by Tamar Myers
"So that's where you're headed, eh?"
"Yes. Do you know how to get there?"
"Doesn't that young man of yours know? Usually it's the groom who makes the arrangements when folks elope."
"I'm not eloping! And he's not a young man!" I slammed one of the water jugs on the counter, barely missing Sam's fingers. "I take it, then, you don't know."
Sam smirked. It is an expression I find particularly irritating on him, perhaps because we look so much alike. Same faded eyes, same thin lips, same nose worthy of its own zip code.
"Suppose I have heard of this guy? What's your interest in this, Magdalena? Melvin have you working on a case?"
"You must have had a slow day so far, Sam. You should know exactly what I'm up to."
"I don't gossip with my customers." He sounded genuinely hurt.
"Maybe not, dear. But you're the one who first told me that El- speth Miller beats her husband, Roy. And it was you who broke the news that the Schwartzentrubers—the Amish Schwartzentru- bers—on Rickenbach Road bought a transistor radio from the Wal- Mart up in Bedford. You even called me on the day the bishop finally decided to excommunicate them. And when Thelma Gray- bill's goiter—"
"Okay, I get the picture. But can I help it if folks like to talk to me?"
I waved a hand impatiently. "So, do you know about this J.R, or not?"
To get back at me he took his sweet time in answering. My favorite author, Ramat Sreym, could have written an entire book while waiting for Sam's response.
"Well," he finally said, "as it happens, I have heard of this guy. Dorothy's niece, Juanita, tied the knot there last year. Said the old geezer gave her the creeps."
"Dorothy's niece got married? Why wasn't I invited? Why didn't anyone even bother to tell me?"
"You've never even met Juanita, that's why. Like I said, she's on Dorothy's side of the family."
I sniffed. Sam had no business marrying Dorothy in the first place. The woman was a Methodist, for crying out loud.
"Anyway," Sam said, "the guy's name is Benedict something or other."
"Benedict Arnold?"
"That's it." Sam was serious. "Only it's the other way around. Arnold Benedict. Didn't we learn about a guy with that name in school?"
If my cousin had spent more time with his Yoder nose in his books and less time tying my pigtails into knots, he would have learned more.
"Benedict Arnold created some fancy egg dish," I informed my ignorant cousin. "Everyone knows that. I never heard of Arnold Benedict. But that's this guy's name, huh?"
"Yup. Shouldn't be too hard to find. Just look him up in the phone book. But like I said, be careful. Juanita didn't like him at all."
"I'll be as careful as a hen in a den of foxes." I tapped the bottle of sanitizing gel. "You charged me for this twice."
Sam feigned surprise. "I did?"
"You bet your bippy, buster. In fact, that's the third time this month you've overcharged me." I gave him a meaningful look. "I heard once that some store owners actually give their relatives discounts."
He deleted the charge. "You know, Magdalena, in some states it's not illegal for first cousins to marry."
I fished for my wallet. "Your point, dear?"
"Well, it's no secret that Dorothy and I haven't been getting along lately—"
"Sayonara!" I sang, as I grabbed my bags and scooted for the door. The wilds of western Maryland were awaiting me.
18
There wasn't even a guard shack at the border. Just a little blue and white sign that said Maryland.
I sniffed the air carefully. Mama had been wrong. There was no scent of sin, at least not as far as I could tell. Then again, I'm not all that familiar with the smell.
Cumberland is larger than Bedford, but not as large as Pittsburgh, and I found it surprisingly easy to get around. The people were friendly and spoke English. In fact, on my third try—at a Speedway gas station—I found someone who knew Arnold Benedict.
"I know of the man," Beth said. She was a big-busted woman in a green smock, about my age, and wore her hair in what Susannah mockingly calls a "holy-roller beehive." Her name badge, which was pinned to the apex of her bosom, bobbled with every word she spoke.
"Fantastic!" I cried. "Can you tell me where he lives?"
Beth had a golf-ball-size wad of gum in her mouth. Every three or four words she would stop to give the gum a quick chew.
"He lives in a big white house up 'top a hill on Beaver Pond Lane. To get there just keep going on this street 'til you get to the third stoplight. Go on through and get yourself going east on 1-40.
Take that 'til it meets up with 1-68. Get off on the Willowbrook—I forget the number. Anyway, go through two lights and three stop signs. Turn left on Buttermilk, and then a sharp right on Beaver Pond. Should be the third house on your left." She rolled her eyes upward in thought. "Might be the fourth, though."
"What's the number?" I asked, only half joking.
"Six six six."
"You're kidding!"
"Yeah, I'm kidding. Don't know the number right off, but I can look it up for you. Wilma!" she barked. The gum unfortunately came sailing out and landed on the counter. Beth popped it back into her mouth. "Wilma! Where's the damn phone book?"
Wilma, who was standing just inches from Beth, shrugged, and went back to the business of handing a customer dirty change.
"Don't really need it," Beth said. "The number, I mean." She blew a bubble the size of an apple. "Just ask anybody out there. They'll tell you which house."
I nodded. "Is Mr. Benedict a friend of yours?"
Beth clucked, and for a second I thought she was going to spit. "Look, I'm a Christian woman, ma'am. I know we're supposed to love our neighbors, but that's taking it too far."
"I'm Christian too," I said.
She glanced at my prayer cap. "Yeah, I can see that you are. Mennonite, right?"
"Right."
"Only you ain't from around here."
"How could you tell?"
"Your accent. It's kind of funny." She clucked again. "But see- ing's how you're a Christian and all, what do you want with old Benedict and his wife?"
"To convert him," I heard myself say. Oh, how my face burned with shame. It's one thing to lie about your age, or to tell your pastor you're too busy to teach Vacation Bible School when you're not, but to lie about doing the Lord's work—well, that's just plain wrong.
Beth ducked again. If she were one of my hens, there would be an egg by now.
"Good luck, is all I can say. I'll be praying for you."
"Thank you."
She let Wilma handle the customers and pulled me into one of the aisles. On the shelves I saw sardines, trail mix, and even powdered milk. My shopping spree at Sam's had been unnecessary.
"You ain't planning to go there alone, are you?" She punctuated each word with a snap of the gum.
"Yes."
Beth shook her head. "It's a brave woman that would risk her
reputation like that."
"I'm not planning to use their services," I explained quickly. "I
have a boyfriend—make that a man friend—back in Pennsylvania.
"Still, people will get the wrong idea. You sure you don't want to just mail them something? Like maybe a Bible?"
See where lying gets you? "I could do that too," I said. "But I really need to speak to them in person."
Beth shrugged. "Don't say I didn't try to stop you." She started back to the counter, where customers were beginning to pile up. Halfway there she stopped and turned. "Like I said, I'll pray for you."
"Please do," I said. I meant it.
Beth's directions were right on the money. It was indeed the third house, benedict's escort service and wedding chapel the sign said. Even reading it with my funny Pennsylvania accent, there was no mistaking the words.
"Mama, I can smell the sin now," I wailed. Although, most probably, it wa
s just plain garbage I smelled. There were bins lining the curb up and down the street.
Thank heavens Mama rarely answers me, and this was one of the days she chose to be mute. To keep it that way—and so as not to be a stumbling block to others—I removed my organza prayer cap and laid it gently on the seat. When Mama didn't throw a hissy fit, like roll over in her grave enough times to create an earthquake, I got out of the car and scurried up a cracked sidewalk.
The large house appeared to have once been a duplex. There were two doors, and about five yards from the building the sidewalk branched. For no particular reason I chose the left. Perhaps because that door had an eye-catching red bulb in its overhead light fixture. I said a brief prayer for courage and rang the bell.
A tiny woman with a face like a bleached prune opened the door on the first ring. She studied me closely before arranging the wrinkles into what was most probably meant as a grin.
"You here about the ad?"
"Yes," I said. I know, it was a stupid lie, but at least I wasn't bearing false witness against any of my neighbors.
"Come in."
I stepped into a dimly lit hall. "Oh, what pretty red flocked wallpaper," I said.
"Thank you. Some of the girls hate it. Mostly the ones who don't have any class."
"Looks very classy to me."
She led me into a large parlor that was sumptuously appointed, but a bit on the crowded side. It was virtually lined with chairs, all of them plush and covered in bright pink velvet that, frankly, clashed with the crimson wallpaper. Tiffany-style floor lamps dispensed a soft, mysterious light. At the far end of the room was a door hung with heavy crimson curtains tied back with tasseled gold braids. It was immediately apparent that the Benedicts loved to entertain.
"Have a seat," she ordered.
I chose a chair near the crimson-swagged door.
"Now pull up your dress a bit. I can't even see your knees."
"I beg your pardon!"
She shook her head. "Honey, you're not the first one to come here looking for a job dressed like an old-maid schoolteacher. Since some of the customers actually like that look, it's all right with me.
But I'm going to have to see the goods—all of them—before you get the job."
"The goods?" Was it just my imagination, or was the thick faux- oriental carpet beneath my feet starting to vibrate?
"Don't be so bashful, honey. A woman your age has been around the block more than once."
"Excuse me?"
"Hey, this isn't your first job, is it?"
"Heavens, no! I've been working ever since I was a little girl. First I helped Mama and Papa around the farm, and then when they died—squished between a milk tanker and a truckload of shoes—I sold most of the livestock and turned the place into a thriving fullboard inn. Condor Nest Travel called it 'the ultimate cross-cultural experience where the water is safe to drink/ They gave it four and a half feathers."
For some reason the prune appeared perplexed. "That farm stuff sounds kinda interesting, and I like the feathers, but that squishing is definitely over the top. And I don't know about that cross-cultural stuff. My customers are strictly heterosexual."
"Well," I said, choosing my words carefully so as not to sound morally superior. "I, for one, try not to judge others on what they may, or may not, be doing behind closed doors. After all, a person is more than his or her sexual orientation."
The prune pondered my words for a moment. "Oh, what the hell? Why not? It could potentially double our client base. You know, you just may be what the doctor ordered."
"So I got the job?"
"You sure do. But speaking of doctors, I want you checked out first. Then regular visits once a month—keeps the customers happy."
I nodded. Now that I'd made an entree of sorts, I was eager to get started on my real job—that of interviewing Arnold Benedict.
The prune wasn't finished. "You're to charge the customers a flat fee of one hundred bucks an hour. You get to keep half. What you do for that half is your business." She chuckled. "If any customer looks at all suspicious—well, remember we're officially an escort service. You can spot an undercover cop, can't you?"
There comes a point when even the most naive amongst us— once supplied with enough clues—finally gets the picture. If it took me longer than most folks, that's thanks to my strict upbringing. Apparently even Mama was clueless for a while. But when that moment of realization finally came, the floor beneath my feet began to shake violently.
"Sister Joan!" I gasped. "She worked here, didn't she?"
The prune shook her head. "Nah, I don't think so. I'd remember somebody who looked like you."
"She's not my sister!" Susannah may be a slut, but she's not a harlot. My baby sister would never charge for what she could give away for free.
"Anyway," the prune said, "we don't use real names here. My girls go by nicknames like Candy, or Bambi."
"This isn't an escort service at all, is it?" I cried.
"Of course it is, honey." Laughter turned the prune's face into an accordion.
"No, it's not! It's a house of ill repute!"
The accordion froze. "You a cop?" she asked without moving her lips.
"No, but I work for one."
She'd been standing in front of me during my interview, and now she backed away as if I had some fatal communicable disease. I stood and tugged the hem of my dress down as far as it would go.
"Look, lady, I didn't come here to cause trouble. I just want to speak to Mr. Benedict."
"He's not here."
"Where is he?"
"Out of town."
"Where out of town?"
"Pittsburgh." She was back to being a prune again.
"Do you have a number where he can be reached?"
"Nope. Amie does that, you know. Goes off for days by himself. Hell, last time he was gone for weeks. I'll tell him you stopped by."
I tried a smirk on for size. It seemed to fit.
"I was hoping to handle this myself," I said. "But—if that's the way you want it—I'll have to call my superior. You wouldn't happen to have a phone I could use, would you?"
The prune turned on a heel and disappeared behind the heavy curtains. She was gone a long time. Not one to waste resources— and time is our most precious resource—I sat and made out a list of menu suggestions for Freni, reviewed the math in my checkbook, and scraped the lint off a half-wrapped mint. I was steeling myself to sort through a jumble of receipts I'd been meaning to file, when I heard the sound of returning footsteps.
The prune was piqued. She was stomping like a vintner in a vat of grapes.
"It's about time, dear!" I called without looking up. After all, the prime did not have a monopoly on rude behavior.
The prune grunted.
"Yes, dear, I'll be with you in a minute. I'm trying to decide if I need to save the receipt for the new rice steamer I bought Freni at Wal-Mart. The warranty is only for parts, and even then, I have to send the whole thing back to someplace in Wisconsin for repairs. And guess who has to pay shipping? It hardly seems worth it, don't you think?"
The curtains parted with such force that the heavy metal rod crashed to the floor. That certainly got my full attention. Unfortunately, by then it was too late to run.
19
I read my Bible daily. I know for a fact that David killed Goliath. And even if he hadn't, the giant would be dead now. Biblical characters lived a long time, but not that long.
Still, the man standing before me seemed to have stepped right out of the pages of that Old Testament story. His head grazed the ceiling, and he had to stoop dramatically to clear the lintel. His chest had the girth of a steamer trunk, and with feet that wide the man would never have to wear snowshoes.
Despite his size, and unlike his Biblical predecessor, this giant was dressed in a rather snappy tailored suit. The charcoal gray was complemented nicely by a monochromatic slate blue shir
t-and-tie set. He was also neatly groomed; his dark hair was parted on one side, his eyebrows kept under control. The only thing preventing him from being handsome—if you like gargantuan men—was skin the color of egg whites.
I'm a pacifist, and I'm supposed to turn the other cheek. However, I have an aversion to pain—my own, at any rate. But just so you know, it was not without guilt that I fumbled for my formidable set of keys. A good poke in the eyes, if I could reach either of them, would certainly buy me time. Barring that, a jab south of the equator, followed by a hard kick, should disable the giant long enough to get me out the door.
"My wife said you needed to speak to me," he said in a voice like a bass drum.
I stared incredulously. "Uh—that was your wife?"
"Bonita Benedict," he said. "We've been married thirty-two years. Not many people can say that these days."
I closed my purse, but held it tightly. I still had the option of whacking him below the equator.
"Mr. Benedict, I'm sure your wife—"
He held up a hand the size of a baseball mitt. Arnold Benedict's fingers were not sewn together, of course.
"I know what you're thinking, little lady. You're thinking that my Bonita robbed the cradle, aren't you?"
"If the snowshoe fits, dear."
His laugh could cause avalanches. "We're the same age, little lady. born on the same day even. But Bonita likes to sunbathe. Does it all summer long, every summer. Me—I almost never go outside."
"Your wife wasn't sunbathing today."
"We both just got up," he said. "She's headed outside now."
I gasped, scandalized at the very thought of sleeping past noon. If I wasn't up with my chores completed by eight, Mama would throw ice water on my bed.
Tall, dark, and not quite so handsome seemed amused by my reaction. "You married, little lady?"
"No, and I don't see that it's any of your business."
"Marriage is one of the oldest institutions there is." He winked lewdly. "But not the oldest."