by Tamar Myers
I will forever be grateful to Sam for being there and acting as my midwife, and I realize that we now share a special bond. What astonishes me is that Sam was not only thrilled to watch me give birth, but that the experience actually revived his romantic interest in me. Furthermore, he views the experience as somehow advancing his bid for my affections.
‘Hear me out, Magdalena,’ Cousin Sam said. ‘The Amish grapevine is abuzz like never before, and you can guess who they’re talking about.’
‘Ouch,’ I said, but it was my cheeks that were burning, not my ears. I hate being the object of gossip just as much as anyone does.
‘Yeah but get this: there are at least three theories floating around about who is actually responsible for doing the deed, and you’re not the villain in any of them.’
‘Get out of town and back!’ I cried. How I love those secular, Southern expressions.
‘Easy, girl. I only have two eardrums, and I think you broke one of them the last time we talked. Anyway, hustle your bustle, and let’s meet up, but not here at the store. If the Amish who shop there see you, they might clam up.’
‘Where then?’
‘Your place?’
‘Stucky Ridge. We’ll get the most privacy there.’
‘I get it, Magdalena. There’s trouble in paradise again.’
‘Don’t get your hopes up, Sam. What I mistook for my first sexual impulse in the fifth grade, when we went swimming at Miller’s Pond, in retrospect was more than likely just a grain of sand that managed to get inside my bathing suit. I haven’t felt a spark of desire for a blood relative since, especially one so closely related that you could yet turn out to be my twin.’
‘Hmm, if you’re positive.’
‘Meet me by the picnic benches in ten minutes. Tootles.’ I hung up.
‘Mags,’ Agnes said, ‘I’m coming with you.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘But I’m your BFF.’
‘Of course you are, dear,’ I said, as I scurried to fetch clean clothes. ‘And doesn’t BFF stand for Best Forensic Friend?’
‘No,’ Agnes said, her voice rising, which made her sound like a Canadian. Not that there is anything wrong with that, mind you, but I have been hearing so many rising inflections lately, that I am concerned that we might sorely need a wall along our northern border.
‘Now keep your head averted, dear,’ I said, as I struggled into the bottom half of my sturdy Christian underwear. ‘Mark my words, Agnes, you have a keen eye, and you would have made a wonderful forensic detective.’
‘Really?’ Agnes said.
‘Absolutely,’ I said. Believe me, if flattery will get one just about anywhere with me, it will certainly get Agnes over the finish line. ‘What I need you to do is take a complete inventory of the contents of my refrigerator, and list those items that might be leftovers from the meal that might possibly have been fatal.’
‘Really? Is that it? Is that all you want to use my keen eye for? And how do you expect me to recognize yesterday’s leftovers when you’re always taking home so-called “free food” from the restaurant that you don’t even own in its entirety?’
‘Why, I never!’ I said indignantly. My ears burned as if held to a flame, because as we all know, the truth hurts.
‘Really? You’re always taking food home. You can’t possibly deny that.’
‘Agnes, that was just an expression of annoyance because you called me out on something that I shouldn’t be doing. And speaking of which, if you don’t stop saying “really”, I’m going to scream. Now then, there’s an actual pad of paper on my nightstand and a pen, so you can take copious notes on your keen observations on what you observe in the fridge. Also, please write down everything that you remember hearing at work dealing with this case – like who said what, and about whom. Try to recall their tone of voice, and did anyone attempt a rebuttal, that kind of thing.’
‘Do you mean I should be a stoolie?’ Agnes said.
‘The word is a stooge, dear, but that comes next. Fold your notes into a wad and stuff them into the mouth of the concrete dragon on the back steps. You know, the thing that you told Alison that I would absolutely adore, when you took her to a flea market to shop for my birthday.’
‘Really?’
‘Eeeeeee-aaaahg!’
It was actually fortuitous that Agnes said ‘really’ again, and that I shrieked. Even at its finest moments my voice has been known to put the hens off laying, and birds to fall from the sky (although they land gently in the nearest trees). But my less than melodious outburst roused Alison from whatever she was doing and brought her running. As for Little Jacob, the voice of his mother is always soothing, whether being expressed off-key, or on.
‘Your mother has to go out,’ I said to my teenager. ‘Auntie Agnes will be here for a while doing a little snooping – I mean sleuthing – on my behalf. When she’s gone, lock the doors behind her, and don’t let anyone in. Anyone, and that means you-know-who.’
Alison’s lip protruded far enough to be a helipad. ‘You mean Daddy, don’t you?’
‘No, dear. Besides, Daddy has his own key.’
‘Oh,’ said Alison, as she nodded slowly and with great emphasis. ‘You mean her. You mean the woman who can’t stand you.’
I jiggled pinkies in both ears, in case I’d heard it wrong. I was expecting her to say, ‘the woman who you can’t stand’, but then she’d flipped the sentence around.
‘Alison, dear,’ I said, ‘please repeat what you just said.’
‘Ah, it’s nothing, Mom. Just go do what you gotta do, and don’t worry about me taking good care of Little Jacob. Ya know that I love that rug rat like there’s no tomorrow.’
‘It’s not you whom I’m worried about,’ I wanted to say. Instead, I clammed up like a mollusc at low tide, and that’s the way I intended to behave from that minute on. There had already been enough alienation and strife in my family, and so help me, Magdalena Portulacca Yoder was not going to contribute further to the fraying of our family’s ties.
‘I love you, dear,’ I said, as I turned tail and ran from the house before my tongue could betray me. It’s been said that ‘loose lips sink ships’. The serpent in the Garden of Eden most certainly didn’t have lips; however, he did possess a tongue.
TWENTY-THREE
If one were to rent Room 6 at The PennDutch Inn (the price of which had just been doubled, thanks to the recent murder of Sarah Conway), and lean dangerously far out the window on a clear, late autumn day, one might possibly get a glimpse of Lovers’ Leap on the north face of Stucky Ridge. This landmark is of great importance to local Anglophiles in that it is exactly as high as Scafell Pike, the loftiest spot in England. That is to say, Stucky Ridge soars up to a dizzying 978 meters (3208 ft.), which is respectable for the northeastern states, but downright pitiful to citizens west of the Mississippi River. Don’t be misled though, because the height of Stucky Ridge (named after an ancestor, of course) is measured against sea level, not the valley floor. The Delaware Indian maiden and her warrior lover who supposedly threw themselves off Lovers’ Leap sometime pre-conquest by the Europeans, fell to their death only nine-hundred feet or so.
It is five miles as the crow flies to Stucky Ridge, but as Magdalena the Shrew drives it is just a wee bit longer because Hertzler Road follows meandering Slave Creek. Four miles from my house one gets to the bridge where a right turn takes one into the village of Hernia proper. Continuing past the bridge for another mile, one drives along the well-tended fields belonging to Rudy Swinefister, Hernia’s only openly gay man.
At the farthest edge of Rudy’s farm, the abrupt north face of Stucky Ridge begins. At that point, one can elect to continue on Hertzler Road, now County Road 96, until one reaches the wild and woolly State of Maryland, or turn off on the narrow dirt track that winds up the eastern flank of the ridge until, after many heart-stopping moments, one has reached the summit. If one elects to visit Maryland, my advice is to take along one’s own provisi
ons – I’m just saying. Now I shan’t say another word about that fair state.
The surprisingly flat summit of Stucky Ridge is divided into three sections that cover roughly equal areas. The most popular portion is a patch of dense woods at the north end behind Lovers’ Leap. This where the young people in our community, Mennonites and Amish included, come on the weekends to – it disgusts me to say this – ‘make out’. The Brits call it snogging. Because the Amish are permitted to rebel in their late teens in a sanctioned practise called rumschpringe, they even go so far as to drive cars up to the ridge.
The picnic area with its panoramic western view is the second most popular spot, especially with families. The third area, called Settler’s Cemetery, has many permanent residents. In order to be buried in Settler’s Cemetery, one must be descended from one of the ten founding families. I am descended from five of those. Spouses of descendants, as well as adopted children of descendants, are also given the privilege of being planted for eternity in this small plot of land.
When I asked Mama why the settlers would go to all the trouble of lugging their dead up to the top of the ridge just to stick them in the ground, she said that the answer was as clear as the Yoder nose on my horsey face. It was so that on the day of resurrection, the dead would have a head start at meeting Jesus in the sky. Then I said that I knew that Heaven was up in the sky, but what if that part of the sky was on the opposite side of the globe? Like over Australia. In that case, I said, our relatives would go floating off into space in the wrong direction, and they would miss Jesus’s return entirely. Mama was so mad that she washed out my mouth with soap and made me stay home from church that day.
At any rate, I didn’t find Cousin Sam at the picnic area as per our agreement. Nevertheless, I knew exactly where to go. He was sitting on a folding chair next to his sister’s grave. Sam, age six, and Evangeline, age three, had been frolicking about in a huge pile of leaves one fine day in late autumn, when a neighbour’s German shepherd from across the street leaped over a low picket fence and joined them. The dog become agitated watching the children play and didn’t stop to consider that this was a game. Instead, the German shepherd went straight for Evangeline’s throat, biting through her jugular vein.
The tragic sequence of events took only a few seconds and Evangeline died almost immediately. Sam’s mother observed helplessly from behind the kitchen window. Sam, terrified and bewildered, made a beeline into the nearby woods and remained hidden in a dense thicket for two days.
Although Sam had not run far, he managed to avoid discovery because those searching for him refrained from using dogs, on account of his traumatic experience. No sane adult would have blamed a six-year-old boy for not being able to protect his sister from a dog attack that happened in a split second. However, that didn’t stop Sam’s father from blaming him. After all, Sam was supposed to be the ‘man of the house’ when his father was at work. In time Sam internalized the blame and vowed never to have children, as he saw himself incapable of being a responsible father. Unfortunately, his decision to remain childless was unilateral, and not communicated to Dorothy before they tied the knot.
‘Hey cousin,’ I said when I was within speaking distance. As is common knowledge, one should not shout whilst in a cemetery. The dead may no longer have ears (at least if they’ve been dead long enough), but a few of them can hear, nonetheless, and are capable of getting very feisty when annoyed. Take Nina Petersheim, for instance, who will literally growl at anyone who walks across the burial plot that she occupies. Miss Petersheim died in 1932, and this strange and frightening phenomenon has been happening regularly since at least 1934, when it was first mentioned in the now defunct Hernia Village Gazette. But I have again digressed shamefully.
‘Hey, Magdalena,’ Sam said. He rose and collapsed the folding chair, tucking it under one arm. ‘Let’s go sit at a picnic table.’
‘I hear you,’ I said. ‘It’s getting hard to walk in here anymore, much less sit down. You’re lucky that you still have an empty plot.’
‘Yeah, it’s earmarked for me personally. Even though Dorothy will likely be the one to go first, given her many health issues, she doesn’t want to be buried up here among a bunch of Amish and Mennonites.’
‘And you? You’re a Methodist now, right?’
‘I haven’t been to any church in ages. Dorothy can’t get out, and I don’t like sitting alone. Besides, Dorothy and I have hit a new low point in our marriage.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said.
We walked in silence until we reached the first picnic table and then sat opposite sides on fixed benches. After we’d admired the view that we’d seen our entire lives, ever since our eyes could focus on distant shapes, Sam cleared his throat.
‘Well, you know what it means if Dorothy and I split up?’
‘Sam, stop it! This isn’t a good time.’
‘But does this mean that you and Gabe—?’
‘Shut Up, She Said Kindly – that would be the name of my autobiography,’ I said, ‘if I were to write one. Beginning now. Mull that over.’
Sam nodded. ‘New topic, then. Let’s talk about the rumours that might well be helpful to your case, and how I came to hear them. But – and it’s a big but – you have to pinkie swear that you’re not going to rat me out to the Feds after you find out what I’ve done.’
I felt my hopes lifted, and then dashed in the space of two seconds. ‘Sam, have you broken the law? Did you suddenly get elected to the state legislature? What did you do?’
My double-first cousin howled with glee. ‘That’s why I adore you, Magdalena. Only you would come right out and suggest that I might do something utterly nefarious. Rest assured, if I was going to be a corrupt politician, I’d go for the gold. I’d run for President of the United States, or at the very least, the nation’s senate. However, while I am pretty sure that what I did is unethical, and it might be illegal, I pay every penny of federal income taxes, and I have never slept with a woman other than Dorothy.’
‘Shut the front door!’ I said.
Sam nodded. ‘Aha, Magdalena, I knew that would impress you, because even you have known more than one man – in the biblical sense.’
‘But I was an inadvertent adulteress! I didn’t know that Aaron Miller was a bigamist; no one in Hernia knew that, including you, and you know everything that goes on in this village.’
‘True. But let’s get down to brass tacks now, because I need to hit the “information highway” again on your behalf – plus I need to get back to minding the store. Melon is a competent enough sales clerk, and appears to be honest, but really, how far can one trust an Episcopalian named Melon?’
I waved a hand impatiently. ‘Get down to those tacks, dear. Even brass can tarnish if left in the elements too long.’
‘Right. As you know, Toy was standing right there when Sheriff Stodgewiggle arrested you. He called me immediately so that his trusty C.I. could put his ear to the Amish grapevine and give a listen.’
I waved my hand again, but this time to ward off a fly the size of a helicopter. The good citizens of Hernia are supposed to carry home their own trash, but I’m afraid that not all of us behave like Girl Scouts. And it has only gotten worse in recent years, when world events seem to be pointing to Armageddon, and the subsequent end of this world as we know it. As Clarabelle Livingood said to me just last Sunday, ‘What’s the point in fixing my roof if the Good Lord’s coming back before winter?’
‘Remember, Sam,’ I said, ‘I’ve only ever been an amateur sleuth, so bear with me. What is a C.I.?’
‘Oh,’ Sam said, taking care not to smile too broadly, as he folded his hands on the beginnings of a paunch. ‘It’s a confidential informant. Sometimes police departments pay them a little, in order to keep them coming back with new information, but I do it because I’m a concerned citizen.’
‘So you’re a snitch? I mean that in the best possible way, of course.’
Sam frowned. ‘Seriousl
y, Magdalena, Toy recruited me; it wasn’t the other way around. He’s used me on a number of cases now. Small things. Disputes between the Amish and their Englisher neighbours, because as you know, the Amish try to avoid court as much as possible, and thus folks often take advantage of them.’
‘And why did he ask you to be his spy,’ my voice rising with every word, ‘and not me?’ Now I had a new worry to add to my ever-expanding list: besides being an inadvertent adulteress, what if I was an inadvertent Canadian?
‘Really?’ Sam said. ‘Do you need to ask? It’s because I speak the local dialect of Pennsylvania Dutch. If you’ll recall, when I was six years old, my mother sent me to live with her Amish parents, who refused to speak English. So, I started school in a one-room Amish school house. By the time I returned to Hernia the next summer, I’d forgotten how to play in English. That’s why I latched on to you in the second grade. You were easily the friendliest face on the playground.’ He paused for a nanosecond. ‘Now look what’s happened to you.’
I stuck my tongue out at him. ‘Tell me about your high crimes and misdemeanours, dear. Tempus fugit.’
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Anyway, as soon as I heard that you’d been arrested for murder, I hung a sign that read “out of order” on the Amish phone booth in front of my store. Yes, I know, strictly speaking, anyone may use it, but we all know it’s there for the Amish, because they’re forbidden the ownership of private telephones.’
I grunted in exasperation at another of Sam’s well-meaning, but hare-brained, schemes. ‘How does that help anything?’
‘Easy, girl. The sign also instructed them to go around to the rear of my store and enter though the freight entrance. They have to be buzzed in. Because of my recent expansion, you may recall, my office is now just a corner of the storeroom, and the walls are only movable screens. They’re really just to keep my work space separate from my inventory. Anyway, I set a landline phone on a little table on the inventory side of one screen, within inches of my desk on the other side. A sign next to the phone says that all local calls were free. Every time the door buzzed, I let someone in, and then went to my desk and pretended to work. Instead I eavesdropped.’