The Hand that Rocks the Ladle (8 page)

“Sorry, but I didn’t come to buy, dear. I need information.”

Roy looked like a deer caught in my headlights. “What kind of information? You’re not on your Nazi kick again, are you, Magdalena? Elspeth was born after the war, and she’s been in the U.S. since she was sixteen.”

“This has nothing to do with the Fuehrer and his flunkies. I need information about two of your employees who are in the family way.”

“Ach!” Roy squawked, reverting to his ancestral ways. “You’re not here to try and form a union, are you?”

I smiled. “Don’t be ridiculous, dear. I don’t work here, remember? I just want to talk to these ladies.” Roy glanced both ways. “What about?”

“Baby clothes,” I said, thinking fast on my feet. When you wear size eleven like I do, it’s really not that hard. And yes, I know it’s wrong to lie, but fibbing to placate Freni is not so much a lie as a means of survival. The Bible says nothing against trying to save one’s own life.

“What about baby clothes?”

“Well, Barbara Hostetler, whom you know to be a dear friend and distant cousin of mine—probably yours too—just had twins and—”

“Congratulations!” Roy was sincere.

“I’ll tell her that. Anyway, as you may know, baby clothes are very expensive, so I got to thinking about sort of a joint shower—well, really, it’s a woman thing. Just tell me where I can find the two ladies in question, let me chat to them a little, and I’ll skeedaddle.”

Roy shook his head. “Rebecca Zook no longer works here. And Mandilla Gindlesperger is on maternity leave, starting today. That’s all I’m at liberty to say.”

That was all the information I needed to know right then. Zook was a solid Amish name, that family having come over in the first major immigration in the eighteenth century. Both Freni and I had Zook branches in our family trees. Freni often shopped at Miller’s Feed Store and undoubtedly knew the family, possibly even where Rebecca lived. And it just so happened that I knew Mandilla Gindlesperger.

Mandilla and I went to school together, kindergarten through twelfth grade. Only back then she was Mandilla Beechy. It was, in fact, her great-great-grandfather, Bishop Beechy, who split off from the Amish and founded Beechy Grove Mennonite Church. Because of this suspicious family connection, Mandilla always thought she was better than the rest of us—well, at least better than I. Always big for her age, Mandilla would push me off the monkey bars, stop me on the slide, stick gum in my hair, and—this was her favorite way to torment me—sit on my paper lunch sack. That was, of course, in grammar school. In high school, Mandilla began to act a little nicer, quiet even. By our senior year Mandilla was an overweight, introspective woman who sometimes cried in study hall.

I thanked Roy for the tip. “I didn’t even know Mandilla was pregnant again. Isn’t she a little old for that kind of thing?”

Before Roy could answer I was hit on the behind by a mighty force and knocked off my feet. Fortunately Roy has quick reflexes and was able to catch me.

“Get out of my husband’s arms!” Elspeth shrieked.

I struggled to stand, but was hit again.

“Elspeth, please," I heard Roy say meekly.

Sheer anger got me upright and facing my attacker. Elspeth Miller had a look of pure hate in her eyes. In her tiny, gnarled hands, she held a coal shovel.

“Get out of my store, you hussy,” she hissed.

“What did you say?”

“You heard what I said, you two-bit trollop.” For a foreigner, Elspeth’s command of English is remarkable. “And don’t try playing Miss Innocent with me, Magdalena Yoder. You forget that Roy is Aaron Miller’s first cousin. We know all about how you seduced that poor man, and then turned on him when you learned that he was broke.”

I gasped, depleting the large store of half its oxygen. “That’s not what happened! Aaron seduced me. And he was already married. Why didn’t any of you Millers tell me that? I went to my marriage bed a virgin,” I wailed, “only it wasn’t my marriage bed at all, but a den of iniquity. You all stood back and watched me be led like a lamb to the slaughter.”

Elspeth raised the shovel, this time over her head. “Lies,” she said. “It’s all lies. And now you’re trying to get your hands on my Roy. Well, I won’t have it!”

I took a wary step back, away from the shovel, but in doing so, moved closer to Roy.

“I said to get away from him!” Elspeth snarled, and despite her tiny size, brought the shovel down with a force hard enough to stun a bull.

Now, I may be lanky, but I’m also fairly nimble, and managed to step aside. Unfortunately, Roy Miller has two left feet (I mean that literally—thanks to an insufficient gene pool). The shovel scoop that was meant for my noggin connected with Roy’s, and he folded like an accordion.

“Now see what you’ve done!” Elspeth shrieked.

“Me?”

She threw down the shovel, dropped to her knees, and cradled her husband’s head. “You’ve killed my Roy!”

I glanced around. A crowd was forming at either end of the aisle. I had a choice: defend myself, or do something for Roy.

“Call 911,” I said to the mostly Amish crowd.

No one moved.

“Call the police!” Elspeth barked.

Alas, someone did.

I never used to understand how a man with a brain the size of a flea’s was able to become police chief in my fair town. That he has managed to stay chief so long was beyond my comprehension. But I have given the matter a good deal of thought, and have at last concluded that the Good Lord created Melvin Stoltzfus as my personal nemesis. Melvin is my cross to bear, the means by which I am tested. Through my encounters with that irritating arthropod I am expected to grow stronger, perhaps even to learn to love my fellow man. I am, I confess, a slow learner in this regard.

The police station is less than a mile from the feed store, and Melvin should have been able to get there in a minute or two. But that was not the case. Perhaps the man had his shoes untied, and couldn’t find anyone to tie them, or maybe he misplaced the map that showed the way to the front door of the police station. At any rate, it took Melvin a good fifteen minutes to show, and by then I could hear the approaching wail of Hernia’s only ambulance. Someone, thank heavens, had called for real help after all.

I am pleased to report that Roy Miller was not seriously injured. By the time help arrived, he was on his feet—albeit somewhat unsteadily—and although the medics insisted that he accompany them back to the hospital, he was released an hour later. In fact, Elspeth didn’t even bother to accompany him, but remained behind to keep the store open.

In the meantime, Melvin predictably made my life miserable. No sooner had Roy been whisked away than my new brother-in-law turned on me.

“Yoder, I want you to come with me down to the station.”

I glanced around. There were still people four deep at the ends of the aisle. Elspeth was among them, no doubt eager to see me arrested.

“Don’t be ridiculous, dear. You know it was Elspeth who conked him on the head, not me.”

“Did not!” Elspeth called from the sidelines.

I may have stuck my tongue out at her.

“Yoder, don’t make a scene.”

“I’m not making a scene, you are.”

“Yoder!” The man is ten years younger than me, but has the nerve to speak to me like I’m a fourth- grade girl, and he’s my teacher, Miss Enz.

“Leave me alone, Melvin. Go back to work, or better yet, go home and let your wife devour you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Isn’t that what happens to male praying mantises?”

“Very funny, Yoder.” Melvin Stoltzfus knew exactly what I meant. I know we can’t help how we look (if we could, would I look like Trigger on steroids?), but Melvin looks exactly like a five-foot eight-inch praying mantis, give or take a tentacle.

“Just leave me alone, Melvin. I’ve had a long, hard day.”

Melvin fumbled with a pair of handcuffs that dangled from his side. “Yoder, I have to talk to you, and you’re not making this easy.”

“I have no intention of making it easy, Melvin, I know my rights.”

“Then I’m afraid I’m going to have to arrest you.”

“On what grounds?”

“Disturbing the peace.”

“Arrest her, arrest her,” Elspeth chanted. Much to my relief no one joined in.

“Melvin should arrest you, dear. You’re the one who habitually beats up on your husband.”

“Slander!” Elspeth cried. “Did everyone hear that?” One or two people nodded, but nobody said anything. There was a lot of staring going on, however, and not all of it from the crowd.

Melvin’s eyes do not function as a pair, and he had one trained on Elspeth, the other on me. “Maybe we could find someplace here to talk,” he said.

“I have nothing to say that I haven’t already said. Just the same, I’ll say it one more time. I did not hit Roy over the head with that shovel.”

“It isn’t about Roy,” Melvin said, his voice barely audible. “It’s about your sister.”

“Susannah?” What a silly way for me to respond. I only have one sister—that I know of.

Both of Melvin’s orbs focused briefly on Elspeth. “Is there somewhere I could interview this woman? Maybe a storeroom?”

Much to my surprise, Elspeth grinned. “The unloading door is locked now. She won’t be able to get away if I lock you in from this side.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Melvin said, even more to my surprise.

Elspeth frowned but led us through the throng, and eventually through a set of scuffed metal doors at the far end of the store. Just inside the storeroom she grabbed a pitchfork from a barrel and handed it to Melvin.

“If she tries to get away, just poke.”

“In your eye,” I said, forgetting for a moment that, as a Christian, I’m supposed to keep a civil tongue.

“Ladies, please,” Melvin said. That was quite possibly the first time he had ever used the P word on me.

Elspeth drew another fork from the barrel. “Don’t worry. I’ll be waiting just on the other side of those doors. She won’t get away.”

I glared at Elspeth. “What’s with the forks and shovels? Don’t you usually ride a broom?”

Melvin snickered. I had the feeling he disliked her almost as much as he disliked me.

“Why I never!” Elspeth said, and stormed off, fork still in hand.

I prayed silently for her customers on the other side of the door. I also waited until the doors had swung shut behind her before speaking, and you can be sure that when I did, it was in a whisper.

“Now, what’s this about Susannah?”

Melvin sat on an empty wooden crate turned sideways. He sighed dramatically.

“Out with it,” I snapped.

“Remember those little fried apple pies your mama used to make?”

“Snitz turnovers? The ones with dried apples.”

“Yeah, those are the ones. Susannah’s making them.”

“What? She hates to cook!” I’m not sure my slothful sister knows what a stove looks like anymore. “And that’s not all. She bought a dress.”

“A dress?” To my knowledge Susannah hasn’t worn a dress since our parents’ funeral eleven years ago. She hasn’t worn pants either since then. Don’t get me wrong. She doesn’t go around naked, like that vamp Vivian and her boy-toy. To the contrary, my baby sister drapes herself in yards of fabric, and floats through the house like the ghost of a half-wrapped mummy. “It gets worse.”

I steadied myself against a stack of heavy barley bags. “Go on.”

“She’s stopped wearing makeup.”

I gasped, thereafter choking for a few seconds on barley dust. “None?”

“Not a lick. I didn’t recognize her at first. She looked awful. In fact, Yoder, I thought it was you come to pay a visit.”

“Thanks, dear.” I would have pinched Melvin, had my knees been strong enough to get me that close.

“Oh, I’m not through yet, Yoder. We’re just getting to the good parts.”

Melvin leaned forward, no doubt checking for a shadow under the swinging metal doors. “This morning she made the bed.”

“Lies, Melvin, those have got to be communist lies!”

Melvin is linguistically challenged. “Now this is the piece of resistance,” he said, and proceeded to tell me the most shocking thing these ears have ever heard, bar none. If there had been anyone else present to revive me except for Melvin, I would have fainted.

Easy Snitz Turnovers
¹

♦

2 cups dried apple slices

½ cup sugar

2 tablespoons butter

1 teaspoon cinnamon

¼ teaspoon nutmeg

2 nine-inch pie crusts cut in half

Soak dried apples in two cups warm water. Cook until tender. Drain off most of the liquid, and stir in sugar, butter, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Divide pie crust into halves. Spoon several tablespoons of apples on one- half of each pie crust half. Fold over, moisten edges, and crimp.

Fry in deep fat at 375 degrees for approximately four minutes or until golden brown. If baking, bake in oven at 375 degrees for approximately twenty minutes.

Yields four large turnovers.

“She what?” I asked weakly.

“Your sister asked me to take her to church next Sunday.”

I fanned myself with my skirt. Of course it was an immodest thing to do, but Melvin politely averted at least one eye.

“Did you say church?”

“Yeah, Yoder. Did you put her up to this?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Susannah hasn’t listened to me since she hit puberty. I wonder what those pushy Presbyterians are bribing her with now.”

“That’s just it, Yoder. She doesn’t want to go to the Presbyterian church, she wants to go back to the Mennonite church. Beechy Grove Mennonite to be exact.”

I know, by now you must be wondering why it is I wasn’t rejoicing. I’ll tell you why. The Susannah that Melvin had just described was not my sister. Or if it was, she was deathly ill.

“Shnookums!” I cried. “Does she still have Shnookums?”

Melvin shrugged. “I haven’t seen that mutt around for ages.”

I felt a sharp pang in my heart. Something was dreadfully wrong. Susannah and her pitiful pooch are inseparable. Who else would carry a dinky dog around in her bra? She even has that miserable mongrel trained to brush her teeth. That’s right—the dog brushes Susannah’s teeth.