The Hand that Rocks the Ladle (11 page)

Although the front door was open, the house was protected by a neatly mended screen door. I peered through the screen before ringing the bell. The living room was dark and cool. The nearest piece of furniture was an orange and green plaid couch, its long straight back to the door.

I took a deep breath and rang the bell.

“Yes?” An enormous shape had risen from behind the wall of discordant plaid.

“Mandilla? Is that you?”

“Who are you?”

“Magdalena Yoder.”

“Do I know you?”

“We went to high school together. I own the PennDutch Inn now.”

“Praise God,” she said, and then, “just a minute.” It took more like five minutes for a very pregnant Mandilla Gindlesperger to hoist herself off the couch, waddle to the door, and flip the hook. She was out of breath.

“I was napping,” she puffed. She was wearing a blue denim maternity smock over a white T-shirt. Her legs were bare, her feet clad in fuzzy, pink bunny slippers. Loose strands of mousy brown hair mocked the gold-tone clip at the back of her head.

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I’m glad you did. It’s a sin, but of course you know that.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She motioned me in. “First Thessalonians, chapter five, verses six and seven. 'So then, let us not be like others, who are asleep, but let us be alert and self- controlled. For those who sleep, sleep at night.’ ”

“Amen!” I said. It just so happened that I agreed. Susannah—well, the old Susannah, at any rate—thinks that all the numbers on the clock are P.M. Once, when she had to get up before noon to catch a bus, she asked to borrow an A.M. clock.

“Please sit,” Mandilla said. She pointed to a ladderback chair that had had one of its rungs replaced with a yellow plastic rod, perhaps part of a clothes hangar. The only comfortable place to sit appeared to be the couch, but after waddling back to it, Mandilla reclined, looking for all the world like a beached blue whale.

I sat on the ladderback. Just as I was getting ready to talk, she spoke. “I’m ready,” she said quietly. “Pardon me?”

“Go ahead and prophesy,” Mandilla said, waving a hand like an abbreviated flipper.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean.”

“The Book of Acts, chapter two, verse seventeen.
‘In the last days, God says, I will pour out my spirit on all people. Your sons and daughters will prophesy.
’ These are the last days, aren’t they?”

“Of summer? I don’t think so, dear. We still have the entire month of August.”

“The last days of the world.” She regarded me with one eye closed. “You didn’t come here to prophesy, did you?”

“No. I came to—”

Both eyes opened wide. “To ask my forgiveness? Hallelujah, praise the Lord! I’ve been waiting thirty years for this. Thank you, Jesus.”

“Uh—for what am I being forgiven?”

“For your meanness, of course.”

“What meanness?”

“In high school.”

I could feel my lower jaw drop. “How was I mean?”

“You teased me all the time. You called me fat. You said I was ugly. You used to make squishing sounds when I walked by your desk. Everyone always laughed. Sometimes even the teachers.”

“What?” I couldn’t for the life of me remember ever having teased Mandilla Gindlesperger—only then it was Mandilla Beechy. I certainly never teased her about being fat. I was so rail-thin I would never have dreamed about making any comments pertaining to body shape. Stick, Bean Pole, Carpenter’s Dream, those were the names kids called me, and they hurt. I would never have put anyone else through that sort of pain. And I most certainly never made squishing sounds to get the other kids to laugh. No one ever laughed with me in high school, it was always at me. And that included some teachers as well.

“The devil caused you to do shameful things, Magdalena, but with the Lord’s help, I forgive you.”

“Yes, but—”

“Say hallelujah, Magdalena.”

“Hallelujah, but—”

“Say praise the Lord, Magdalena.”

“Praise the Lord, but I never teased you,” I wailed. Mandilla smiled, one eye closed again. “Is the devil hardening your heart even now?”

“My heart’s as soft as a three-minute egg,” I cried, getting up from the ladderback chair. “And I didn’t come to beg your forgiveness. I came to ask you a few questions about your doctor.”

The smile disappeared as the eye opened. “There’s nothing in the Bible against doctors,” she said. “Anyway it was Levi’s idea that I go to one this time, seeing as how I began spotting early on. But Dr. Pierce, praise God, put me on some medication, and everything is fine. I wasn’t supposed to work though—bed rest is what he ordered—but you can’t lie in bed, what with twelve children.”

“Twelve children,” I said in wonder. Nothing appeared to be out of order in the living room. It was hard to imagine a dozen urchins clamoring about.

She took me wrong of course. “The Bible says, ‘Be fruitful and multiply,' ” she said defensively. “Genesis, chapter one. Verse twenty-eight. Have you been fruitful, Magdalena?”

“I’m as barren as the Gobi Desert,” I wailed, “but it isn’t my fault!”

One eye closed again. “Perhaps if you submitted yourself to a man, Magdalena, your womb would blossom.”

“I submitted!”

“Ah, yes, with the bigamist. But that was only last year. Already the vine had begun to wither. No, I’m talking about a submission of your will. If back when you were younger, Magdalena, you had not been so opinionated, if you had been meek and docile like God intended, you would have found your mate.”

“What?”

“It’s in the Bible. Colossians, chapter three, verse eighteen. ‘Wives, submit to your husbands, as is fitting in the Lord.’ ”

I had a lot to say about that, even things that were not commonly held to be true by my own denomination, but there is no point arguing theology with someone who belongs to a church with thirty-two words in its name. Besides, I was getting sidetracked.

“So you think Dr. Pierce is a good doctor?” I asked.

Both eyes were open wide. “Magdalena, is the desert blooming?”

“There’s still a drought,” I snapped. “I’m just asking on behalf of a friend of mine. Do you think Dr. Pierce is competent?”

“Of course.”

“Do you know if he drinks?”

“Of course he doesn’t! Well—not that I know of.”

“Drugs?”

“Ach!” she said, displaying her origins.

“How do you feel about him taking off on vacation just when you’re about to deliver? You are just about to deliver, aren’t you?” Although, come to think of it, I’d seen on the cover of the National Intruder a photo of a colossal baby—forty pounds I think it weighed. Looked just like a miniature sumo wrestler. I do not buy the National Intruder, mind you, I merely glance at it when I’m in line at the grocery. I feel it is my duty to keep abreast of current events—even fictitious ones.

Mandilla looked stricken. For a minute I thought she was going into labor, and I was going to have to function as her midwife. Been there, done that, as the young folks say, and I’d rather have my nails ripped out and be force-fed mashed turnips than go through that again.

“I cannot tell a lie,” Mandilla said, her voice quavering. “I quit seeing Dr. Pierce three months ago.”

“Why?”

“Because, well, he didn’t approve of what I wanted to do with my baby when he’s born.”

“And what is that?” I couldn’t imagine what one did with a baby, besides raise it? Put it up for adoption? Sell it to the circus? Trade it to the gypsies?

“I’m giving it to the Lord,” she said, and folded her flippers above her big blue stomach.

“What do you mean?”

“As you know, we already have twelve children— the same number as the disciples. We’ve decided to give the thirteenth one back to God.”

“How? Shoot it up to Him in a rocket?”

“Don’t be silly, Magdalena. Rockets don’t really exist. Those are just little toys Hollywood uses to make us believe the devil’s lies.”

“I suppose you believe that man has never walked on the moon?”

“The Lord would never let him.” She said it quietly and firmly, like a true and confident believer.

“Then just how do you plan to return this baby?”

“You take things too literally, Magdalena. Our son—and of course it will be a son—will be raised by a prophet.”

“Let me get this straight, dear. You don’t believe man has been on the moon, yet you’re giving your baby away to Moonies?”

She shook her head. “He’s not a Moony. He’s the Prophet Elijah.”

“You must believe in ghosts,” I said, choosing my words kindly. “Elijah’s been dead for thousands of years.”

She closed both eyes. “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

“Have you spoken about this with your pastor?” I asked gently. I knew Richard Nixon, pastor of the church with thirty-two words in its name. He’s not the brightest bulb in the clerical chandelier, but neither is he completely around the bend.

Mandilla’s peepers popped open in alarm. “He may be my pastor, but not everything is his business.”

“So then, he doesn’t know. Well—”

“It’s totally scriptural, Magdalena. Read your Bible. Hannah gave Samuel to the Lord.”

I had no response to that, except for “that was then, and this is now,” which seemed totally inadequate. There is no arguing with a fanatic. I would just have to take the time to call the Reverend Nixon and maybe Children’s Services.

I stood. “How do your children feel about this?”

“They’re honored that their little brother has been chosen to serve such a great prophet.”

“Speaking of your children, where are they now? It’s summer vacation. Shouldn’t they be driving you crazy, screaming and yelling, and all the other bothersome things children do?” I’m ten years older than Susannah, and thus spent the bulk of my girlhood as an only child. Still, the way Mama told it, I was more trouble than a dozen husbands and as noisy as a gaggle of geese. A dozen children should have been exponentially louder and more burdensome, yet it was so still in the house I could hear the ticking of the plastic, sunflower-faced clock on the wall behind me.

The blue behemoth rose slowly from the bright plaid couch. “My oldest daughter Elizabeth Anne has them for the day. She and her husband have a nice place out in the country with a good fishing pond.”

“You have a daughter old enough to be married and have her own place?”

Mandilla laughed. “Elizabeth Anne is twenty-seven- years old. You could have a daughter that old, Magdalena, if you’d been obedient and submitted your will to a man right out of high school.”

“What?”

“It’s too late for your shriveled womb to flower, of course, but it isn’t too late for you to be a helpmeet to a man. In fact, there’s a man who goes to my church— Warren Haywood—who is still unmarried. He’s a little older than you, but at this late date you can’t afford to be picky. You know that the Lord works in mysterious ways, don’t you? Well, you might want to consider the possibility that the Almighty sent you here today so that I could fix you up with Warren.”

I knew the man in question. His name should be Hayseed, not Haywood. He picks his teeth with the handle of a rattail comb, and despite his deep religious convictions, spits great frothing globs of tobacco juice wherever he goes. A barefoot, blindfolded person could track him just as easily as could a coon dog.

“In a pig’s ear!” I wailed and fled the Gindlesperger house before the Almighty could play His divine practical joke and yoke me to the yokel Warren.

I have been criticized for being rigid with my meal schedule at the PennDutch, but so be it. The Good Lord intended us to eat breakfast at seven, lunch at noon, and supper at six, and although I can’t find that passage in the Bible, I’m sure Mandilla Gindlesperger could. Come to think of it, there’s probably a passage or two about table manners. I have no doubt the disciples chewed with their mouths closed, and if they put their elbows on the table, I’m sure the Lord gave them a good hard poke with his fork. He was here to set an example after all.

So you see, as a Christian it is my duty to insist on punctuality and propriety. I insist that my guests be on time to all meals, and that they are properly dressed. No sleeveless dresses, no tank tops, no shorts. If it needs to be shaved, it must be covered at the table. Faces are the only exception.

Imagine my mortification, then, when I pulled into my driveway at quarter after six. Not only was I late, but there was no supper to serve. I put my pocketbook up to cover my face and sneaked into the kitchen through the back door. I hadn’t the foggiest notion what I was going to make for supper. I can read and follow directions, but I lack the instinct to improvise, the mark of any really good cook, if you ask me. It is Freni’s hand that rocks the ladle in this establishment. She plans all the meals, and although I do the bulk of the shopping, only Freni is allowed to put things away. She has her own system of organizing, one so bizarre and nonsensical that I can only conclude that in a past life Freni worked for the U.S. government. At any rate, I am forbidden to rummage through the cupboards, and consequently am at a total loss in my own kitchen.

The back door sticks, especially in humid summer weather, and it took a bit of shoving and grunting to get it open. When it did open it swung back all the way and sent me flying headlong into the middle of the room, only to be stopped by my massive kitchen table. It hit me mid-thigh and I toppled like a cornstalk in a windstorm, landing facedown in something warm, moist, and, well, fairly tasty.

I looked up, licking my lips. Whatever it was, it wasn’t I half bad.

“Bubble and squeak,” Edwina squeaked. I could tell them apart because Edwina still had her hair pulled back in a ponytail, her mole inexplicably much larger now.

I stared at the group seated at my kitchen table. They had plates of food in front of them and appeared to be about to eat. In addition to the twins, there was Vivian the leather-skinned vamp, her boy-toy Sandy, and the wholesome Redigers, both looking freshly scrubbed, their full Mennonite cheeks glowing with good health and godliness.