"Well, I fail to see what's so funny. Now, if you'll excuse me, my cows need milking."
"You can actually milk a cow?"
"They can't milk themselves, dear." Although I'd recently heard a rumor that the Japanese were breeding a strain of self-milking cows.
"Do you mind if I tag along and watch? I've never seen it done before. Only in the movies and on TV."
"The more the merrier."
Mr. Mitchell cleared his throat. "Well, would it be possible for me to give you a hand?"
"You want to milk?"
He nodded, his eyes dancing up a storm.
"We'll see," I said. "The truth is, Matilda's shy around strangers and doesn't let her milk down and Betsey is, well, on the ticklish side. She's liable to slap you in the face with her tail."
But Matilda was charmed by the CEO of E.C.D. In fact, she was downright coquettish. As for Betsey, she fell into a relaxed trance and rumbled like a cement truck, which is the cow equivalent of purring. Both bovines gave a record amount of milk.
"Good heavens," I said, "it's like you had them under a spell."
Twinkling George held up his hands. "It's all in the fingers. Before I went into the food business, I was a chiropractor. If you need an adjustment, I'd be happy to oblige."
"Ach!" No doubt I felt as flustered as Freni when she caught Kevin Costner sunbathing in the nude, and there wasn't a wolf in sight. Now here I was, at night, alone in a barn with a handsome man who had twinkling blue eyes and magic fingers - it was a sin just to think about it.
"I mean it. A little manipulation here and there and - "
"Get behind me, Satan!"
I sloshed the milk in the cooler, and all but ran from the barn. In my haste to escape the temptations of the flesh, I tripped on the piece of old barn siding that I use to prop the barn door open. Fortunately I didn't cut myself on the bent-over nail I've been meaning to remove. I don't enjoy telling on myself, but fear I must, in the interest of truth.
According to George Mitchell, I went sailing out into the yard like a Frisbee, before landing facedown in a cow patty. Fortunately it was an old patty, and as dry as Freni's meat loaf. And fortunately I didn't break my bones of chip any teeth. But ti was as undignified an exit as I can imagine.
"Gosh, darn it!" that's as bad as I can swear.
George Mitchell nearly died laughing.
-13-
I don't watch television. The good Lord created books before he created TV, and that says it all. Okay, so upon occasion I have been known to watch reruns of Green Acres on Susannah's little black-and-white set - nothing else! Until they started airing quality shows like that again, I refuse to patronize the idiot box.
My guests don't get to watch TV either. This seems to matter only the first day or two. After that they settle into the pace of country living and enjoy the simple pleasures. During the day there are scenic drives, peaceful walks, games of horseshoes and badminton, and of course reading. Summer evening usually find my guests rocking on the front porch, engaged in mindless conversation, while winter evenings will find them crowded around the fireplace, dishing dirt on those few folks who are even more rich and famous than they.
For those who like to run in the fast lane, I keep the parlor stocked with dominoes, jigsaw puzzles, and even a game of Sorry. In the dining room there is a large wooden frame, upon which one will always find an unfinished quilt. My guests are encouraged to add their stitches to this project, although they are never allowed to keep their handiwork. Late at night, after a quilt has been completed, I replace it with another still in progress. I then sell the finished quilts to a tourist shop in Lancaster. It is a perfect setup. My guests get to work their neuroses out with a needle and thread, and I get to pocket the moolah.
At any rate, after I had cleaned up from my post-milking fiasco, I wandered into the dining room to see if anyone was quilting, and much to my surprise found both the Dolbys. I am all for women's lib, mind you - after all, a hunch from a woman is worth two facts from a man - but I can seldom get a man to sit down and try his hand at quilting. Nevertheless, Bruce Willis does a mean slip stitch, Sly has an eye for color, and Tim Allen is great at tying knots.
"Well, good for you," I said with an encouraging smile.
Gordon Dolby didn't even bother to look up. Perhaps he was embarrassed.
"I learned to sew in the air force," he said. "They teach you to be prepared for anything."
"This is very relaxing," Gladys said, "How am I doing?"
I made the mistake of looking at her stitches. Early tomorrow morning, when everyone was asleep, I was going to have to sneak into my own dining room, rip out Gladys's stitches, and redo them.
"A drunken one-eyed hen could leave straighter tracks than that," I said kindly.
Gladys bit her lip. Perhaps I had gone too far.
"Not everyone has the same talent, dear. You're a great cook, or you wouldn't be here. I, on the other hand, couldn't boil water without a detailed recipe."
"Don't be so modest, dear, you're not even a Mennonite. Tell your daughter, she's a great cook," I directed Gordon.
He grunted.
"Daddy's the real cook in the family," she whispered. "In fact, I'm using one of his recipes."
"Is that so? I thought the recipes had to be original."
"Oh, they do. That is - they can't have been published anywhere. But Daddy's recipes are mostly original."
"Where'd you learn to cook, Mr. Dolby? The army."
"The air force!" he barked.
"Daddy does everything well."
"Well, he's not the one who entered Teat Coast Delicacies hundred-thousand-dollar contest," I said.
She glanced at her father and, finding him engrossed in his work, smiled up at me. "Do you think I have a chance to win?"
I shrugged. "How should I know? I haven't had a chance to taste your cooking. But Mr. Anderson seemed to think so."
"I want it more than anything I've ever wanted in my life," she mouthed. "I want it so bad I can taste it."
I know that's what she said, because I can read lips. Grandma Yoder, I her later years, was as deaf as stone. More often than not, she forgot to actually say her words, and just formed them with her mouth. Well, that's what Mama said - although I think the old lady was just being cantankerous. Grandma too. At any rate, I learned to read Grandma like my first-grade primer. It was either that or get whacked on the behind with a wooden carpet beater.
"Then maybe you'll win," I mouthed back.
If only I'd learn to keep my big mouth shut.
There are times when I'd do well to keep my ears shut too. It wasn't my fault that I just happened to be upstairs stocking the linen closet. It was Mr. Mitchell's fault. His precious E.D.C. was too cheap to pay extra for A.L.P.O. That meant that yours truly had to tote clean towels up from the laundry room.
"Couldn't we just share it?" Alma was saying. I couldn't see the woman, but she had an unmistakable southern accent.
"Don't be ridiculous!" The nasal Boston tones weren't that hard to place either.
The linen closet is at the short end of an L at the top of the stairs. The voices were coming from the long end. Since wallboard tends to muffle sounds, I had to listen carefully.
"What's so ridiculous about that? We both need it, don't we?"
"For you information, I don't need anything. I have my own cooking show, remember?"
"that's a laugh. From what I hear, your ratings are in the toilet. Your show could be canceled any day."
"That's my business."
"Well fine, than, have it your way. But half of nothing is still nothing."
"We'll see about that."
A door slammed, and I prudently stepped into the closet and closed the door. From the sound of the footsteps going past me, Alma Cornwater was one unhappy camper.
Trust me on this one, the only fate really worse than death is sharing a bed with Susannah Yoder Entwhistle. It's bad enough that my sister's snores can wake the dead two counties over, but she thrashes like a combine. A sleeping Susannah, tied to the front of a tractor, could harvest a wheat field the size of Montana in one night. I put on two long-sleeved, ankle-length plaid flannel nighties and a red woolen ski mask to keep me from bodily injury. What I completely forgot about was Shnookum's predilection fro wandering, once released from the confines of Susannah's bra. In theory, the dog sleeps on the floor at the foot of his mistress's bed and disturbs her only when it is necessary to use the great outdoors. This was real life, however, not theory.
In real life my sister sleeps too soundly to be disturbed by a runt with a peanut-size bladder. But were she a light sleeper, she would not bother to get out of bed. Susannah solves the potty problem by buying Huggies intended for newborns, cutting them in half, and taping these dinky diapers around her dog's derriere. It's no wonder the mutt is always in such a foul mood.
I awoke in the middle of the night to find the tiny terror perched on my chest, his teeth clamped to the bottom edge of the ski mask. He had the audacity to be growling, and each pathetic snarl sent noxious waves of decaying horse flesh straight to my nostrils.
"Susannah!" It is no easy feat to scream through gritted teeth.
Susannah snorted and rolled over. Shnookums, however, growled louder and shook his Lilliputian head in a futile attempt to unmask me.
"Let go, you filthy rat, or I'll feed you to the first cat I find." I knew better than to lay a hand on the beast. I value all ten sets of fingerprints.
"Susannah! Wake up!"
Susannah mumbled something about it having been good for her too. The repugnant pock was not nearly as complimentary. He snarled one more time, and then with an audible grunt passed gas so foul that it put anything Aaron did to shame.
I sat up, the dog dangling from my chin, his beady little eyes staring up at me defiantly. "You beast!" I screamed.
This time it was an openmouthed scream, and Susannah woke up. The second her eyes fluttered open, that minuscule mongrel on my mask let out a yowl intended to break a mother's heart. Fortunately, in doing so, he fell loose from the mask and landed on my lap.
"Magdalena, how could you?" Susannah shrieked. She scooped her cunning canine into her arms and rocked him like a baby.
But I was through being abused by a dog in diapers. "How could I what/ You're the one who won't let him out to do him number one."
Susannah howled, shocking Shnookums first into whimpers, then silence. "Number one? You're forty-six years old, for crying out loud. Can't you even say the word pee?"
"I have a right not to be vulgar."
"There's nothing vulgar about the word pee, Magdalena."
I turned on my right side, my back toward my sister. "Take that animal outside and let him urinate," I said.
More howls, and few yowls as well.
"Take him out now, dear, or you can spend the rest of the night sleeping on the floor in the parlor." Heeding the wisdom of my grandmothers, I do not have a sofa on the premises.
"Okay, okay, don't get your panties in a bunch."
"Susannah!"
my sister is a slow learner, but stops just short of being incorrigible. Protesting loudly - I'm sure at least some of the guests heard her - she heaved herself out of bed and stomped out of the room, slamming my bedroom door behind her. Believe me, a huge part of me wanted to chase after my sister and force her to repeat her exit, this time without the melodrama. But what was the point? A proper attitude was the water to which my equine sister could be led, but not made to drink.
I pretended to be asleep when she came back in, for all the good it did me.
"Magdalena?"
Silence.
"Magdalena. I know you're still awake. I can tell by the way you're breathing. Your mouth's not open wide enough."
"Thanks."
"Hey, you're not still mad at me, are you?"
"Of course, dear. What makes you think anything has changed?"
"But I'm no still mad at you."
"At me? That's because you have no reason - never mind, Susannah. Just go to sleep and leave me alone. Did that ferocious fur ball do his business?"
She giggled. "You're a hoot, Mags, you know that? Mama would have been so proud of you."
"Ha, that's a laugh."
"What do you mean? Everyone could tell she liked you best."
"Get real, Mags. I once heard her tell Papa that I was the bane of her existence. Her `cross to bear,' " she said.
