The Hand that Rocks the Ladle (6 page)

“Yes, dear. What’s up? How’s Mose?”

“Ach, my Mose. The doctor said his appendix was ready to burst. Red hot, he said, like a tamale. What is this tamale?”

“I think it’s a food, dear. So it hadn’t yet burst?”

“No, thank God. They’re operating now.”

“Are you scared?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Yah.”

“Hang on, dear, I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’m leaving right now.”

“Ach, but what about the English? Who will feed them?”

“They’re feeding themselves.”

“Ach!” Freni must have dropped the phone, because I could have done The New York Times crossword puzzle in the time it took her to speak again. “My kitchen,” she gasped. “There are English in my kitchen?”

“Well, maybe not at this very moment, but there were. And frankly, dear, they seemed to be having fun.”

“Cooking on my stove with my pots and pans?”

“Technically, dear, they’re my pots and pans.”

She paused again, but her heavy breathing made it clear she was still on the line. “What did they cook?”

“Bubble and squeak.”

“Ach, jokes, Magdalena, when my Mose is dying.”

“Dying?”

“Maybe not dying, but he’s an old man. The doctor—speak of the doctor, there’s the devil now.”

“What?”

The phone banged against something as she literally left me hanging. I thought of disconnecting and trying again, but unless she replaced the receiver, there was no point. Besides, there was no way to tell which number she was calling from. I did the only thing I could and remained on the line. After the same amount of time it would take me to translate The New York Times crossword puzzle into Japanese, Freni got back on the line.

“Magdalena,” she said, as if she’d never left me dangling, “it’s good news. The doctor said the operation is over and my Mose did well. The hot tamale is gone.”

“Thank God!”

“Yah. Now he must recover for an hour.”

“Just an hour?”

“Yah, and then they put him in a private room, or a public room. Which room do we want, Magdalena?”

“Nothing’s too good for our Mose. Get the private. But don’t worry about a thing, Freni. I’ll be right there.”

“Ach, there’s no need for that. Donald will help me.”

“Donald?”

“That nice Mennonite man.”

“Donald Rediger is still with you? Where’s his wife?”

“Yah, Donald is here. His wife went shopping—things for my babies. Ach, such nice people. You should have more guests like them, Magdalena.”

I bit my tongue. Freni’s favorite guest over the years has been a movie star with a Mennonite name. But while Mel might be a good Mennonite name, that’s one brave heart who is not of the faith.

“I’m grateful to the Redigers,” I said calmly, “but they’re not family. I’ll be there in a jiffy.”

“No!”

“What do you mean ‘no’?”

“The doctor said my Mose is going to be okay. You have other things to do.”

“Of course, dear, but none of them is as important as looking after you and Mose.” You see? A human heart does beat beneath this bony breast! That article in the National Intruder was wrong.

“Yah, Magdalena, there is someone more important than me. Even than my Mose—”

“Freni, dear, Jonathan and the twins are fine.”

“Yah, thank God. I mean someone else.”

“Barbara?” How refreshing. Freni had been a grandmother for only a few short hours, but already she’d softened.

“Ach, not Barbara! Little Freni.”

I sighed. “Freni, there’s no good way to tell you this, except to come right out and say it—there never was a Little Freni.”

While Freni fumbled again, I kept my ear a safe six inches from the receiver. Finally she got back on. Her first sentence was in Pennsylvania Dutch, so I can’t repeat it. Her second sentence was in English, but it doesn’t bear repeating.

“Calm down, dear,” I said gently. “Just give it some time to sink in. You’ll get used to the idea.”

“I will not!”

“You have two healthy grandsons, Freni. You should count your blessings.”

“Yah, I count them. One, two, three!”

“Freni, before I left Hernia Hospital I spoke to both the delivery-room doctor and the nurse. They confirmed it. There never was a Little Freni.”

“There is! Make them take a polygamy test.”

“A
what?”

“A test to tell the truth.”

“Ah, a polygraph! Freni, dear, that simply isn’t how things work.”

“Do you believe them, Magdalena?”

I took a deep breath. “I see no reason not to.”

“Ach, but maybe the doctor made a mistake.”

“Freni, the doctor knows how many babies he delivered.”

“The doctor is a
dummkopf
.”

By rights I should have dropped the phone. A good Amish woman, Freni never swears. Her sharp tongue gets honed through criticism and insinuation. I’m sure there are those who would not consider dumbhead a swear word, but in Freni’s world it ranks right up there with “darn.”

“Tch, tch,” I clucked self-righteously. “You’ve never even met the man.”

“Yah, but what he says is stupid. I know my Little Freni exists. I can feel it in my stomach.”

“You mean in your gut?” Heaven forfend Freni should come down with a sympathetic pregnancy.

“Yah, in my gut. So, Magdalena, will you find my little granddaughter?”

“I’ll do my best,” I promised wearily.

“Yah, your best. Your mama would be proud of you, Magdalena.”

“Really?”

“Yah. You aren’t selfish after all.”

“Mama said I was?”

“Ach! They’re ready to move Mose to his room,” she said and hung up.

“But it hasn’t been an hour,” I wailed to the dial tone. “It’s hardly been five minutes.”

Then in a quirk that only Pennsylvania Bell can explain, the dial tone hung up on me as well. I am ashamed to admit what happened next. I didn’t exactly throw the phone, but I did drop it from a considerable height and with more force than I’d intended. The fact that the casing cracked and the machine was rendered permanently inoperable was my fault, not Ma Bell’s.

I had no choice but to leave the safety of my room and use the front desk phone. I had barely gone the length of my nose when I was ambushed.

“Miss Yoder!”

I jumped a good two inches. This happens a lot to me, but I have learned over the years that as long as I restrict the lateral movements, no one notices. Drawing on my experience, I was able to appear practically nonchalant. The interloper, incidentally, was Vivian Mays. She was at least covered now, but her filmy wrap showed more details of her topography than I cared to know.

“Yes?” I said, even managing a slight smile.

“Did you think you could get away with it?” she demanded.

“I paid for it,” I said calmly. “I’ll do what I want with it.”

“And you call yourself Amish!”

“Actually, I don’t. My ancestors were Amish—up until my grandparents’ generation—but I belong to Beechy Grove Mennonite Church. We’re allowed to own telephones. Even computers.”

“Is that how you met? On the Internet?”

“Met who, dear?”

“My husband!”

“Your husband?”

“Don’t play games with me. I caught you red- handed, remember? So how much did you pay him?” I suddenly realized what she meant and flushed. “I didn’t pay for him! I paid for my phone.”

She stared at me. “Either you’re clueless, or a world-class liar.”

“I couldn’t lie my way through a mattress makers’ convention,” I wailed.

“You want me to believe you didn’t arrange a rendezvous with my Sandy?”

“I wouldn’t touch your boy-toy with a ten-foot pole. I have my own fellow—an adult.”

“Then what were you doing across from our room?”

“Checking on a guest, not that it’s any of your business. More to the point, what were you doing opening your door clad only in your birthday suit?”

“Sandy and I are nudists, not that it’s any of your business.”

“What? You better explain, toots, or you’re out on your ear.”

That seemed to shake her. No doubt Vivian’s ears had already been given a workout.

“We met at a nude rally last month,” she said. “Nudes for Nukes. It’s a pro-nuclear energy movement. If we don’t stop burning nonrenewable resources, like fossil fuels, this planet is in big trouble. But don’t worry, Miss Yoder, we don’t plan to walk around your inn in our natural states. We—I—kind of forgot myself there.”

I took several deep breaths and counted to ten in Spanish before responding. Words, unlike cheap, thoughtless Christmas presents, cannot be taken back.

“See that you don’t parade around in the buff,” I puffed. “I am a good Christian woman and decent folks stay here.” Well, half of that statement was true.

Vivian Mays nodded. “It won’t happen again. So, can we just put that little scene behind us?”

I didn’t like the woman. They say we automatically dislike twenty percent of the people we meet based solely on physical characteristics. These are often minutiae of which we may not even be aware. So why is it that I seem to dislike a far higher percentage of my guests? First the pompous Dr. Barnes, and now a rude nude! Still, on one level, I had to admire a woman that old who not only let it all hang out, but in doing so, caught a man half her age.

“Consider it forgotten,” I said. But I spoke too soon.

I looked up Dr. Ignacious Pierce’s office in the Bedford directory. I called and got the machine. In the background there was Christmas music, for crying out loud. In July!

“We are out of the office for the duration of the holidays. If this is an emergency, you may call
555-2139.

Dr. Pierce didn’t seem to be home either. The machine issued a cryptic command, and before I could open my mouth, I was disconnected. A more superstitious person might well have concluded that Alexander Graham Bell had it in for me.

Fortunately I remembered Barbara mentioning the name of Dr. Pierce’s nurse—Melba Mast. The Mast family forms a long limb on my family tree, and Melba is one of the twigs of my generation. Actually, she is several twigs. The woman is my fourth cousin nine different ways, which by my reckoning makes her the equivalent of a first cousin with one part left over. Quite possibly she is a sister I never realized I had. At any rate, I knew that like me, the woman had never legally married, so finding her name in the phone book was no problem. However, as you may well understand, I elected to drive over rather than dial.

Melba Mast lives on Maple Street, in the heart of historic Hernia. Hers is a white, gingerbread Victorian house, replete with turret and fish-scale shingles. Atop the turret is a weather vane, although instead of a cock, this one sports a cat. The sidewalk that leads to her house is bordered by beds of alternating red, white, and blue flowers. An ancient maple shades the left side of her lawn, a Colorado blue spruce dominates the right. A pair of wooden Dutch children steal a kiss on the maple side, and on the spruce side a two-dimensional woman displays her bloomers.

It took Melba several minutes to answer the door, and when she did, I was hit in the face by a wave of rancid air.

“Yes?”

I struggled to remain standing. “Miss Mast, I’m Magdalena Yoder, third cousin once removed from Freni Hostetler who is Barbara Hostetler’s mother- in-law.”

“Come in,” Melba said. She almost seemed eager to have company.

I looked longingly at two white wicker rockers that graced the porch. It was a perfect summer day, around eighty degrees, with low humidity. However, it would have been rude to direct the hostess, and besides, I did want to see what was inside.

Cats. That’s what was inside. Dozens of cats in all colors and sizes. They were asleep on the antique furniture, grooming themselves, nibbling out of bowls, and in one instance, using a philodendron pot as a litter box. Frankly, judging by the odor of the place, I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that one or two of the kitties was caput.

“How many cats do you have, dear?” I asked, without sounding judgmental.

“Thirty-two, if you count Caspar. But he really belongs to my boss who is on vacation. Most of the others were strays that I’ve taken in over the years. The kittens you see have all been abandoned. All my pussies are either spayed or neutered.”

I was born and raised on a farm and like animals of all descriptions—except for the two-pound pooch my sister Susannah carries around in her bra. That miserable mite is eighty percent jaws and twenty percent sphincter muscle. At any rate, I even like cats. Just not thirty-two of them in the same place.

“You must be a remarkable woman,” I said charitably.

“Thanks. Have a seat.” She picked up an enormous black Persian and set him gently on the floor.

I sat gingerly. There was so much matted cat hair on the Victorian sofa that the seat was slippery. Beside me was a short-haired calico, above me on the narrow edge of the back seat was a wedge-faced Siamese, and perched on the padded armrest was a brown striped tabby.

Melba evicted an orange cat from a side chair opposite me and sat, placing the cat in her lap. “It is so nice to have visitors, isn’t it, Ginger?” she cooed.

Ginger meowed, and Melba meowed back.

“Do they all have names?” I asked foolishly.

“Oh, yes. That’s Patches on the seat beside you, Tiddlywinks on the armrest, and Ming behind you.”

“It’s amazing how Ming can cling to such a narrow perch.”

“He loves high places. Did you know that Siamese cats were originally bred to ride into battle on the shoulders of Siamese warriors? The cats were trained to leap into the enemy’s face and scratch their eyes.” I leaned forward. “How charming.”

“Oh, Ming would never hurt you. You’re a real puddy-tat, aren’t you, Ming? Yes, you are, yes you are.”

I wanted to puke, but of course I didn’t. Had I, the stench would not have been noticeable.

“Melba, dear, like I said before, I’m a distant cousin by marriage to Barbara Hostetler. What I didn’t mention was that I consider her a close friend, and her mother-in-law—well, Freni is like a second mother to me. Anyway, we were all pretty sure that Barbara was going to have triplets. In fact, we were positive that was the case.”