Tea with Jam and Dread (22 page)

‘May I flagellate you then?’ I said.

Lady Celia blanched. ‘Miss Yoder, please don’t take this personally, but I am
not
attracted to women.
Any
women – not just you.’

‘Then welcome, dear,’ I said and stepped further aside. ‘I also have no interest in mammals with corresponding body parts. I was, as they say, just yanking your chain with my last comment. To flagellate means “
to
whip
”. I figured that if you didn’t know what I was talking about then I wasn’t imagining you.’

‘You have a strange way of making sense, Miss Yoder. I’ve always sort of liked you. In fact, that’s why I’m here.’

I led the young woman – I still was not quite sure of her identity – through my bedroom and into an alcove that is furnished with two recliners that swivel to face a seventy-inch television that rises from the floor. This is as close to a ‘man cave’ as the Babester gets. Trust me, no other house in our Amish and Mennonite community boasts such an expensive and worldly setup – nor ought they. I have conceded this one great pleasure in order to keep the love of my life happy. And now I must confess that I may not have been entirely truthful earlier, for there have been times when Gabriel has persuaded me to sit alongside him as a dutiful wife and watch television shows with deceptive names, such as
The Good Wife
, who does not act like a good wife, but more like a wanton harlot in my opinion. But what am I to do? The New Testament states quite clearly that it is the husband who is the head of the house, and that the wife should obey him.
Oy vey
, I realize now that I brought this on myself when I became unevenly yoked with a nonbeliever. And since the New Testament also says that I am not allowed to get divorced unless he commits adultery –
which he never will
– we shall forever remain yoked together like an ass and ox. Besides, I adore Gabe. I love every hair on his manly chest and even the ones that are beginning to creep across his shoulders and back.

‘Wow!’ said Lady Celia’s doppelgänger. ‘You have a humongous bedroom and this place back here is really cool.’

‘Hang on, toots,’ I said, ‘because you ain’t seen nothing yet.’ I pressed the button on a remote that made the television rise silently from the floor. Then I pressed another button, one that caused a pair of heavy floor-to-ceiling drapes to part, revealing a set of French doors, and through them a well-lit patio.

‘Wow again,’ said the girl, her jaw scraping the floor. ‘How romantic!’

‘A gal has to work hard to keep the romance going,’ I said, ‘especially when she’s an ugly duckling married to a prince charming.’

She scowled. ‘Perhaps. But what does that have to do with this?’

‘
Moi
– ugly duckling,’ I said, rolling my eyes in exasperation. ‘Mr Rosen, the most handsome man you’ve ever seen.’

‘Wrong,’ the girl said. ‘He might be an eight – in the eyes of an older woman – but certainly no more than that. And you, by the way, are not an ugly duckling. If you stopped dressing so severely and wore a little makeup, you could easily be a nine. A femme fatale.’

Believe it or not, I had heard this same spiel coming directly from the lips of a psychologist. He tried to convince me that I suffered from a mental disease known as Body Dysmorphic Syndrome. Supposedly, I was incapable of seeing myself as I really was, and the ugly reflection that I viewed in the mirror was the result of low self-esteem. Of course, he was wrong; for me to agree with him would have been proud and quintessentially un-Mennonite.

‘Flattery might get you everywhere,’ I said to the girl, ‘but not with me, dear. I don’t swing that way, if you get my drift, and I wouldn’t even drift that way, if I was a swinger, which I’m not, since I’m happily married to a man who is a solid
ten
in my eyes, so there!’

‘You are a hoot, Miss Yoder, I’ll grant you that.’

‘And a holler.’

‘Undoubtedly so.’

‘Then come outside and sit on my private patio,’ I cried. ‘Because you agreed with me, you are now back in my good graces. There is one caveat, however – no, make that two.’

‘What are they?’ she said. Talk about looking a gift horse in the mouth!

‘First you must agree to sit here and sip a cup of tea like a civilized person, maybe even have a slice of Freni’s homemade bread, slathered in Amish butter, and then covered with heaps of strawberry jam.’

‘Agreed,’ she said. ‘What is the second condition?’

‘The second condition is that you put the kettle on and make the tea. We Americans are Philistines, I’m afraid. We use tea bags which, I am sure, horrify you civilized Brits. But, as the saying goes, “beggars can’t be choosers.” You’ll find real cream, from my very own Holstein cows, in a pitcher in the refrigerator, as well as the butter and jam. The bread is in a wooden box on the counter, and it is clearly labelled bread in shiny gold letters. Just scrounge in the cabinets and drawers until you find the necessary cups, plates and tableware.’

‘But, Miss Yoder—’

‘No “buts,” dear, this is America, where everyone is equal and must pull their own weight. Now hop to it before I decide to charge you for the privilege of making tea in an authentic Pennsylvania Dutch kitchen.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Quite frankly, the speed and efficiency with which the noble lass performed her duties impressed me. One would have thought that she’d been born to an American. I barely had time to use my private facilities and check on the status of my precious bundle of joy. For the record, Little Jacob was snoring ever so softly, thanks to the remnants of a summer cold.

Not only was Lady Celia quick, she was remarkably resourceful. Tea was served on a wood tray that I’d forgotten I owned. This she placed on a small wicker table that separated a pair of Adirondack rocking chairs. The traditional English tea pot, the bone china cups and saucers, had all belonged to Gabe before we were married and were part of our ‘melded’ things. Somehow, in those few minutes the girl had not only found time to make jam sandwiches, she’d even removed the crusts. Believe me, if she ever immigrated to the United States and wound up impoverished, I would offer her a job as my housemaid in a heartbeat.

‘Now, dear,’ I said, ‘pour us each a cuppa and then settle into your rocker, whereupon you must get straight to the point.’

‘Miss Yoder, what’s a cuppa?’

‘Aha! I had my suspicions! Pretending not to know what pancakes are – that was Aubrey’s first mistake. Every Englishman knows what pancakes are; on Shrove Tuesday you even have pancake races.’

‘Busted,’ the erstwhile Lady Celia said. ‘But I still don’t know what a cuppa is.’

‘It’s a
cup of tea
, you twit – oops, you sweet little thing. Dear Lord,’ I prayed aloud, ‘guard my tongue from speaking evil.’

‘Miss Yoder,’ said my youngest guest, ‘you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. We all agree that you have a razor-sharp tongue, but you also have a razor-sharp conscience. That’s obvious from the constantly changing expressions on your face.’

‘Come again?’ I said.

‘You’re like a one-woman character study of good and evil. No offense, Miss Yoder, but you do possess a rather large face, and one can observe your emotions battling across the screen, just as real as if they were actors.’

That offended me. ‘What would you, young lady, who is
not
a lady, know about actors?’

‘Miss Yoder, I am an actor.’

‘Aren’t we all? But shouldn’t you have said “actress?” Unless, of course, you changed genders – not that I have a problem with that, mind you.’

‘No, I did not switch genders. Nowadays we try to avoid sexist terms like “actress” since it really serves no important function. Anyway, when I said that I was an actor, I mean that I am a professional actor. More specifically, I was paid to act the part of Lady Celia Grimsley-Snodgrass; my real name is Joyce Toestubber.’

Even in the patio light I could see that my long-drawn-out sigh appeared to blow the steam from my tea in a straight line. Lady Celia’s doppelgänger was sorely trying my patience.

‘Pay attention, Celia, dear,’ I said as I leaned over the table in her direction. ‘Read my lips, if you can. I am quite capable of playing mind games all by myself. Coming across as weird to others is one of my skill sets. Faking an American accent, and a very bad one at that, is one thing. But choosing an alias like Joyce Toebuster – why, that’s just laughable!’

The young woman leaped nimbly to her feet while holding her tea and without spilling nary a drop. ‘I take umbrage with that, you old bag. My name
is
Joyce Toestubber – not Toebuster! Whoever heard of a stupid name like Toe
buster
? And I am most certainly
not
faking my accent; I come from Chillicothe, Ohio, which is the heartland of America, and our English is the purest of the pure. So you better apologize to me right now if you want to learn anything –
anything
at all – about the others, and how they came to be fooling you.’ She paused. ‘You old bag,’ she added quite needlessly again.

There is at least one thing good about living a life filled with bad things; you start to recognize the truth when you hear it repeated for the umpteenth time.

‘Oh my heavens,’ I said. ‘Oh my stars! Fiddlesticks and pickup sticks! I have been fooled yet again. I
am
a fool, yet again. My poor brain is swirling around in my oversized noggin, like bathwater going down the drain. Speak to me, Joyce Toejam; lay the truth upon these misshapen ears so that I might eventually – perhaps after the fifth telling thereof – absorb an inkling of what is really going on. Lay the truth upon me, I beseech thee, Ms Toejam. Henceforth I shall shut up; the stage is all yours.’

‘Somehow I doubt that, Magdalena Yapper.’

‘It’s
Yoder
, dear, not Yapper!’

‘I’ll say your name right when you say mine correctly. Although, frankly, your second attempt to butcher my name is at least understandable. I really should wash my feet more often.’

I hung my horsey head in shame. ‘Apparently I owe an entire nation my apologies.’

‘At any rate,’ Joyce said, ‘the truth is that I am a trained actor who has been scratching out a living in a professional company of actors who perform Shakespearean plays. We call ourselves the Boarshead Players and there used to be thirteen of us. We were quite famous, you know. We performed all over the country: Los Angeles, St Louis, Chicago, New Orleans, Miami, Washington, Philadelphia and even New York. Not quite on Broadway, but very close. You must have heard of us.’

‘Nope.’

‘Hmm. Well, it’s your loss, then. We were good, as you can tell, because we fooled you, Ms Eagle Eyes Yoder.’

‘
Really?
You think I’m sharp? Because flattery really will get you everywhere, except not
there
, as we’ve already established – unless your name is Angelina Jolie. I saw her picture on the cover of one of those gossip magazines in the grocery checkout line and I just had to buy it. I thumbed through the pictures out of curiosity, of course, but I soon found that I had to tell Satan to get behind me numerous times. This proved to be a rather tricky task for Satan, I’m afraid, seeing as how I was seated in my private bathtub – the one with thirty-two jets, and which I have named Big Bertha. Goodness me, I don’t know why I’m telling you such a personal story.’

‘Maybe because you’re worried about being a lesbian?’

‘I most certainly am not! I have made a lot of rash decisions in my life, but that is one choice I have yet to make.’

‘It is
not
a choice, Ms Yoder. Just like the fact that you were attracted to Doctor Rosen wasn’t a choice. Or
was
it?’

‘Stop right where you are, young lady; I will not be confused with facts. Back to the subject at hand. What happened to the rest of the Boarshead Players, and why on earth did you answer poor Agnes’s ad when she went trawling for nobility?’

‘What happened to the others, and us, was the economy. Unlike your beloved Angelina Jolie, most stage actors – unless they have achieved a certain level of fame – do not rake in huge salaries. Besides, these days people would much rather see
The Lion King
for the millionth time than a stage production of
Hamlet
.’

‘That’s not true,’ I snapped – albeit gently, as is my style. ‘Gabriel dragged me all the way into Pittsburgh to see
The Lion King
, and what a bitter disappointment that turned out to be. There wasn’t a lion in the show! It was just people prancing around in costumes. Even the supposed cub was a real-life boy. I would have much rather watched some men in tights waggle their swords at each other.’

Joyce snorted. ‘That’s because you take everything literally. The Bible – everything. I bet that you even believe the newscasters on TV.’

‘Ha,’ I said, ‘I got you there, because that all depends on which channel I’m watching.’

The second time that Joyce snorted, she sounded exactly like Saul Lieberman’s stud bull. ‘Actually, you probably hear very little of what’s on the screen because you’re constantly talking back to it, like a drunk who’s washed down a handful of LSD pills with a bottle of gin. Am I right?’

‘Maybe, but you don’t have to be so rude about it. Now tell me the story about the not-so-noble Grimsley-Snodgrasses, and I promise not to interrupt. I’ll even stop breathing, if you signal me to stop. Now start yammering. I’m all misshapen ears.’

GRAPEFRUIT MARMALADE

2 grapefruits

2 lemons

2 oranges

Sugar

Wash fruit. Remove core and seeds of grapefruit. Remove thin yellow outside rind and cut ½ of it in fine strips. Remove the thick white peel, but do not use. Mix shaved rind with the cut-up pulp. Put into preserving kettle with three times as much water and let stand overnight. Put on stove, let come to boiling point and boil for ten minutes. Repeat this for two days. On the third day, measure and add an equal amount of sugar and boil for one hour or until thick. Turn into jelly glasses.