Play It Again, Spam (6 page)

midmorning snack had not the frost been on the pumpkin - well, in a manner of speaking. Allow me to explain.

You see, I have a pumpkin-shaped doormat that was a Christmas present from Susannah. I don't do kitsch, and I would have

thrown the pumpkin rug out, along with the ceramic geese with the bows tied around their necks, had they not been the very first

Christmas presents my sister ever gave me. And also the last. At any rate, I was just fitting that cute little key over the metal tab

when I heard a loud thump against the front door and felt the ground shake. Having just recently survived a tornado, and in the

not-too-distant past a fiery outhouse, an earthquake seemed like the next logical calamity. It was getting to be more than I could

bear.

"Oh Lord, take me now!" I begged.

Alas, no welcoming angel appeared, but a second thud rattled the panes in the lobby window, "Not the other place," I wailed.

"Yes, I stole Granny Yoder's scented soap, but it was just a sliver, and I was five years old. And what happened that time I sat on

the washing machine during spin cycle was purely an accident. But I'm sorry for both of these things!"

The building shuddered and shimmied a third time, causing the coach-style lamp above my head to swing like a metronome.

"I said I was sorry! I'll donate a dozen bars of lavender soap to the Mennonite Home for the Aged, I can't get rid of my

washing machine, Lord, but I'll throwaway most of my vacuum attachments."

Mercifully my prayer was answered. The inn settled back on its foundation and all was well with the world. I breathed a quick

prayer of thanksgiving.

But before I could even say amen I heard a distinct moan coming from the front porch. No doubt it was the devil himself come

to get me.

"All right, you can have the washing machine!" I wailed.

There was one final thud. "Oh, shoot!" my supernatural visitor said.

I cocked my head. The devil I learned about in church, and the one I taught about in Sunday school, was most likely to use

stronger language.

"Who's there?" I called.

"It's me, Marjorie Frost."

First I locked the door, and then I peered timorously through the peephole. It looked like the cargo hold of an airplane had

dropped its load of baggage on my walk and porch, but I didn't see any living creatures. Certainly not the Prince of Darkness.

I unlocked the door, and using my shoulder as a defensive brace, cautiously opened it a few inches. That's when I saw

Marjorie Frost, sprawled across the pumpkin rug, like a newborn colt who had yet to find its legs.

She looked up at me, grinned foolishly, and got awkwardly to her feet. "Sorry about that. I've always been a klutz. My

husband says I'd be better off with just one leg-then I wouldn't accidentally trip myself." She held out a hand. "My name's Marjorie

Frost."

"Just a minute, dear." I looked up at the sky, where one wispy cloud was floating overhead. "This wasn't an earthquake, so

what I said before doesn't count! But just so you know I meant what I said, I'll look for soap on sale in Wednesday's paper."

"Is there someone on the roof?" Marjorie had a pleasant, eager-sounding voice.

"In a matter of speaking. I'm Magdalena Yoder, but if it's all the same to you, dear, I'd rather not shake hands. It's the most

effective way there is to pass colds along, you know."

She looked confused, but thankfully did not insist on pressing the flesh.

"If you're looking to book a room, dear, I'm afraid you're out of luck. We're full up."

"Oh, but I’m sure we have reservations. We're here for the reunion of World War II tank drivers."

I examined her more closely. She was of only medium height, but big boned, and with long legs. She reminded me of a foal

I'd seen just the day before. Both had chestnut brown hair, but Marjorie's was shoulder length, and her hazel eyes peered

earnestly out from a face as soft and smooth as gardenia petals. Despite what she had just said, the girl couldn't have been a day

over eighteen. I had bunions older than she.

"Then you must be the Frosts' granddaughter. They're the last couple to show up, but nothing was said to me about you. I'm

afraid you're going to have to bunk with them on a cot, and/or find a room in town. And by that, I mean Bedford. Back up by the

turnpike."

Marjorie bit her lower lip. "I was afraid this was going to happen. I told Frank-well, never mind. The truth is, Miss Yoder, I'm

not Frank's granddaughter; I'm his wife."

"Get out of town! How old is your husband?"

She winced. "Seventy-six, but he's in very good shape."

"How old are you, dear?"

"Thirty-two."

"In a pig's eye," I said kindly.

She glanced down and studied Susannah's pumpkin. "Okay, so I'm twenty-four. But I'm mature for my age, and Frank has

always been young at heart."

"Is he rich?"

Her head jerked up. "I beg your pardon?"

"Of course he is. What a silly question for me to ask."

"Miss Yoder - "

I held up a quieting hand. "I have yet to see a girl your age attached to a poor man in his dotage."

She gasped. "Frank is hardly in his dotage!"

"Don't feel embarrassed, dear, I've seen it a hundred times. It happens the other way around, too. You may not read about it

much in the papers, but take it from me, Cher has had her share of boy-toys." I smiled brightly and waved at the jumble of

suitcases. "Are all these yours?"

"Oh, yes. Well, there's a few more small things in the car. But we won't need them until later."

I scanned the small parking lot. There was my red BMW, and three other cars. Since neither Susannah nor Freni drives a

car, that left one vehicle unaccounted for- presuming the couple hadn't been so foolish as to hire a cab to bring them out from

Pittsburgh.

"Where is your car, dear?"

She colored. "Uh - er - we forgot something. Frank had to run back into town."

"To a pharmacy?"

Her color deepened.

"Just remember, you break it, you pay for it, dear. "I’ve had two bedsteads broken by amorous couples, and one downed

chandelier.

She studied the pumpkin again. "Well, come on in, dear," I said. "If we stand out here any longer you'll turn twenty-five," I

chuckled pleasantly.

"Is there a bellhop?" she asked tentatively.

While I might be willing to schlep a few bags up my impossibly steep stairs, I was not about to move a mountain of baggage -

no, make that a mountain range of luggage. It may have been just the shadow of the passing cloud, but I'm positive I saw a

Sherpa wearing an oxygen tank disappear over the rim of one of the higher piles. I mean, why should I risk my back when the

coowner of all these suitcases was younger than my hairnet?

"You get to be the bellhop," I said cheerily, "and it will only cost you fifty dollars extra."

The hazel eyes blinked. "Oh, don't worry, I'm sure Daddy Warbucks will pay for everything."

Okay, so that was mean of me. I had no reason to pick on her, other than jealousy. Would that I had married a rich man when

I was young and of breeding age!

Just so you know, I paid mightily for my callousness. The nicks and scratches on my floor, doors, and walls cost hundreds of

dollars to repair. A troop of chimpanzees could have done a better job of schlepping bags upstairs, and at least they wouldn't have

gotten lipstick on the stairs carpet.

"Ach!" Freni clapped her hands together. "This SPAM® Lite luncheon meat is wonderful! Are you sure the English invented

it?"

To Freni, anyone not currently of the faith - and sometimes, depending on. her mood, that includes me - is "English." It

doesn't matter if you were born in an igloo, or happen to be a tribal chieftain in Botswana. If you're not a practicing Amish person,

you're "English." I only barely qualify as "non-English" because I have four hundred years of Amish and Amish-Mennonite

forbears, and am still a practicing Mennonite. But even in Freni's eyes, I'm definitely fancy. I drive a car, after all, use electricity,

and once during a shameful period of rebellion wore clear lipstick.

"Yeah, I'm sure that SPAMï® Lite is an English invention. But hey, Freni, thanks for coming in today. I really appreciate it,

what with a full house and Susannah getting married on top of it all."

Freni's dark eyes blinked behind her thick lenses. "Susannah is getting married?"

"Didn't she tell you?"

Freni shook her head. "Who to this time?"

Despite the fact that my sister has threatened marriage on numerous occasions, she has actually been married only once.

The man was a Presbyterian, which is just about as "fancy" and "English" as you can get around here. Predictably, the marriage

ended in divorce - not because of the Presbyterian's progressive ways, but because Susannah was too fancy for him. At any rate,

divorce is not an option to the Amish, and as for remarriage-well, Susannah might as well apply to have her name legally changed

to the Whore of Babylon.

I looked away from Freni. "She's marrying Melvin Stoltzfus."

"Ach!" Preni threw herself on to the nearest kitchen chair. "Elvina's son?"

"I'm afraid that's the one."

"Does Elvina know this?" Although no longer Amish, but a mere Mennonite, Elvina is Preni's best friend. They grew up

together -"shared the same cradle," so they claim.

I nodded, still not daring to look.

"When is this so-called wedding?"

"Wednesday morning at ten."

"Where?"

I turned slowly and squinted at Freni through my fingers. If she was in for a coronary, someone needed to know.

"At Elvina's."

"Ach du Leiber!"

That was it. Freni didn't clasp her chest, lapse into unconsciousness, or even foam at the mouth. She sat as still as Lot's wife

might have sat, had she not been standing at the moment of salinization.

I lowered my hands and took a timorous step toward her. "Freni? Are you all right?"

Her shoulders shook under the capelike flanges of her apron. Since I believed that neither of us was genetically capable of

weeping in public, it took me a moment to figure out that this was indeed what she was doing. I looked away again, lest I be turned

into a pillar of salt.

"Freni, dear, Susannah's soul is not your responsibility. Mama and Papa left her in my care."

Much to my horror she turned a tear-streaked face in my direction. "Ach, it isn't her soul! That's between her and God."

I jiggled a pinkie in my left ear to make sure I was hearing right. Either that wax problem was back, or the magazines I saw at

the supermarket were right - creatures from outer space did exist. But I had yet to read of an extraterrestrial posing as an elderly

Amish woman.

"Run that by me again, dear," I said calmly.

"I said that Susannah's soul is not my business."

"Quick, name all fifty states, and give me their capitals !"

"Ach, you're talking nonsense, Magdalena, and me with my pain!"

"What pain is that, dear? Your bunions acting up again?"

"The pain in my heart," Freni wailed. "Susannah didn't invite me!"

I jiggled pinkies in both ears. "You want to go?"

"I've known Susannah since the day she was born! I knew your mother since the day she was born! Of course I want to be

there."

"Who were the fifth and sixth presidents of the United States?"

"Ach, Magdalena, more games at a time like this?"

"Either you name them, buster, or I'm kicking you all the way back to your home planet." Okay, so that remark set

generations of pacifist ancestors spinning in their graves, but how would they feel about a Martian in Amish drag?

Freni's eyes grew round behind her specs. "Thomas Jefferson and James Madison, in that order. Are you satisfied now?"

I had to take her word for it. Between John Adams and Dwight D. Eisenhower, my presidential file is blank. Yes, I know

Lincoln and a couple of Roosevelts were somewhere between those two - and a Truman, I think, but I can't name anyone