
‘Oh, my word!’ I said, feigning shock.
‘Stop it,’ she said. ‘You don’t even know what it means, do you?’
‘No, but it’s pretty bad, right?’
‘Some would think so.’
‘In that case I’m absolutely indignant! Morally outraged.’
‘Good. So anyway, not one person cancelled their reservation, even after the news broke on TV. In fact, I had to disconnect the phone because it kept ringing so much with all the calls from people begging for reservations run by the famous murderess, Magdalena Yoder.’ She paused. ‘You don’t look surprised.’
‘According to a note that Gabe left taped to my computer, Sarah Conway’s body arrived at Bedford County morgue at half past nine yesterday morning. By three in the afternoon, the inn’s website had racked up over two thousand requests for reservations. We call these people “ghoul hounds”. We get this kind of internet traffic every time there is a murder in Hernia. Although yesterday we – I – received some hate emails as well. That’s also normal.’
Agnes reached out to pat my bare shoulder, but just in time to spare both of us a great deal of embarrassment, she retreated from my personal space. ‘Well, at least you’ve got your husband to keep you safe.’
‘Ha! Not hardly. When the going gets tough, my mouth gets going, and sometimes – well, sometimes my mouth brings his mother into the fray. Long story short, it appears that Gabe has bailed on me.’
‘I’m sorry, Mags, I really am.’ After an appropriate pause, she spoke again. ‘Speaking of his mother, yesterday she came barrelling into the restaurant, practically tripping over her habit, demanding that I shut down the place. And you did shut it down.’
‘I’m afraid that I had to.’
‘Because of her?’
‘It wasn’t Ida’s place to demand that we shut down the restaurant, but it did need to be done. This is important; tell me exactly what Ida said.’
I had yet to drain Big Bertha. Before she answered, Agnes invaded my space again to sit on the tub’s edge and pick at the lingering foam. Doubtless she hoped that as the bubbles diminished, the suspense would build. I, however, would not have it.
‘Agnes,’ I growled, ‘get on with it, or I’ll splash.’
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Your mother-in-law practically shouted that the dinner which Sarah Conway had eaten here, at The PennDutch Inn, had been cooked at Amish Sinsations.’
‘No, she didn’t!’
‘I wish you’d been there,’ Agnes said. ‘Everyone immediately dropped their eating utensils, and then they immediately picked them up again and burst out laughing. It was almost as if it had been choreographed. I’m telling you, Mags, people are becoming so blasé now because of cable television. It’s like no one can separate reality from what they see on their flat screen high definition TVs anymore.’
My little round friend was waving her hand vigorously in my bath water, whilst teetering dangerously on the edge of Big Bertha. The childish part of Magdalena was tempted to give her a gentle tug. The mature part considered the danger to her physically and, of course, her feelings. Fortunately for both of us, the adult Magdalena ruled the day.
‘Agnes, this is going to sound harsh, but those people were idiots.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I’m not blaming you – so please don’t get me wrong – but Mother Malaise had a good point. The substance that poisoned Sarah Conway came out of our kitchen at Amish Sinsations. So far there’s been no lab report, so neither Toy nor I have any idea how long it took for the poison to act. It may have been cooked into her food that evening, or it may have even been in our kitchen for some time. That’s why the restaurant had to be closed down.’
Agnes stood, thank heavens. ‘That’s impossible. We make everything fresh. From scratch. Every day.’
‘Not everything,’ I said. ‘Some of our sauces and salad dressings are made in large batches and stored in the fridge.’
‘So what are you saying?’ Agnes said. ‘That one of our staff is responsible?’
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Maybe not.’
‘But Mags, that’s ridiculous. How would any of them know the assistant to the editor of A Woman’s Place?’
‘Maybe the poison was meant for him,’ I said. Don’t ever gasp in abject horror whilst in a tub of dwindling bubbles. The result was a mouth full of suds, not to mention that I exposed parts of me that even the Babester was no longer permitted to see. ‘Ack! What’s wrong with my big thick head? Any one of us could have been poisoned that night!’
‘Why Magdalena, I’m surprised to hear you say that. You’re a woman of unshakable faith. Surely you don’t believe that things happen by chance, do you?’
‘Agnes, now is not the time to compare and contrast my current statements with any of my past rhetoric. After all, inconsistency is part of the human condition.’
Agnes calmly tossed me a Turkish bath towel. Meanwhile I grabbed my thick terry robe from the stool adjacent to Big Bertha and used it as a shield while I rose like a Mennonite Venus from a sea of lightly scented froth (for the bubbles by then were much depleted).
‘Turn around, dear,’ I ordered her. ‘I wish to save you from the sin of lust.’
‘Oh, puh-leeze! Trust me, thoughts of you have never crossed my mind.’
‘Never?’ I said.
‘Never. Magdalena, you sound disappointed.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. Of course, I was a smidge disappointed. But only a smidge.
Agnes proved that she could turn around quite hastily for someone who was horizontally-enhanced. ‘Oh gross! It sounds like you’re running for public office. Maybe even for President.’
Before I could think of a clever comeback, my landline rang. Unfortunately for the caller, by then the needle on my crabbiness meter had dipped slightly to the left of centre. In my defence I must state that virtually everyone in the area had, for months, been subjected to a variety of telemarketer scams that could often be traced back to anonymous callers in Mumbai. I lunged for the phone, snatching up the receiver after the first ring.
‘This is Mrs Patel,’ I said irritably. ‘Tell my husband to come home now. His tikka masala is getting cold.’
TWENTY-TWO
‘Wife, darling, are you vexed with me yet again?’
‘Vexed?’
‘I hope so, darling, because there is nothing quite like the sight of a mature, well-seasoned woman such as yourself, to keep the juices flowing in the loins of the studliest stallion east of the Ganges.’
‘Sam Yoder, eeuw! Yuck, and double yuck!’
For the record, Sam Yoder used to be my first cousin, until I discovered that I was adopted. Then he became my biological double second cousin, which was no surprise, given our denomination’s intersected family trees. But because Sam and I are the exact same age, I am fairly sure I won’t someday discover that Sam Yoder is my father, or my son. Then again, I’ve lived long enough to know that just about anything is possib
le.
What I have never understood is why Sam developed a crush on me in the second grade and never outgrew it. When we were in elementary school, he made his affection for me known by dipping my braids in his ink well, sitting on my paper lunch sack, putting a frog in my desk, and even belching loudly in my face.
By the time we were in high school my braids were up and coiled around my head like every other proper Conservative Mennonite girl, but Sam was still sitting on my lunch (or squashing it into his armpit) and belching in my face. One might think that I eventually grew to dislike Sam, but then one would be wrong. Truth be told, I gave as good as I got, for it doesn’t take much to distract a teenage boy in love.
Instead of lettuce leaves in with his tomato sandwich, Sam got a mouthful of poison ivy that made his face swell up like a puffer fish. Instead of drinking chocolate milk from his thermos, Sam chugged down chocolate flavoured laxative dissolved into milk. Eventually Sam called a truce and we became pals. Good friends. However, never, not once in my most wild Big Bertha moment of physical release, did I ever conjure up Sam Yoder’s face, nor did I cry out his name. But I will admit that when Sam broke from tradition and married that Methodist girl, Dorothy, right out of college, I was stunned. Possibly even hurt. But enough about that.
‘Sam Yoder,’ I said, as I tried with no avail to wrap the Turkish towel even tighter around me with just one hand. ‘Why are you interrupting me?’
‘Interrupting you?’ he said. ‘Why, what are you doing?’
‘I just got out of my bathtub,’ I said, ‘and my towel is slipping, if you must know.’
‘Let it slip,’ he said. ‘You’re on the phone, not TV. Besides, I’ve seen everything there is to see, remember?’
‘Don’t remind me!’ When I was pregnant with Little Jacob, I was alone with Sam in his store, Yoder’s Corner Market when my waters broke. Even though mine was considered a ‘geriatric pregnancy’ because I was forty-nine, the Good Lord did indeed look out for me that day. My bundle of joy came sliding out like a greased pig down a Teflon-coated chute, right into the hands of Sam, who calmly cut the cord. This all happened so fast that Gabe, even though he is a heart surgeon, and not an obstetrician, felt cheated, because he couldn’t get there in time.