Between a Wok and a Hard Place (3 page)

"Cold. I wish I was back home."

"Aaron, it's August, so it couldn't be that cold. And if it is, why don't you come back home?"

There was a long pause which, had it been pregnant, would have doubled the world's population. "So, you've started

nagging again, have you?"

"I'm not nagging, dear. It's just that I don't understand why you had to go there in the first place."

"I told you, Magdalena, I had some loose ends to tie up."

"What kind of loose ends?"

Those were wasted words. Aaron's lips were sealed tighter on the subject than a clam at low tide. All I knew was that

Aaron had once spent several years in Minnesota, between the Vietnam War and his repatriation in Hernia as the

Prodigal Son.

Aaron was born and raised a Mennonite, and as a member of an officially recognized pacifist group, could have done

alternative service to the military. Instead, my Pooky Bear had actually volunteered, there by breaking his pop's heart. I

didn't even know he still had Minnesota on the mind, until just three nights ago when the phone rang. Aaron took that call,

so I had no idea who it was, or why. Had I been strong enough to use a crowbar on my hubby's mouth, I might have given

that a try. The silence was deafening.

"Well, if you keep that up, I'm not going to be able to get a word in edgewise," I said. I said it playfully. I was trying to

lighten the mood a little.

"I should have expected something like this," he had the nerve to say. "Pops warned me."

"Pops?"

That did it. The old coot he calls Pops was living under my roof, and sponging off my generosity. I had given Aaron

Sr. a place to stay even before I married his son because I felt sorry for him - and because I loved Aaron. But it was

mismanagement, pure and simple, that cost Aaron Sr. his farm. It wasn't like he fell on hard times through no fault of his

own. Yet here he was, accusing me of -

"Just what did your father say?" I demanded.

I could hear my Pooky Bear gulp. "That just sort of slipped out, Magdalena. I mean, Pops was only looking out for my

welfare."

"Well, Pops is going to be looking out for his own welfare, if he doesn't watch his tongue," I said, not watching mine.

There was another silence during which the population of the world tripled.

"Magdalena?" he said at last.

My pregnant pause wouldn't have populated Rhode Island.

"Yes?"

"I don't want us to fight anymore. This isn't how I imagined it."

"Me either."

"I'll be back soon, Magdalena, I promise. And I'm bringing back a surprise."

Well, that was more like it! "All wrapped up with pretty bows?"

Aaron laughed. His laughter had the ability to make me think impure thoughts. But then again, now that I was

married, they weren't impure after all, were they?

I laughed, too.

It was a good thing my mood had improved when I answered a persistent knocking at my door an hour later. It was

none other than Pops. The old coot himself.

"Yes?" I asked calmly. Aaron Sr. was once a handsome man like his son. Now that the black hair has turned white,

and the broad shoulders are slightly stooped, he is only a little less handsome. The widows at Beechy Grove Mennonite

Church agree with me, and have made him their summer project. The fact that he is poorer than a church mouse's debtor

hasn't dawned on them. Or perhaps it has, and they think the old geezer will outlive me, and somehow inherit my estate.

Fat chance.

"I need to talk to you, Magdalena." My Aaron's eyes were blue as well, only brighter.

"I'll say." I ushered him into my room and offered him the only chair. I sat on the edge of my bed. The door was wide

open, in case you're wondering.

"Now, what's this I hear about you warning Aaron not to marry me?"

He looked genuinely surprised. Startled even.

"Well, never mind that. What did you want to talk about?"

"Do you believe in flying saucers, Magdalena?"

"You're serious?"

"Yah. Do you?"

What a question. We Mennonites tend to believe that while God created a vast and wondrous universe, he created

only one world, if you know what I mean.

On the other hand, so many of my guests have reported close encounters of their own, that I have decided to reserve

the right to be skeptical. Believe me, this is stretching the envelope for someone of my background.

"I don't believe they exist," I said honestly. "But I'm not sure they don't. Is that answer good enough for you?"

"Yah, that's a good answer. I would have said the same thing yesterday."

"And today?" I asked. It is possible there was a trace of impatience in my voice.

He smoothed an imaginary wrinkle in his gray polyester pants. "Last night-early this morning, really, I saw a flying

saucer."

I stared at him. As much as I hate to admit it, there was a difference hearing those words come from my father-in-

law's lips, and, let's say, a Harvard-educated man who makes over a million dollars a year. Or even a high school-

educated movie star who makes ten million dollars a year.

"Pops - "

"Oh, I know, Magdalena, now you're going to think I'm crazy, on top of being meddlesome, but I saw what I saw."

"Little green men with big bald heads?"

"I didn't see the occupants. I only saw the saucer."

I decided to humor him. After all, he was my Pooky Bear's father. Besides, if I was eighty-one and the Easter bunny

came to visit, I would want someone to listen to me.

"Do tell," I said politely.

"Well, I only saw it for a few seconds. It landed in my pasture across the road."

Poor man. That cow pasture wasn't even his, but be- longed to a corporation called The Beef Trust, composed of

Pops and his sisters. The farm, under Pops's care, had lost money over the years. When the farm sold, most of the

money would go to repay debts. Pops's undoubtedly small share wouldn't even see him inside the front door of Hernia's

Home for the Mennonite Aged, much less keep him there the rest of his unnaturally long life.

Enter a developer who showed a keen interest in Pops's property. Unfortunately the man was threatening to build

Hernia's first real shopping center smack dab in the middle of it. I say threatening, because several Amish families had

banded together and were preparing to make Pops an offer he couldn't refuse. The odds were though that the Amish offer

would fall far below that of the developer and would not be accepted. Of course that would be a shame - although it would

be nice to have a Wal-Mart and a Payless within walking distance. One must consider progress, after all.

Or would it be so nice? What would the rich and famous prefer to view as they rocked on my front porch; a giant

parking lot, or a green pasture dotted with grazing cows? It didn't take a genius to figure that one out. No doubt even

Melvin Stoltzfus would come up with the right answer if given three tries. Although Aaron Jr. might not be happy with my

decision, I was going to figure out some way to get the Amish families to raise a donation large enough to impress the

developer.

"Magdalena? Did you hear what I said?"

I smiled. "Of course, dear. You saw a flying saucer land across the road. How nice for you."

Aaron Sr. muttered something that sounded vaguely insulting and left the room.

I had two missions now, one foisted on me by Melvin, the other placed on my shoulders like a mantle - well, it was

sort of a revelation. At any rate, I certainly didn't have time to shmooze with Wilmar Brack, the back specialist. He had no

business lurking in the hallway just outside my room.

Allow me to describe the PennDutch briefly to you. At one time it was a large, two-story farmhouse built by my great-

great-grandfather, Jacob "The Strong" Yoder. At that time it had four bedrooms to house himself, his wife (my great-great-

grandmother, of course!) and their sixteen children.

It had undergone extensive remodeling since then. Guests are required to enter through the front door the first time,

and when they do they find themselves in a vestibule that contains a counter topped with a cash register and a rack of

colorful and informative brochures describing area attractions.

A door on the right opens into a large sitting room, complete with a stone fireplace. This is the least changed room in

the place. Great-great Granny Yoder used to cook stews in a large cast-iron kettle suspended from the hearth. Legend

has it she hid the baby under the pot when they were attacked by Delaware Indians. The pot, now spilling over with a

plethora of petunias, graces the front porch of the Inn.

Adjacent to the sitting room is the recreation room, the newest addition to the Inn. While I would prefer that my

guests amuse themselves with Scrabble and quilting, they have a preference for treadmills and television. But it is my

establishment after all, and the waiting list is long. The treadmill they got, the television they did not. Call me old-

fashioned, but the road to hell is paved with remote controls.

To the left of the foyer is the dining room, with its massive table, around which my guests are expected to take their

meals together. Behind the dining room is the kitchen which, for as long as I can remember, has been Freni's domain.

Even when Mama was alive, Freni cooked for us. Back then it was her job to feed the farmhands.

Directly in back of the vestibule is the only downstairs bedroom - until recently mine. Of course now I share it with

Aaron. If the truth be told - and this must never get back to Aaron - I was actually looking forward to having it back all to

myself for a few days. I hadn't realized just how luxurious, and perhaps decadent, it is to be able to sprawl completely

across a bed and not brush up against anyone. I believe firmly in a biblical hell, and the best metaphor I can come up with

for it is a shared bathroom. Mine should be the only hair to clog the shower drain.

Upstairs are all the guest rooms, along with Susannah's room, and the suite I had built for Pops. Before you criticize

me soundly for having stashed an octogenarian upstairs, at least allow me to state that we now have an elevator

connecting the two floors. The impossibly steep staircase of yesteryear is still there, however, because it adds a certain

quaintness.

Outside, in back of the Inn, where the old six-seater outhouse (the largest in the county) used to be, there now

stands a white, wooden gazebo. To the left of that there is the chicken coop, then the barn, and then acres of cornfields

backed by acres of woods.

My point is that there is plenty of space for my guests, and there was absolutely no reason on earth for Dr. Brack to

be lurking outside my private door. When I opened it, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

"Ha, I must have scared you," he said.

"Can I help you?" I snapped.

Even under the best of circumstances, Dr. Wilmar Brack gave me the willies. Primarily it was because his age was

indeterminate, probably due to extensive plastic surgery (believe you me, the frailer sex is not above going under the knife

these days!). Judging by the amount of glint left in his eyes, however, I presumed that he was possibly in his fifties. He

had thick gray hair that grew everywhere it was supposed to except for the crown of his head, which was capped by a

perfectly round, shiny circle, looking for all the world like the photos of alien landing pads in the British papers. Three long

hairs had been trained across the pate from right to left, and then lacquered into place.

At any rate, Dr. Brack didn't even have the decency to appear taken aback. "You promised to let me bend your .ear

for five minutes."

"My ears are already folded; stapled, and stamped. Besides, I'm really very busy."

"Two minutes of your time, then." I let out a sigh that was heard as far away as Oregon, and led him to the sitting

room. I gestured to the most uncomfortable hard-back chair in my collection.