by Tamar Myers
“Don’t the children have school?” Tiny asked. It was a reasonable question.
“They’re homeschooled,” I said. I saw no reason to tell Tiny that the children were homeschooled because their mother was an outcast—an unofficial outcast, of course.
When we got out of the car, Little Jacob was immediately mobbed with friends. He’d played with the younger Berkey children a number of times, and they were all very fond of him. But as the ladies and I made our way up to the house over an uneven stretch of yard, badly in need of reseeding, Rudolph, the youngest Berkey, ran over and grabbed my arm. His sister Veronica, who had been chasing him, nearly knocked me over. The poor girl is built like a panzer, but alas, possesses only half the grace of a German tank—or of a war machine of any nation for that matter.
“Miss Yoder,” Rudy said—rather he shouted in the way some seven-year-olds do when they’re highly agitated, “why does the little Englishwoman have such big udders?”
“Don’t be rude, Rudy,” I snapped.
“But why?”
“They’re not called ‘udders,’ ” Veronica said between gasps. “They’re called ‘bossoms.’ ” She pronounced the word to rhyme with possums.
“Oh.”
“And that’s the way God made her,” Veronica said.
I must admit that Tiny had a pleasant laugh. “Actually, Dr. Sayeed was running a two-for-one special, and I thought to myself, why would anyone want just one? Of course I’d want two! But when you think about it, it really is like getting them for half price, right?”
I could almost hear the wheels turn in Veronica’s head as she began to process this alien information. But after a few seconds her brain spit it all back out. This was too much too soon—perhaps more than she’d ever want to know.
“Come on, Rudy, let’s go see if Little Jacob wants to play with your snake.”
Now that set off an alarm bell in my head. “That better be a real snake,” I hollered after them, “and it better not be poisonous.” One can never be too careful with one’s children if you ask me. If one must err, ’tis better to err on the side of over-protection, because one can always loosen up. Make your kids wear their helmets when they ride their bicycles, no matter how much they complain. So what if the other kids in the neighborhood don’t wear theirs? So what if they don’t like you for imposing this rule on them? Tough chocolate chip cookies, that’s what I say. Not wearing a helmet can result in a dead, or brain-damaged, child.
The brood’s mare—I mean, mama—stepped forward. “Magdalena,” Mary said, reading my large- print mind, “still you overprotect him. But I tell you, it will make the boy rebel; it will not make him safer. Boys will be boys, yah?”
There is nothing in this world guaranteed to hike my hackles quite like criticism of my parenting skills. I have given this matter much thought and have concluded that the reason for this is that my child means more to me than anyone or anything else in the entire world, including myself, and ergo I must believe that I am doing my best by him. If not, then shame, shame on me, and there isn’t a healthy soul alive who enjoys a plateful of scorn.
“You raise your”—I swallowed the word “brats”—“and I’ll raise mine.”
“What did you say?”
I smiled broadly. “This is Surimanda Baikal from Russia, and Tiny Timms from New Jersey. For some reason Tiny is interested in dressing like an Amish woman. Of course, you’d have to put a lot of darts in the bust area—maybe even some clever metal scaffolding—but if anyone can do it, you can.”
“Yah, I can. Elma Gindlesperger—she had the glands too, you know. I made for her also the dress of much support. And a swimming costume as well.”
Elma was, of course, a Mennonite of the more liberal persuasion, and not of the Amish faith. “Poor, poor Elma,” I said.
“When her cruise ship sank, she managed to stay afloat for eight days before the sharks ate her—in sight of land!”
“This is very quaint,” Tiny said, sounding a mite miffed, “but do you mind if we get started?”
17
Tiny survived her bust-measuring ordeal, and Rudy’s snake turned out to be a baby garter snake, which is a completely harmless garden variety. Undoubtedly more dangerous than either of these two events was my visit to the state penitentiary.
The urgent call had come during my absence that morning. It was a matter of life and death, my sister said. If I didn’t make the two thirty afternoon visiting session, it proved I didn’t love her and she would never speak to me again. While there have been more than a few times when such a threat would have been greeted as a welcome challenge, I felt something quicken in the depths of me that stirred me to action.
Now, I do believe in women’s intuition, plain and simple. I’ve always maintained that a hunch from a woman is worth two facts from a man. I also believe that a woman’s voice should be heard, despite the admonishments of the otherwise brilliant, but undeniably misogynistic, apostle from Tarsus. That said, I followed my hunch, and was quite vocal until the warden relented and agreed to add me to the list of that day’s visitors.
However, since this was a maximum-security facility, I still had to endure the most rigorous and humiliating search imaginable. My torturer was a Goliath of a woman with an unpronounceable name embossed in black letters on a pearl gray badge. As her hands, which were the size of Virginia hams, moved up and down my person in the most familiar way, I felt compelled to speak out.
“My dear,” I said, “I haven’t felt anything quite like this since my wedding night.”
“Are you complaining, lady?”
“Au contraire, I’m trying very hard not to enjoy this.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that if your left hand moves any closer to the South Pole, it could trigger an avalanche. Unfortunately, I always sing when that happens, and I’m not known to be very good at that—singing, that is.”
‘V’h’Neek’qQ”WA’a Smith glared at me. “Are you trying to be funny?”
“No, ma’am. I am trying to remain celibate.”
The Virginia hams stopped their needless probing. “For all I know, you’re packing a gun down there.”
I sighed, anger and relief mingling like smoke from a freshly doused fire. “Do I look like the type?”
“There isn’t any one type. And since you’re in that strange getup, with that little hat thing on your head—Hey, where are you from anyway?”
“Hernia?”
Ms. Smith howled. “Are you putting me on?”
“I fail to see the humor in this. At least I don’t have seven apostrophes in my name.”
“Hey! Don’t be making fun of my culture.”
“Your culture? Where are you from?”
“Da hood.”
“Is that near Dahomey? My church supports a missionary family there—the Sapersteins. You wouldn’t happen to know them, would you?”
“Oh, sure, I know them; I have them over to dinner every other Sunday.”
“Really?”
“Look, you fool, Dahomey is now Benin, and ‘da hood’—Well, I was just making that up on account of my mother got a little apostrophe crazy. I admit that. But I’ll be watching you in there; this glass is one-way. Don’t you be slipping your sister anything, or taking anything from her. You’re allowed to hug her—but no kissing on the mouth.”
“Ugh.”
“You’d be surprised what people try in order to get stuff in or out.”
“Stuff? Like what?”
“Cocaine mostly. One woman who normally wore a glass eye came in wearing a fake eye made of coke that had been painted with food dye to look like the real thing. But when she left I noticed that her hair was pulled down. I asked her to pull it back and whoa! You could practically see her brain.”
“Well, my body parts are all real—as I think you know by now.”
“And protected by the most insane underwear I’ve ever encountered. Where did you get that stuff
—that crazy bra, in particular? From the Army Surplus Store? I mean, is that like for combat, or something?”
“It’s sturdy Christian underwear, although clearly it is not invincible. I’m going to have to surf the Net for a more unassailable model.”
“Girl, you have definitely lost it; I shouldn’t even be letting you in here. Although”—she paused and cocked her head as she pursed her lips—“I like you.”
Alarmed, I took a step back. “ ’Twas only a fleeting thought, put there by Lucifer the Lustful. I beg thee, kind miss, please do not misconstrue my sexual preference.”
“Say what?” ‘V’h’Neek’qQ”WA’a laughed. “Go on through, before I change your mind. When you’re done—or if there’s any trouble—rap on the glass.”
Susannah looked better than I’d ever remembered seeing her. She was dressed in orange scrubs—perhaps not her most flattering color—but at least one could see that she had legs. Also quite visible, and rather new on the scene, was the presence of a bosom. The latter was, no doubt, a result of boredom; my pseudo-anorexic sister had been packing on the pounds since her incarceration almost five years ago because she had nothing more interesting to do than to eat.
“You look positively voluptuous,” I said.
My baby sister grinned. “Mama would have hated it. Right?” “Absolutely. In fact, when I get home I’m going to drive up to Settler ’s Cemetery and give her the bad news.”
Susannah giggled. “How fast do you think she’ll spin in her grave?”
“Hopefully fast enough, and long enough, to make the U.S. less oil dependent on the Middle East.”
“You see! And you said I’d never amount to anything.”
“I never said that!”
“Well, you thought that.”
Few things annoy me more than being told what it is I think or feel. I’m not in the habit of letting folks inside this thick skull of mine. I especially hate it when I’m being justly accused, and the injured party knows that I can’t wiggle out of his or her accusation.
“And look how wrong I was; for surely you are an exemplary inmate. I mean, if not in deed, at least in your animal appetites.”
“Thanks—I think. Was that sarcastic?”
“What matters is, what do you think? As Dr. Phil would say, perception is everything.”
“Mags, you’re still weird. You know that?”
“ ’Tis a badge I choose to wear with honor. Okay, Susannah, tell me the purpose of this so-called emergency visit.”
She had the temerity to blink. “Who said anything about an emergency?”
“That’s what your message read. Shall I call the warden to collaborate it?”
Susannah sighed. “All right. There’s no need to get snippy about it. Just promise me you won’t freak out, that’s all.”
I gasped. “But you’ve been in here five years; you can’t be pregnant!” I gasped again, as reality sunk its baby teeth into my overnourished skull. “Oh no, don’t tell me it was one of the guards. Clyde? Houston? What’s his name with one eyebrow and no chin?”
“Eric? Give me a break! For your information, Miss High and Mighty, I’m not nearly the slut you think I am. I have never once cheated on my Melykins. Not once. Not ever.”
I must have been staring at her incredulously because she waved a long, but otherwise shapely, hand in front of my eyes. “Earth to Magdalena, are you in there?”
“I’m here,” I said. “I’m just having a hard time processing the fact that marrying the Mantis might actually have been good for you.”
“He was my salvation, Mags—and I don’t mean that in a sacrilegious way. Mama was always so strict, and let’s face it: you weren’t any better. It was all or nothing with you. If I didn’t toe the line a hundred percent, you got furious. Remember the time you threw me out because I wore a low- cut blouse and fire-engine red lipstick?”
“I didn’t throw you out; I made you choose between dressing like a hussy and living on the street, or showing some respect while enjoying the comforts of home.”
My baby sister opened and clenched her jaw several times, and frankly, I was surprised by just how much the issue seemed to affect her. Then, much to my astonishment, she threw her arms around me and began to sob. Furthermore, since folks in our family are genetically incapable of touching one another for more than two seconds without resorting to some vigorous backslapping, I was stunned when she let herself go as limp as a dishrag and simply hung from my neck like an Art Deco gewgaw.
“Hey, break it up, you two!” ‘V’h’Neek’qQ”WA’a rapped sharply on the glass with her billy club.
Susannah slumped into the nearest chair and began to sob. Neither of us is a pretty crier—Well, is anyone? But what I really meant to say is that my sister is uncommonly unsightly when she boo-hoos. Her nose turns bright red whilst emitting viscous fluids, her cheeks mottle in a multitude of unappetizing shades, and her eyelids immediately swell into something resembling half-baked puff pastries stuffed with spinach. It is barely an exaggeration to say that a lesser woman than I would have run from the room screaming.
Much to my credit I simply handed her a wad of tissues from my oversize pocketbook. “What is it, dear? I’m your big sis, remember? You can tell me anything.”
She had to swallow before speaking. “Anything?”
“Anything. And just so you know, now that I’m married, and well acquainted with the sweet mystery of life—so to speak—I am no longer the prude I used to be.”
She snorted, drenching me in the process. “Yeah, you were pretty awful. That time when we saw the horses—”
“That was then; this is now,” I said, using a favorite expression from her younger years.
She began to blubber again. “It’s—M-M-Melvin.”
“He’s dead?” Oh woe is me. There was far too much hope in my voice. There was too much hope in my soul as well. What kind of a Christian was I? How could I be happy to hear about someone’s death? Didn’t that, in a way, make me just as guilty as a murderer?
“No, stupid,” my sister croaked, “he’s not dead. My Melykins is about to do it again, and this time I have a feeling he’s going be caught.”
Melvin “the Mantis” Stoltzfus was not only Susannah’s husband, and my biological brother, but he was an escaped convict, a real murderer, who’d been on the lam for five years. Given that he had a pea-size brain, it was a miracle that he’d been able to elude the authorities for so long. I’d almost assumed that he was dead, or that perhaps he was lying somewhere in a coma, unable to convict himself with those thin bloodless lips of his—and oh how I judge!
“Caught doing what?” I practically shouted. “And where?”
“Pulling another heist,” she whispered, her voice now hoarse. “Somewhere in Somerset County.”
“Heist?”
“Don’t be such a dummkopf, Mags; you know what I mean.” Except that I didn’t. I was, however, happy that Susannah had reverted to our ancestral tongue to dress me down.
“A heist is a robbery,” I said, reasonably, stubbornly, and, of course, quietly. “Has Melvin ever robbed anyone before?”
She was quiet for a moment, her ragged breathing aside. “Yes,” she finally mumbled. “That bank job in Bedford—the one you had to go and interrupt.”
It was then that every hair on my head stood up, forcing my prayer cap to reach new heights. “Those faux-Amish men, like the one who shot Amy and could have killed my Little Jacob, one of them was Melvin Stoltzfus?”
“Shhh, Mags!”
“Don’t you shush me, Susannah. Unless you want me to rat you out like the Orkin man, you better tell me everything—and I mean every last detail.”
“I can’t.”
18
“What do you mean by ‘I can’t’?”
“Mags, you know if I tell you anything, then you’ll try to do something to stop it, and you’ll get hurt this time. I just know it. I feel it—kind of like a premonition. That’s why I had to see you
.”
I took my time processing this new batch of information. “You’re in contact with that cold-blooded killer, and you know when he’s going to strike again?”
“He’s not a cold-blooded killer, Mags! He only kills when he’s very stressed—when he has to. Otherwise, you know that my Sweetykins wouldn’t hurt a flea.”
“I think the expression is ‘fly,’ dear, but in this dirt bag’s case, flea is just as appropriate.”
Shame on me. I’d never used such harsh language; I’d never called anyone such a vulgar name. But Melvin had actually tried to throw me over a cliff once, and if it hadn’t been for the grace of God and my sturdy Christian underwear—which got caught up on a tree branch—my head would have broken open on the rocks at the bottom of said cliff like a jack-o’-lantern hurled in front of a speeding automobile. And for the record, I only did that once, and I was only ten years old, and after the licking Papa gave me behind the barn, it is a wonder I still have a bottom with which to fill out my Hanes Her Way cotton briefs, which are, of course, plain Protestant white.
My words seemed to have struck a nerve in Susannah. In the blink of a bloodshot eye, her demeanor went from being limp and weepy to resembling that of an alley cat caught in a net. Out came the fangs and claws, which, frankly, I much preferred.
“How dare you call my Woosty-Bootsy names? He’s a lot more of a man than that mama’s boy you’re married to. At least my husband can cut his own meat!”
I must admit that it is rather pitiful that a heart surgeon has to pass his steak to his mother first so that she can saw it into manageable bites, but doesn’t each family have its own idiosyncrasies? I’m sure that the Obamas do things behind the White House doors that they would rather not be made public. In fact—and I say this as a woman who voted for Barack—what was his wife thinking when she selected her inaugural gown? From the picture I saw in the paper, it looked like it had wadded balls of toilet paper glued hither, thither, and yon. Frankly, a little less hither and a lot more yon might have been in order for that schmatta.