The Hand that Rocks the Ladle (4 page)

“Which one is which?”

“I beg your pardon?” Her eyes, over the mask, seemed strangely familiar.

“I mean, which one is Little Jonathan and which one is Little Mose?”

“That hasn’t been decided yet. For now we have them labeled as Baby Hostetler number one, and Baby Hostetler number two.”

I stared at the tiny, squished faces. Neither of them looked like their parents, and they both looked more like Freni than Mose. Of course, at that age most babies look like dried apricots.

“Were you the attending nurse at their birth?”

She nodded. “I’m the only nurse on duty tonight in maternity. In case you haven’t noticed, this is a very small hospital.”

“I’ve noticed, dear,” I said calmly, “but we’re fortunate to have it, aren’t we?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, “don’t get me wrong. It’s just that where I come from—Pittsburgh—this wouldn’t even be considered a clinic. Still, I guess for a one- horse town like this, it beats nothing.”

One-horse town indeed! With all the Amish in the area, Hernia is far from being a one-horse town. I refrained from telling the uppity nurse that maybe she ought to go back to Pittsburgh. Instead I made note of her name. Hemingway.

“Nurse Hemingway,” I said, still calm and collected, “there seems to be some confusion. I accompanied Barbara to her doctor on several occasions, and I’m sure she was supposed to have triplets. There wasn’t— I mean, one of the babies wasn’t stillborn, was it?” The familiar eyes, which were far too heavily made- up, glanced at the door before returning to me. “I can assure you, there were just these two very healthy boys.”

“Is it possible then that ultrasound pictures could be wrong?”

She shrugged. “Did you see those pictures?”

“Well, not personally. But Barbara did.”

Nurse Hemingway glanced at the door again. “Doctors sometime make mistakes.”

“You don’t say!” I was, of course, being facetious. I have great respect for doctors, but have never believed them to be infallible—well, not since the day one left a surgical glove and six feet of gauze inside my Uncle Ernie in an attempt to remove a tumor he didn’t have.

Nurse Hemingway nodded. “You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve seen. Who was Mrs. Hostetler’s original OB-GYN?”

“Dr. Pierce up in Bedford. Do you know him?”

“Let’s just say I’ve heard a few things about the man.”

“Like what?”

“Well, far be it for me to spread tales out of school”—she chuckled—“I mean, the hospital, but—”

“Spit it out, dear!”

“Well, I’ve only been in the area a short time, but it didn’t take long for me to hear about his liquid lunches.”

“Slim-Fast?”

“Martinis don’t make you slim. Fast or slow.”

“He was a drinker?”

“World class, from what I hear.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose that could impair his judgment. Poor Barbara.”

“Yes, I imagine she is disappointed. But two healthy baby boys, that’s something for which anyone should be grateful.”

“You don’t think her health was impaired—or the babies—by Dr. Pierce’s prenatal care early on?”

“I don’t see how. Besides, as I understand it, she’s been seeing Dr. Bauer for the last couple of months.”

“Could you tell me where to find Dr. Bauer?” Nurse Hemingway blinked. “What’s the matter? Don’t you think I know what I’m talking about? I may be a blonde, but I can count to three, you know.” I was taken aback by the abrupt change in her demeanor. I was also feeling a good deal of stress.

“I’m sure you can count to three. No doubt you can even arrange M&M’s in alphabetical order. But I still want to speak with Dr. Bauer.”

She stared at me through unnaturally thick lashes. “You can probably find Dr. Bauer down the hall to your left. His name is on his office. Oh, you can read, can’t you, Mrs. Hostetler?”

“Mrs.
Hostetler
?”

“Aren’t you Jonathan’s mother? I mean, these are your grandbabies, aren’t they?”

“Why I never! Jonathan’s only twelve years younger than I!”

“Ah, then you’re Barbara’s mother.”

“Why I never!” I said and stamped from the room, still wearing the gown and mask.

I knocked softly on Dr. Bauer’s door, which was closed. When he didn’t answer, I knocked appropriately louder. A strip of light shone under the door, and I could hear grunting. I knocked again, this time loud enough to wake the dead (Trust me, the Good Lord could use someone like me at resurrection time). The answering grunt was commensurately loud, and I chose to interpret it as an invitation to enter.

My opening the door seemed to catch Dr. Bauer by surprise. Heaven knows I was surprised. There, behind a massive wooden desk, sat a white-haired gnome. An ancient, wizened white-haired gnome. I mean, it is one thing to have an experienced doctor, but this man had no doubt known God as a boy.

I stared stupidly, my mouth open wide enough to catch a barn swallow. As I stared I happened to notice the gnome had a needle in his arm. He appeared to be giving himself some sort of injection.

“Yes?” he snapped.

I closed my mouth, and gave my lips a few trial flaps before attempting speech. “Are you Dr. Bauer?” He nodded at the needle. “I’m a diabetic. In my case it can’t be controlled by oral medication.”

“Oh. Sorry to hear that. Dr. Bauer, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Are you a doctor?”

“No.”

“Nurse?”

“No.”

“Then why are you dressed like that?”

I pulled the mask down to expose my face. “I was in to see the Hostetler babies.”

He nodded. “Come in, Mrs. Hostetler.”

“I am not Mrs. Hostetler,” I wailed. “I’m Magdalena Yoder.”

Behind thick lenses, tiny eyes lit up like illuminated beads. “Not the Magdalena Yoder of the PennDutch Inn?”

“One and the same!” I cried, delighted that someone—anyone—would recognize my name. “Do I know you?”

“No, I’m afraid not. But my wife and I have been trying for years to get a reservation at your inn.”

I flushed. Until just recently my inn was the haunt of the rich and famous and I could afford to be as picky as a baboon with fleas. I mean, everyone who was anyone stayed there. Babs, Brad, Bill—you name it, although the latter was in my face just a bit too much. Anyway, not much more than a year ago my precious PennDutch was flattened by a tornado and I was forced to rebuild. The new version is identical to the old, but somehow it seems to have lost its charisma. Folks are no longer “charmed” by it. My guests these days are sociology professors and factory workers from England.

I smiled at the dinky doc. “Try again, dear. I’m sure I’ll be able to fit you and your wife in—at the inn.” I laughed pleasantly. “That was a little joke. Did you get it?”

“Marla passed away two years ago.”

“Oh. Uh, well, if you still want to stay with me, you just name the date. In fact, I’ll let you stay for free.” Dr. Bauer twirled one end of a snow-white mustache. “Why would I want to do that? I live here now.”

“Then I guess you wouldn’t, not unless you wanted a week of maid service and the best home cooking this side of the Mississippi.”

“Three meals a day?”

“Yes, but they’re at set hours. None of this eating on the run that’s so fashionable these days.”

The elfin physician smiled. “Sounds good to me. When?”

“Like I said, you name it. But first I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

He folded hands that were even smaller than Freni’s. “Ask away.”

“It’s about the Hostetler babies. You delivered them, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“And there were two to begin with?”

He smiled, revealing the tiniest teeth I had ever seen on an adult human being. They were smaller even than baby teeth. Weasel teeth is what they were.

“Of course there were two. I’m not in the habit of throwing in an extra baby for good measure.”

“No, that’s not what I meant. You see, I’m positive—well, pretty sure—that Barbara Hostetler was supposed to be carrying triplets.”

Dr. Bauer laughed. He sounded more like Santa than a weasel.

“Triplets? That’s preposterous. Those babies were almost full term, with normal birth weights. A woman would have to be as big and strong as a horse to carry triplets that long.”

“Which Barbara is,” I said, not unkindly. A fact is a fact, after all. Barbara Kauffman Hostetler stands six feet tall in her woolen stockings. Her limbs are as thick and sturdy as my porch columns, and she has never been sick a day in her life. True, she was as barren as the Gobi Desert for the first twenty years of her marriage, but I personally think that is only because it took that long for the seed to reach fertile ground— if you know what I mean.

“Nevertheless, she delivered twins. I’m filling in the forms right now. Would you like to see them?”

I sighed. “That’s not necessary. Well, I guess Dr. Pierce was mistaken.”

Beady eyes burned brighter. “What do you mean?”

“Well, according to Barbara, Dr. Pierce said he heard three little hearts beating inside her.”

“There were just two.”

“You’re positive?” I half expected him to go ballistic at the question, but he remained surprisingly calm.

“Barbara Hostetler has been under my care since the beginning of her second trimester. I am quite sure.”

I sighed again. “Well, either Dr. Pierce was just plain incompetent, or he was the heavy drinker I hear he was.”

“No comment.”

A jolt of adrenaline made me stand ramrod-straight. “Which is exactly what you just did. Dr. Ignacious Pierce is an incompetent, isn’t he?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then he’s a heavy drinker!”

This time Santa smiled without showing me his teeth.

“Thank you,” I said. “You’ve been a big help.”

“My pleasure. I’ll be calling you about my free stay at the PennDutch.”

“You do that.”

I left feeling ambivalent about my encounter with the white-haired gnome. I could think of no reason why the man should lie to me, but my gut was telling me that something was wrong. But either Dr. Bauer was telling the truth, or he was as smooth as Freni’s butterscotch chiffon pie. Pie! Good heavens! It was lunchtime already, and I had an inn full of guests, but no cook. I ran to find Freni, and straight into a new set of problems.

Freni’s Butterscotch Chiffon Pie

♦

½ cup cold water

1 envelope unflavored gelatin

4 teaspoons instant coffee powder

½ teaspoon salt

2 eggs, separated

1 package (6 ounces) butterscotch pieces

½ cup firmly packed light brown sugar

1 cup whipping cream

1 baked nine-inch pie shell

Combine water, gelatin, coffee, and salt in saucepan. Cook and stir over moderate heat until gelatin dissolves and mixture comes to a boil. Remove from heat. Beat egg yolks slightly; add gelatin mixture gradually, stirring rapidly. Cook over low heat one minute, stirring constantly. Remove from heat. Stir in butterscotch pieces, reserving one tablespoon for garnish. Beat egg whites until stiff; beat in brown sugar. Continue to beat until stiff and satiny. Fold in butterscotch mixture. Whip cream; reserve half cup for garnish. Fold in remainder. Spoon into pie shell. Garnish. Chill until set.

Serves eight English or four Mennonites or two Amish.

"Freni went where?” I wailed.

Nurse Dudley glared at me. “Dr. Luther already told you. She went to Bedford Community Hospital to be with her husband. That nice Mennonite man drove her.”

“Why?”

“Because our policy is not to allow family members to ride along with critical cases. It’s too distracting to the medics.”

“I know that, you, you—” I prayed and swallowed the word twit. “What I want to know is, why did Mose have to go to Bedford for his surgery? Why couldn’t he have it here?”

Dr. Luther smiled. He seemed every bit as sincere as a Cheshire cat.

“The patient—Mose Hostetler—is suffering from acute appendicitis. It may already be ruptured. And like I said before—”

“Indeed you did,” Nurse Dudley said.

It was my turn to glare at her. “Please, let the doctor continue.”

Dr. Luther nodded in agreement, sending Nurse Dudley into a snit. Fortunately for all concerned she retreated behind the admissions desk to lick her wounds.

“Miss Yoder, like I said before, we are a very small hospital. We have only one anesthesiologist and she’s on vacation.”

“But so are my guests, and they’re expecting lunch! At least if Mose was here, I could shuttle Freni back and forth in a matter of minutes.”

“Perhaps you could cook for them,” he said, and didn’t even crack a smile.

“Fried ice and doughnut holes are my specialties,” I said bitterly. Mama ruled her kitchen with a cast- iron fist. I was never allowed to help because I was
dabbrich und strubbly
—clumsy and messy. As a consequence, I’ve been known to burn water.

“Fried ice and doughnut holes are a vast improvement over my wife’s cooking,” Dr. Luther said with the barest hint of a smile. “Last night she served curried goat.”

“Is she looking for a job?”

He laughed. “That’s a good one.”

“No, I’m serious.” I’d tell this bunch that goat was an Amish delicacy, and no one would be the wiser except for the helpful Redigers, and since Mennonites will eat anything, goat was not going to be a problem.

“You’re such a kidder, Ms. Yoder. But all joking aside, there is something you might be able to do to make sure a situation like this doesn’t arise again.”

“How many appendixes does Mose have?”

“Huh? Oh, you’re joking again!”

“I most certainly am not! Now, if you’ll excuse me—” I didn’t have time for this. I tried to make a run for the door, but Dr. Luther was a surprisingly nimble man. He was bobbing and weaving in front of me like a pugilist.

“Look,” he said, panting, “it’s this. If we had a world-renown heart surgeon on staff, we could attract other qualified personnel.”

“Oh, I get it! You want me to get my boyfriend on board. Well, do I at least get a finder’s fee?”