by Tamar Myers
“Would you like me to bring in your guns when I move the car?” I asked.
For the first time I saw emotion—perhaps amusement—flicker across her face. “I haven’t any guns.”
“But on your application you stated that you were a hunter.” Mennonites are not big on hunting, but if someone was going to do it, I would just as soon it was a woman. A woman hunter, in my opinion, would simply shoot her deer and then go home. No need for male bonding and the ritual downing of six-packs. For some men, on the other hand, bagging a buck has developed into a week-long religious experience that follows its own complicated liturgy. Surely only someone possessing male gonads could possibly hope to understand what really goes on. For example, several years ago I foolishly allowed Susannah to put a ceramic deer out on the lawn as an ornament. The first day of deer season it got shattered to smithereens. And Susannah had painted it pink!
Anyway I was disappointed when Miss Brown informed me that she had never hunted deer, and never intended to do so. She was a photo-hunter, she said, and her bag was filled with expensive photographic equipment. She had come to shoot pictures of the hunters shooting the deer. She was a photographic essayist for some magazine that had “Illustrated” in the title. Did I want to see her credentials, or perhaps even read one of her articles?
I did not. Because of the PennDutch’s enormous success amongst the moneyed crowd, I had become quite inured to famous people, and I certainly didn’t count bland little Miss Brown as a celebrity. Now if Paul Theroux wanted to show me his latest manuscript, that was something else.
“And I won’t be taking my meals here,” said Miss Brown. “Remember, I said that on my application?”
I did remember then, and with gratitude. Miss Brown probably ate like a moth, and whatever it is that moths eat, I’m sure Freni doesn’t cook it. I made a mental note to examine the bed linens for holes before Miss Brown checked out.
I cheerfully parked her car for her, and, as expected, received a nice fat tip. Miss Brown’s car, incidentally, was about as flashy as her person. It was certainly not a status car for a crack reporter. Frankly, it was as ugly as sin, even one of Susannah’s sins. I don’t know about car makes, but this one was asphalt gray, with mud-brown seats. Surely driving a car like that on a foggy day would be a risk taken only by bungee-jumpers. Even though I’d parked the car myself, on my way back to the house I looked over my shoulder twice just to make sure it was really there.
With Miss Brown tucked quietly away in her room, I ate a quick sandwich, and then settled down for my favorite Sunday afternoon activity—napping. If I time it right, and things work out the way they are supposed to, I can get a good two-hour nap in between church and the arrival of my first guests. Of course I don’t really sleep the whole two hours; that would be far too decadent, even on a Sunday. Normally I just sit back in my favorite rocker, and alternately doze, read a book, and worry about Susannah. This Sunday, however, thanks to the early arrival of Miss Brown, my schedule was thrown off, and the sudden commotion at the front door caught me in mid-doze.
I could tell instantly that the two women who lurched through the outside porch door at precisely three p.m., each carrying one large and one small suitcase, were not hunters either. Or even groupies. These women had never been outdoors longer than the time it takes to get from the mall to an outlying parking spot.
I immediately vacated my favorite rocker and ambled to my welcoming position behind the front desk. My office is merely the front left corner of the main sitting room, which is the first room you enter off the front porch. In the old days this was the dining room, where our large, extended family would congregate regularly for meals.
Mama wouldn’t recognize it now. Gone is the massive oak table that it took four men to lift. In its place is a large oval braided rug that took Freni and me six months to make. The furniture, which now rings the walls, is a hodgepodge of old rockers and hard, high-backed chairs. Only one of them is comfortable, and I grab it whenever I get a chance. Mixed in with the chairs are the occasional spinning wheel, butter churn, and the like. Securely fastened to the walls, so that no one need worry, are such things as washboards, horse harnesses, and even a two-man tree saw. Usually people gasp when they first see this room and mutter complimentary phrases that include the words “quaint” and “homey.”
The two women staggered in from the porch, and, like Miss Brown, seemed oblivious to their surroundings. But it didn’t take a genius to figure out that they’d been arguing.
“Goot aftahnoon,” I said from behind the counter. I’m always careful not to sound too friendly, because when people pay a lot of money they expect at least a little condescension. Why else do you think Paris is so popular?
“We’re the Parker party,” said the older of the two women. “I’m Ms. Jeanette Parker, and this is my friend, Linda McMahon.”
“Velcommen to zee PennDeutsch,” I said. “I’m Magdalena Yoder, proprietress.” Now don’t get me wrong. I hate talking in a fake German accent, and as for being a “proprietress,” doesn’t that sound like the night job some women take when they move to the big city? But, my guests seem to love it.
Ms. Parker was not impressed. “You should have our reservations. For two rooms. In the new wing.”
Her companion began to shift her weight from one foot to the other, and her face reddened considerably. “I—uh—I think I only booked one room for us, Jeanette.”
“You what?”
“They are supposed to be very large rooms. Aren’t they, Mrs. Yoder?” She looked beseechingly at me for confirmation.
“It’s ‘Miss.’ ” I dropped the accent. It’s too hard to maintain in the midst of conflict, and I could smell conflict coming as surely as I can smell Freni cooking sauerkraut on a hot summer day.
“What?” demanded the older woman. She was in her mid-forties, and seemed to be very self-assured. For some reason red hair intimidates me, and this woman’s carrot-orange do was no exception.
I swallowed a couple of times. “It’s ‘Miss,’ not ‘Mrs.’ I’ve never been married.” Susannah delights in reminding me of this.
Ms. Parker’s blue eyes stared coldly at me through her pale red lashes. It was the kind of stare teachers give you just before they accuse you of being a smart aleck. “I’m not interested in your marital status. Do you by chance have an extra room?”
“But, Jeanette, I already checked when I sent in the application. She doesn’t have any other rooms.” The younger woman, perhaps only in her early twenties, was still blushing. Frankly, the emotionally induced infusion of red was an improvement over her otherwise anemic appearance.
“Is that true? Are you all out of rooms?”
“Technically,” I said.
“Technically? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, I could give you my sister’s room, I suppose. It’s in the new wing. But it is an imposition.”
“Would double the rate make it less of an imposition?”
“It’s no trouble at all,” I said, and then smiled sweetly.
Actually it was going to be more trouble than it was worth. Ever since her divorce, Susannah had taken up residence in one of the three bedrooms in the new wing. These are the largest, most comfortable rooms in the inn, and of course the most expensive. The reason I had not put up a fight was because the only sensible alternative was to have Susannah move in with me.
Before I give you the impression that I’m a whiner, let me explain about Susannah. She is, without doubt, the messiest adult in the world. Susannah would be an inspiration to any teenager. And in addition to the mess, and the fact that Susannah keeps immorally late hours, there is the matter of her dog. If only it were a real dog, like a shepherd or a collie. But Susannah’s dog is one of those rat-sized things that yips constantly in a high-pitched voice when it’s not nipping at your ankles. I’ll even confess that I’ve been tempted, on more than one occasion, to aid the dog in some mysterious disappearing act, but alas, Susannah
is never more than five feet away.
“Linda, pay her for the room so we can get settled,” Ms. Parker ordered.
“Well, you do realize,” I said quickly, “that it will take a few minutes before housekeeping can get around to cleaning the extra room?”
“She can wait in my room,” Ms. Parker said irritably. I thought I saw the hint of a smile play across Linda’s kind, but rather plain face. “Linda, pay her, and let’s get a move on.”
Linda scurried to obey, proffering me both her Visa and Mastercard. I selected one of the cards and took down the number. “Would you be wanting the Amish Lifestyle Plan Option with this room?”
“Pardon me?”
“We don’t clean motel rooms,” said Ms. Jeanette Parker curtly.
I noted that by upping the price. “Three meals a day?”
She brusquely nodded her affirmation. “I’m a vegan, Linda’s a lacto.”
“I think I’m a Virgo,” I said, trying to cooperate.
“She means we’re vegetarians,” said Linda quickly. “I eat dairy products, but no eggs or fish. Jeanette eats only fruits and vegetables. And of course grains.”
I tried to smile, but I knew Freni would throw a fit. She does all the cooking for the PennDutch, and it’s done her way. Meals are served family style, and the choices are between starch and grease. “I’ll see what we can do.”
“What do you mean by ‘I’ll see’? Linda, you did mark that down on the application, didn’t you?”
Linda chewed nervously on a nail. “I’m pretty sure.” I was pretty sure she hadn’t, but just to prove them wrong, I dug their application out of my files and spread it on the counter.
“There! See?” said Ms. Parker triumphantly.
I studied the sheet. Sure enough the words “lacto” and “vegan” did appear, after their names. But you can hardly fault me for not recognizing their significance, can you? At least a third of my applicants have letters after their names, but until now I’d always assumed they stood for titles or degrees. “I’ll speak to the cook,” I said humbly.
“Very well,” said Ms. Parker magnanimously. “Please have the bellboy bring our bags up at once.”
We have no bellboy. The only male in our operation is Mose, and I wasn’t about to saddle a seventy-three- year-old man with suitcases that two healthy women could carry themselves. “Carrying your own bags is part of the Amish Lifestyle Plan Option,” I said matter-of-factly. “Bellboys cost extra.”
“Put it on the bill.”
I did. Then I went around the counter and picked up the two closest bags, tucking the smaller one under my arm. Then I got the remaining two. Slowly I straightened. “Follow me.”
“We can’t let her carry all of them,” I heard Linda whisper to her companion. “She’s too old!”
I straightened my back even more and led the way briskly down the back hall and up our unfortunately steep stairs. There is nothing quite like a jolt of adrenaline to rejuvenate this middle-aged body, and the Mss. McMahon and Parker were keeping me well supplied with energy.
Just as I thought, cousin Freni almost blew a gasket when I told her she had two vegetarians to cook for that evening. Freni’s temper functions just like a pressure cooker. The steam builds up slowly but steadily and, if unchecked, is liable to explode with dire consequences.
“I’m making chicken and dumplings and they can eat it or not.”
“Chicken and dumplings is fine for the rest of us,” I said soothingly. “But we need to think up some vegetable dishes for those two.”
“There’s carrots, onions, and celery in the chicken stock. If you like, I’ll throw in a potato or two, even though that’s not the right way to make dumplings. And there’s pickled beets and eggs on the side.”
I smiled encouragingly, despite the fact that I have been trying for years to convince Freni that eggs are not a vegetable. “That’s the spirit, Freni, but I’m afraid they’re going to want their vegetables cooked outside of the chicken broth.”
“Fine.” But of course it wasn’t. I could tell by the way the lines around Freni’s mouth were beginning to disappear that the pressure was building. Foolishly I pressed just a little further. Trapped between Freni and Ms. Parker was not a comfortable place to be, but at least I knew what Freni’s limitations were.
“What about fruit, Freni? Are we serving any fruit?”
“There’s apple butter with the bread, and apple pie with cheese for dessert.”
I’d long since given up trying to convince Freni that cheese was not a fruit. To Freni the hard-to-classify foods (for Freni that included eggs, grains, and dairy products) took on the category of the food with which they were commonly served. By logical extension, macaroni and cheese would be a fruit dish, something with which Freni would have no quarrel.
“And there’s cream for the coffee!” added Freni triumphantly.
“How about serving some stewed fruit? Maybe a nice compote that you put away in September?”
Freni’s lines began to disappear faster, and I knew I’d gone about as far as I dared. “Anything else, Magdalena?”
I was about to say “no,” when I remembered Ms. Parker’s cold blue eyes staring at me through their pale red lashes. “I don’t suppose any of that compote was put up without sugar?” I began to back out of the kitchen. “And could you bake up a batch of oat or whole grain bread?” I almost sprinted to the sitting room.
I had just gotten settled back down in my rocker when the next guest arrived. He was a very tall, skinny man, with an eggshell complexion, who was dressed from head to toe in blue denim. Even his shoes were denim. Although he looked frail, he almost beat me to the front desk. He was not carrying any suitcases, only a small backpack.
“Goot aftahnoon. Velcommen to zee PennDeutsch Inn.”
“Raidstu Yiddish?”
I put a lid on the fake accent and opened the register. “You are Mr.—?”
“Teitlebaum. Joel Teitlebaum. Ova.”
“Magdalena Yoder. Mercury Comet.”
“I mean that I eat eggs. But no fish or dairy products, of course.”
“Of course. Meat?”
Joel Teitlebaum blanched and may even have swayed a little. “Of course not!”
I nodded. At least I had figured out on my own that we had another vegetarian on our hands. “Would you like the Amish Lifestyle Package Option?” I asked bravely. These were not the kinds of guests I was used to.
“Yes, I would.”
I smiled in relief. “You’ll find the broom, dustpan, and dust cloth in your room closet. So are the bathroom supplies. Rooms must be cleaned and beds made before breakfast. You do want three meals a day, don’t you?”
“Are your eggs organic?”
I nodded assuringly, which isn’t the same as lying. As far as I know, the only inorganic eggs are the marble kind sold in gift shops. “Yours is room three, in this wing, on the second floor.”
When I got back from showing Joel his room, I found a party of three waiting for me at the desk. “Goot aftah-noon!” I called cheerily. Believe me, forced cheer is an art that can be learned, no matter how grumpy it makes you.
I knew at once that this party consisted of United States Congressman Garrett Ream, his wife, the socialite Lydia Johns Ream, and the Congressman’s aide, somebody James. I knew this not only because they were to be our only party of three that week, but also because I had seen both Reams’ pictures in the paper dozens of times.
Garrett Ream had only one more year left until re-election, and everyone knew that his next step was going to be the Senate. It was also a sure bet that the United States Senate was only a stepping stone to the White House. Tall, dark, and handsome, with an I.Q. higher than room temperature, Garrett Ream seemingly had everything going for him. Especially his wife.
Lydia Johns Ream was none other than the daughter of Senator Archibald Johns and heiress Margaret Lyons Needmore. It had been said from her cradle days on, that whomever Lydia married would someda
y be President of the United States. The hand that rocked Lydia’s cradle was surely employed by the parents of a future First Lady.
“Velcommen to zee PennDeutsch Inn.” I even bowed slightly.
“Can it, fraulein,” said Congressman Ream. “Send someone to get the bags. Is the manager in?”
I must admit, my mouth had fallen open wide enough to stuff in even one of Freni’s dumplings, but that was no excuse for what he said next. “Speakatee zee English?”
“Apparently about as well as you,” I couldn’t resist saying. I was still in a state of shock. This man was an elected public official, and even though I didn’t live in his district, it was pretty darn cheeky of him to be so rude. Next year, when he ran for the Senate, we’d see who got the last laugh.
“Well, if you speak English, Miss, then hop to it and get the manager and bellboy out here, pronto!”
I glared at him, pretending I was Ms. Parker and he was me. “I am the manager, mister!”
“You?”
“Darling,” said his wife, stepping forward and taking his left arm in both of hers, “let’s just check in, shall we? It’s been a long drive.”
I could tell just by the way she spoke that the lady had class. Everything about her whispered (a soft, cultured whisper, of course) class. The way she moved was pure class. From the tip of her expensively but elegantly coiffed hair to the tips of her make-Imelda-Marcos-envious shoes, she looked classy. What then was she doing with such a clod? Besides the fact that he was handsome?
“I can take care of this, dear,” the clod muttered under his breath.
The class act didn’t seem to hear him. “We’re Congressman and Mrs. Ream,” she said smoothly, “and this is Mr. James, my husband’s aide. I believe you have us down for reservations.”
I pretended to scan the register. “Ah yes, Mrs. Ream. I have you down right here. Are you vegans, lactos, or ovas?”
“We’re Episcopalians.” A slight smile played at the corners of her perfectly made-up mouth.
“I see. Will that be the Amish Lifestyle Package Option, or do you want Housekeeping snooping in your rooms?”