Between a Wok and a Hard Place (9 page)

Shirley Pearson cleared her throat as if to address a board meeting. "Perhaps you would like to fill us in on some

local history and color."

"Yes!" the other three chorused.

I sighed. My dogs - especially that one I slammed in Melvin's door - were barking. All I wanted to do was to get back

to the PennDutch Inn, and take a long relaxing bath before supper.

"I'd be happy to list you on the acknowledgment page of my book," Dorothy coaxed.

"All right. Hernia was founded in 1762 by my great-great-great-great-great-great grandfathers Christian Yoder and

Joseph Hochstetler. Of course their wives helped with the founding."

"Of course," Terry said, his eyes shining. He reached out slowly and reverently touched my right arm with his

fingertips. I casually shrugged it off. I may be piling up the years, but I am not a historical relic.

"Right there -- I pointed to a gray shingle house, an anomaly among the Victorian clapboards - "is where Christian

built his log cabin, and down there" - I pointed to the First Mennonite Church - "is where Joseph built his."

It wasn't strictly true, but close enough for the good Lord not to mind. We were standing in the general area of the

first cabins, which had long since disappeared, and it is the spirit, not the letter of the law, that counts, isn't it?

A station wagon packed with kids drove by and everyone craned their necks to get a look at the occupants, who as it

turned out, weren't even Mennonites.

"Baptists," I said. Next came a van. The driver was the only occupant. "Presbyterian."

There was another load of Baptists, a load of Methodists, and three Presbyterian vehicles before a Mennonite

motored by. It was Edwina Stucky in her brand new Lincoln Town Car.

"Mennonite."

"Are you sure?" Shirley sounded like she'd been handed a bad stock report. "She was wearing a halter top."

"Edwina Stucky is the organist at the First Mennonite Church. Of course she's General Conference Mennonite, which

means she's pretty liberal. I belong to the Beechy Grove Mennonites."

"Mennnnnn-onite," Terry hummed. "Ahmmmmish. They sound like mantras. You Mennonites are pacifists, aren't

you?"

"Yes." I flushed. If Jimmy Carter was guilty of committing adultery in his heart, then I was guilty of biting, kicking,

maiming - possibly even murder. "Pacifism is one of our basic tenets."

"And Amish are pacifists, too, right?"

I thought of Freni, whose heart's desire for the past twenty years has been to wring the neck of her daughter-in-law

Barbara. But, of course, Freni never acts on that impulse, and deep within her ample bosom there beats a heart of gold-

well, at least cast iron.

"Amish are definitely pacifists."

"So Amish and Mennonites are very much like Buddhists, right?"

"Excuse me?"

"Trust me. I spent six weeks in Thailand, and the similarities are striking."

"Well, uh - are you a Buddhist, Mr. Slock?"

It was time to lay our religious cards on the table, just to know what we were dealing with. Every now and then, I find

myself engaged in a religious discussion with one or more of my guests. Just last week there was a couple who insisted

that the Amish were a sect of Hassidim who shaved their mustaches. After arguing senselessly for half an hour, it was

revealed that the female half of the couple was a Reform rabbi.

"Oh, no, I'm not a Buddhist," Terry exclaimed quickly. "I've left that scene behind. I'm into OUT now."

"You mean you're gay and proud?" Angus asked.

"I've always hated riddles," I wailed.

"OUT," Terry said, and spelled it for us. "The Oneness of Universal Thought."

I had no trouble dishing up a blank look.

"You know, my oneness and your oneness join together to form the thought patterns of the universe. Likewise, my

me-ness and your you-ness combine and become the our-ness of mankind. In other words, I am you, and you are me,

and we are both that starling up there on the telephone line. Deep, isn't it?"

"And getting deeper," Dorothy said, and wandered back down the street toward its junction with Main.

"Do people ever convert?" Shirley asked.

"All the time. Believe me, it's the fastest-growing religion in Hollywood."

I nodded. I'd met a fair number of that crowd, so I could believe that.

Shirley gasped. "Oh my, I didn't mean your OUT thing. I was referring to" Amish and Mennonites. What do they think

of outsiders?"

As I opened my mouth to tell her, an Amish buggy turned the comer at Main and headed in our direction.

"Please, out of the way!" Shy Angus was waving his arms at us, shooing us like Mama used to chase cows from the

cornfield.

"Well, I never!" I huffed, but obligingly stepped aside so he could get a clear shot with his camera at the approaching

vehicle.

"Perfect!" Angus gushed.

"Splendid!" Shirley hissed.

"Ahmm," Terry moaned, his eyes closed in religious ecstasy.

"Follow that buggy!" I shouted.

It was Enos Mast behind the reins.

My guests had parked even further away than I, and by the time I limped back to my car and located my keys in the

quicksand of my purse, the buggy was a part of history. Hot, tired, and desperately wanting that bath, I pointed my

horseless carriage in the direction of home.

The PennDutch is only five miles from the center of town, but there are times when it feels a world away. I can't

adequately describe what a relief it was to get away from the hubbub of Hernia. The Victorian houses became ranch

houses and ranch houses farm- houses, and finally there was the PennDutch with its two giant maples on either side of

the driveway. I couldn't imagine how Susannah had once forsaken the tranquility of our birthplace for the bright lights of

hectic Hernia.

I was seconds away from pulling into my peaceful driveway with a song of thanksgiving on my lips, when I heard the

siren. I pulled in anyway and stopped. A moment later Zelda was rapping at my window.

Taking a cue from one of Susannah's many stories, I rolled the window down slowly and smiled. I did not, however,

bat my eyelashes or purse my lips like a howling monkey.

"Good afternoon, Officer."

"Clocked you going thirty-five in a twenty-five-mile per hour speed zone," Zelda said, and whipped out a pad.

That did it. That hiked my hackles for sure. Not only do I believe that speeding is wrong, I believe it is a sin. The good

Lord made it clear that we are to obey the laws of man as long as they do not interfere with his divine law, and nowhere

does the Bible require us to speed. Okay, so it does say to "make haste" a couple of times, but I assure you those

references have nothing to do with speed limits.

Because I believe this strongly, I refuse to drive a mile over the speed limit, even when there are trucks barreling

down on top of me. Aaron thinks this is foolish and has warned me that I could get killed. So be it. I will not stoop to break

the law just because someone else does.

My point is, I was so mad at Zelda for her false accusation that I rolled up my window. She rapped I again, this time

using the notepad to cushion her knuckles.

"Roll that down, Magdalena."

"I wasn't speeding!"

"Okay, you're weren't. That was just an excuse. But I need to talk to you."

I rolled it down an inch. "Make it snappy, Zelda."

"Magdalena, I need your help."

The window came down. I may not be much of a fashion statement (Susannah claims I will never be until I stop

wearing opaque hose), but even I could benefit someone like Zelda. Since she's almost always in uniform, her problem

isn't a matter of dress, so much as it is grooming and hygiene. Zelda cuts her short dark hair herself with a pinking shears

and then plasters it against her head with an inch of grease. She has tweezed away her natural eyebrows and replaced

them with penciled arches. If she used a gold pencil instead of brown, she would be an advertisement for hamburgers.

Now, it is no shame to be born with lips no fuller than a chicken's, but Zelda uses a fuchsia liner to extend her hen's mouth

from just above her chin to the base of her nose. When she talks only part of her "mouth" moves, so who is she trying to

kid?"

"Scrub it all off and start again," I said gently. "Work with what the Good Lord gave you. If you grew your hair long

you could wear it in a nice attractive bun. And let those eyebrows grow, they were meant to keep bugs out of our eyes.

Unfortunately there's not much you can do about those lips, dear - "

"Magdalena! I'm talking about Melvin."

I sighed. A few makeover tips were not going to be enough for him.

"I'm afraid he's a lost cause," I said gently.

She nodded. "That's what I think. I thought he loved me as much as I love him, but I was wrong. It's not me he loves

at all, but Susannah."

"What?"

She raked her fingers through the jelled do, and they emerged glistening. "Oh, yeah. He admitted it last night. He's

been in love with her ever since high school. The day they started going together last year was the happiest day of his life.

Then when they broke up, it nearly killed him."

"You don't say." I was grateful to be sitting in an old car that didn't have bucket seats. If I fainted and fell sideways I

wouldn't hit a console.

"He asked me out on the rewind."

"You mean 'rebound,' dear."

"No, rewind. I went over to his house one day after work to help him with his VCR. It wouldn't rewind. I fixed it for him,

and while it was rewinding he asked me out. That was the happiest day of my life."

"How romantic." I noticed that her large, hazel eyes were brimming with tears. "I'm so sorry for you, dear. Is there

anything I can do to help?"

She nodded vigorously. "Yeah. Get my studmuffins what he wants."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Get him your sister. Reunite him with Susannah."

I tried to faint - sideways, of course - but had forgotten to unbuckle my shoulder harness. A bruised bosom was all I

had to show for my efforts.

"Well? Will you help me?” she wailed piteously.

It was worse than having to chose between fried I liver and boiled turnips. Despite what I may say about her, I love

my sister deeply, and her welfare is always on my mind. But how could I possibly choose between allowing my dear,

sweet sister to wallow in the depths of despair and sending her into the arms of a maniacal mantis? Mama, how could you

do this to me? And you too, Papa! You had no business dying before your jobs were finished. A tanker full of milk and a

truck full of shoes is a flimsy excuse if you ask me.

"Magdalena!" Zelda's tear-stained face was now just inches from mine. She may not have bought them at the golden

arches, but she had definitely eaten onion rings for lunch.

"Okay, I'll do my best," I said. Deep within my bruised bosom I knew I had made the right decision. Perhaps not for

me, but for my baby sister.

9

I heard the faint moans and rhythmic thuds while I was still on the back porch. When I opened the back door I had my

second chance to faint, but with nothing to break my fall, I just stood there and stared.

Freni Hostetler was sitting in a ladder-back chair, which in itself is not unusual, given her age, but she was taped to it.

With duct tape. Yards and yards of it had been wrapped around her ample frame. Fortunately her face had not been

covered, except for a small strip across her mouth. She looked like a gray cocoon topped with a Hostetler head.

Mercifully, after a few seconds my brain switched me over to auto-pilot.

"Dial 911," I said calmly. "Walk over to the phone and dial 911."

I didn't. And not just because Hernia doesn't have 911. I mean, I could have called Melvin, who would have sent

Zelda zinging right back. But it was the tape over Freni's mouth that diverted me. Once when I was sleeping Susannah