by Tamar Myers
"I don't have any enemies, dear," I said at last. "Well, none that I'm aware of."
Hannah was a quick little thing. She feinted to the left, stopped on a dime, and made a mad dash around ncie on the right. She took the front steps like a gazelle on steroids. A couple more seconds and she would be in the house.
Suddenly it hit me, and I knew what she was after. Alas, it was too late to intercept her physically.
"Melvin Stoltzfus!" I yelled at the top of my lungs. "That menacing mantis is my nemesis. And Lodema Schrock is the bane of my existence!"
Hannah turned and smiled.
24
"Come in," she said. "I will make us some tea, yah?"
I scurried up the walk, but when I got to the steps, I prudently removed the pumps. Hannah held the door open for me.
"Thank you."
She followed me into a large but sparsely furnished room. A plain wooden bench flanked one wall, two chairs the opposing wall. In between there was enough space to hold a dance—not that I would know from personal experience, mind you.
Hannah seemed to read my mind. "The church will be held here on Sunday. The benches are now in the bam, yah? They will be brought in Saturday, but today I must clean the floors. Then tomorrow and Saturday I will cook."
I nodded. Most Amish sects, unlike we Mennonites, meet for worship in private homes on a rotation basis. This requires each family to have a fairly open floor plan, with space to accommodate as many as a hundred worshippers. The wooden benches upon which the worshippers sit, and which are communally owned, are shuttled from home to home by horse-drawn wagon a few days prior to the service. After the service, which lasts more than three hours, a communal meal is served. Because of the effort and expense involved, families seldom have to host more than once in a calendar year.
We entered Hannah's kitchen, which was spotless, but harkened back to the turn of the century—the nineteenth century. The sink was supplied with water from an artesian well by a hand pump. The icebox was just that—a squat insulated box in which a chunk of ice sat, melting slowly, surrounded by soggy perishables. The stove was made of solid cast iron and used wood for fuel. The firebox looked large enough—please forgive a mind that has seen death once too often—to accommodate a human body.
Hannah bade me sit at a sturdy oak table while she stoked the fire and added several pieces of wood. Then she filled a cast-iron kettle at the pump and placed it on the burner nearest the firebox.
"You like molasses cookies?" she asked.
"Love them."
"Milk with the tea, yah?"
"Lots."
"Sugar, yah?" It was more of a statement than a question.
"Oodles of sugar, if you don't mind."
"Ach, you are the same as me."
"Isn't that the truth," I said. It never hurts to affirm one's affinities with the subject of a forthcoming interview. Lucky for me, I really did love molasses cookies and sweet milky tea. But I would have pretended to prefer gingersnaps and lemon if that's what I thought she wanted to hear.
The technology may have been a hundred or more years old, but the water heated quickly, and soon we were sipping our tea and munching what truly were some of the best cookies I've ever eaten.
"So, tell me," Hannah said, looking away almost shyly, "why you do not like this Melvin Stoltzfus."
"Because he's a nincompoop."
"Yah?" Hannah, whose English vocabulary was unquestionably more limited than mine, was clearly alarmed.
"The man's an idiot," I explained. "A dumkopf."
She nodded somberly. "Yah, it is a sin to say this, but I feel the same."
"Really? What did he do to you?"
"He gives my husband a ticket, because the horse does not wear a diaper and—uh—"
"I get the picture, dear. Would you pass the cookies, please."
She handed me the plate. "So, Miss Yoder—"
"Please, call me Magdalena." I learned long ago that being on a first-name basis fosters intimacy, which is a prerequisite for confession.
"Magdalena," she said, obviously relishing the privilege, "you did not come here to talk about the police chief. Or Lodema Schrock with the serpent's tongue. It is about my sister, yah? Because she is a famous artist, yah?"
"Yah—I mean, yes. Well, to be totally honest, it's not so much her I wanted to ask about, but her husband."
Hannah's eyes grew to the size of molasses cookies. Her face paled to the color of milk.
"You knew about him? This Clarence Webber?"
"Of course, dear. I make it my business to know everything. What I want to know now is, how well did you know the man?"
"Ach, not so much! And Emma, she does not know the man either. I ask her, how can you marry this man?"
"What did she say?"
"She says it is love at first sight. Do you believe in this love at first sight, Magdalena?"
"Well—uh, let's not talk about me, dear. How did your sister meet Mr. Webber? And where?" The truth is, I did believe in love at first sight. I fell in love with my Pooky Bear—a.k.a. the scoundrel Aaron Miller—instantly, in a cow pasture, and look how that ended. I fell in love with Gabe over the course of an evening, but that was still going strong.
Hannah sighed, the color returning slowly to her face. "She met him at one of her painting shows. Over in Bedford."
"How long before they were married was that?"
She shrugged. And then, leaning across our cups, whispered. "Magdalena, these questions are very difficult for me. You see, I am not supposed to see my sister."
I nodded. "Because of the ban."
"Yah. But sometimes I cannot help it. I must see her, even if it is a sin."
"I understand. I have a sister too. Susannah may get on my nerves more than a bad case of poison ivy, but she's still a huge part of my life." I smiled encouragingly. "Believe me, dear, I won't tell a soul about your visits to your sister."
She looked at me, her eyes filled with gratitude. "I try to follow this ban, Magdalena, but I cannot." She paused. "You ask how long between when they meet and when they marry—I think maybe just two weeks. Emma does not like to talk about it, yah?"
"But you did meet Clarence, right?"
"Yah, but I was not invited to the wedding." She stared sadly at her tepid tea. "I did meet this man—after they were married. I saw him only once, but I did not like him. There was something—ach, how do I say this?"
"He seemed evil?"
She frowned. "Perhaps that is too strong of a word. But swami, yah?"
"Swami?"
"Ach, that is the wrong word. But he was smug, yah? And I did not trust him."
"Smarmy!" I ejaculated. "That fits him to a tee."
Hannah beamed. "Smarmy. I want to tell Emma this, but of course it is too late."
"You're close to your sister, aren't you?"
"Yah, we used to be very close. Not so much now, of course."
"Why do you think Emma was attracted to Clarence? Face it, dear, he wasn't all that good-looking."
She smiled. "Yah, there were better-looking men—but nobody for my Emma."
"You mean she's picky?"
Hannah excused herself to put the kettle back on. She waited until she was sitting again before answering.
"Magdalena, you are a woman of the world. In the world it is very important to be pretty, yah?"
"Unfortunately it helps. Not that I would know from personal experience, mind you. I have, however, read a few articles." Frankly, it's a wonder my toilet tank hasn't collapsed under the weight of all the McCall's, Ladies' Home Journal, and Reader's Digest magazines I keep stacked on the lid.
She nodded. "Well, my Emma is not so pretty, and of course she cannot marry an Amish man."
"Are you saying she was desperate?"
"Ach!"
"But you are saying that, aren't you?"
Hannah grabbed my wrist. Her fingers, which had milked countl
ess cows, might as well have been made of steel. There was no breaking away.
"It is the clock," she said. "Always it strikes. You feel it too, yah?"
I sat motionless, trying to hear the clock, or maybe, if it was a grandfather clock, feel its vibrations. Except for a low rumbling emanating from the firebox, the distant drone of the windmill, and the closer drone of a fly, the Zug world was silent.
"Sorry, dear, but I don't hear a clock."
She pointed at my stomach. "The baby clock! Do you not hear it?"
"Oh that!" Alas, the batteries in my baby clock had all but run out. Even if I found a man to ring my chimes, it probably wouldn't do me any good.
"So you see," Hannah said, "Emma had to get married. Even now that she is no longer Amish, she feels that she must be married to have a baby."
I gasped. "Is she pregnant?"
"Ach, no! I mean for the future."
"I see. So it was really a marriage of convenience."
The kettle was steaming like a miniature volcano. When Hannah rose to turn it off, I got up as well.
"You've been very helpful," I said. "But I have to ask you a huge favor."
She turned from the stove, suddenly wary. "What is this favor?"
"You must forget you saw me."
"How is this possible?"
"Well, not literally, of course, but you mustn't mention our little chat to anyone. And above all, you can't, under any circumstances, tell anyone that we talked about Clarence Webber. Do you give me your word?"
I knew that, as an Amish woman, she would not swear to silence. As a Mennonite, I would not ask her to. A simple "yes" would have sufficed, but I could see in Hannah's eyes that she couldn't wait to tell her sister about my visit.
I didn't like to threaten her, even by implication, but it was too important to let go.
"Remember, I am promising you that I will not go to the bishop and tell him about your visits with your sister. Surely you can promise me not to tell anyone, especially your sister, about my visit here today."
Hannah gave me her word.
If you can't trust your town's policewoman, then who can you trust? Maybe her hairdresser. At least it was worth a try.
I knew from previous conversations with her that Zelda Root got her bizarre haircuts at Paul Rue's House of Hair up in Bedford. I'd driven by there once or twice and seen the large collection of wigs in the window, so I knew Paul Rue did more than cut. I also knew that Paul was from Paris—or at least he pretended to be from the City of Lights. That was the most common rumor. Others, however, have variously reported he was from Hungary, Russia, and even Andorra. Not that it really mattered, though, because this was Bedford County. Paul could have been from Parsippany, and we would have thought him exotic.
They say that Tuesday is the best day to go shopping, get your car fixed, or visit a government office, because for some strange reason Tuesday is the day most Americans prefer to stay at home. It appeared that Americans preferred not to patronize the House of Hair on Thursdays either. There was no one in the shop except Mr. Rue when I entered, so I got waited on by the head honcho himself.
"What a hideous wig!" he cried, in his charming accent. He clapped his hands to his cheeks. "It looks like a dead muskrat, no?"
I smiled ruefully. "The wig is blond. Muskrats are brown. And just for the record, they're incapable of love."
He grinned and extended a well-manicured hand. The proffered paw was the size of a child's hand, in keeping with the man's diminutive stature. He was, after all, no larger than a twelve-year- old boy.
"I like you already," he said. "Zee name is Paul. And you are?"
"Portulacca." It was, after all, the truth.
"Is zat your family name?"
"Does it really matter, dear? Think of me as Cher. Or Madonna. One name is all I need."
He had me sit in a genuine imitation leather chair. Then with a snap of his wrist he spun the chair so that I faced the mirror.
"Veil, den, Portulacca, what can I do for you today? Besides get rid of zat ting for you."
"That's basically it. I'm hoping you can help me select a better model, or"—I snatched the faux locks off my sweating head— "come up with a more flattering hairstyle."
Paul gasped, his hands finding comfort on his cheeks again. "Mon Dieu! It eez zee muskrat."
I gave him an abbreviated version of my evil eye. "Not hardly, dear. This is all home-grown protein."
He shuddered. "Vee must cut it off! It is disgraceful for a beautiful woman like you to have hair like that, no?"
"No—I mean, yes! I mean, what's wrong with it?"
"You are just joking, yes?" He'd picked up a scissors and was gazing at my head with all the longing of a quarantined child looking out the window at freshly fallen snow.
"I most certainly—" I caught myself just in time. "You know, dear, I was thinking of a hairdo like the one you gave Zelda."
"Thelda?"
"Zelda Root. The policewoman from Hernia."
Paul Rue recoiled in horror. I spun around to face him.
"What's the matter now?" I demanded.
"Zat—woman," he said between gasps, "her name must never be spoken in here."
"Oh, really? What did she do? Forget to tip?"
He waved the scissors like a conductor's baton, punctuating each word. "She lie to me, yes? She make promise to marry me so zat I can get my green card, and then, voila, she is marry somebody else."
"Oo-la-la," I said. "That had to hurt."
"Like zees!" He pantomimed stabbing his own breast. "Now vhat vill I do?"
"Go back to Paris?"
He scowled. "Paris? Never!"
It occurred to me that the stories I'd heard about Mr. Rue might be wrong. Maybe he wasn't French after all. I decided to fish for the truth.
"Then maybe Moscow, dear. You'd look good in a fur coat."
"Bah! Moscow, eet eez too cold."
"Berlin then. It's supposed to be a happening city."
"No vay, Berlin. Zee language eez too difficult. It makes me pit."
"I think you mean 'spit,' dear. How about Rome? It's nice and sunny there, and Italian is such a romantic language."
"Maybe yes, but zee people drive always too fast. Eez crazy, no?"
"Spain?"
"Vhere zay keel zee balls?"
"I beg your pardon?"
He gave me a pitying look. "Een zee ballfight."
"Andorra?" I asked desperately.
"Vhere?"
"Never mind, dear. Wherever home is, I bet it's lovely."
"Yes, of course, but eet is not as beautiful as zees. I love zees country. Zay vill have to drag me avay." He laid the scissors across his heart and began to hum "The Star-Spangled Banner." About two bars into it he stopped abruptly. "Are you married, Portu- lacca?"
"Moi?"
"Yes, you!"
I shook my head reluctantly. "I was once, but I doubt if I'd ever do it again." That contained a kernel of truth, because I'd never marry anyone other than Gabe the Babe, and at this point that seemed highly unlikely. The Babester and I were of different faiths, and neither of us had any intention of converting. While the good doctor didn't have any problem with marrying someone outside of his faith—or at least I assume that was the case—I could never marry a non-Christian. For one thing, Mama would spin so fast in her grave, the heat generated would melt both polar ice caps, flooding much of the eastern U.S. When that happened, Hernia might well become a beach town, home to a bevy of buxom bathing beauties, and I would surely lose Gabe. So what would be the point?
Unless—my pulse started to race—Reverend Schrock gave us his blessing. That would make it a whole different ball game. Mama wouldn't dare object to a proper Mennonite minister officiating at the wedding, even if there were a rabbi present. But would Reverend Schrock agree? Quite possibly! After all, his was a mixed marriage, wasn't it? Good and evil!
Paul must have s
ensed the shift in my reasoning. He eyed me shrewdly through peepers that were mere slits.
"But you vill change your mind if zee price is right, yes?"
Never dismiss a business offer until you've heard all the details. "My prices tend to be rather high, dear. What did you have in mind?"
25 - Jalapeno Grits Casserole
Some folks who won't eat grits in any other form will line up for this spicy version. It's sort of a party dish, definitely special enough for company.
1 recipe Basic Boiled Grits
2 cups shredded sharp Cheddar cheese
½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, cold, cut into pieces
3 large eggs, lightly beaten
3 tablespoons minced seeded fresh jalapeno or cayenne peppers
Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
Preheat the oven to 350° F. Generously butter a deep 2-quart baking dish.
Prepare the grits, add the cheese and butter, and beat until smooth. Stir in the beaten eggs and peppers and season with salt and pepper.
Pour the grits into the prepared baking dish. Bake until the grits are set and the top is lightly browned, about 35 minutes.
Serves 6
26
"Half ownership in zees shop."
More details were needed. "Would this be a marriage in name only, or would I have to—uh—submit to—uh, live up to certain obligations?"
Paul's eyes widened with horror. "In name only, of course!"
"Well! You don't have to be so vehement about it."
"So, you vill do it?"
"I didn't say that. And I didn't say I wouldn't. But I will say this: Any man I marry has to be capable of holding up his end of a conversation. There's nothing worse than sitting in a restaurant across from two hundred pounds of mute meat."
"Talk? Eez zees vat you vant?" He spun one of the adjacent faux leather chairs in my direction and plonked his pretend-Parisian patootie on the pink pleather. "So, let us talk."
"Well, dear, why don't we chat about Zelda's marriage to the recently deceased Clarence Webber?"