The Hand that Rocks the Ladle (12 page)

“What’s going on?” I demanded.

Edwina twirled the tip of her tail with a short plump finger. “We knew you had a lot on your mind, so we all decided to pitch in and help out with dinner. The bubble and squeak is left over from lunch, but Daphne’s made a nice curry, and Mr. and Mrs. Rediger brought a lovely cake back with them.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Vivian Mays waved a gold bangle in my face to get my attention. “Cooking has never been my forte. Besides, I’m paying you good money for that. This,” she said, pointing to the repast in front of us, “is not up to par.”

I smiled patiently. After all, the woman had pronounced forte correctly, not stressing the E, which would have made it quite a different word.

“Now I remember. I didn’t get a chance to explain A.L.P.O. to you. You see, for a slightly higher rate you get the privilege of living like real Amish and preparing your own meals.”

“Well, in that case.”

“But we—” Gloria tried to butt in.

“You brought that lovely cake, dears.”

The twins exchanged glances and giggled. I hastened to shut them up.

“Where’s Dr. Barnes?” I asked.

The twins giggled again.

Gloria smiled. “He’s in the dining room. We asked him to join us, but he refused.”

Vivian nodded, her heavy necklace clanking like chimes in a stiff March wind. “He said eating in a kitchen is uncouth.”

I wiped mashed potatoes off my face. “He’s right. Especially when there’s a perfectly good dining room going to waste. Did I tell you that table was built by my great-great-great-grandfather Jacob ‘The Strong’ Yoder? He made it from a tree that was growing on the very spot where the dining room sits today.”

“Fascinating,” Daphne said. “You Americans are so creative.”

“Shall we move then?” I said.

“Let’s!” Edwina clapped her pudgy palms. “This is going to be exciting.”

“I’m glad to hear that. You English have such an appreciation for history—of course, yours is much longer than ours. Still, Jacob 'The Strong’ was born in 1757. Or was it later? Yes, it had to have been much later. 1757 was the year another of my ancestors, Jacob Hochstetler, was taken captive by the Delaware Indians. He and two of his sons. Now that’s a really interesting story. Would you prefer to hear it?”

Edwina flushed. “Actually, I meant it was going to be interesting dining with the professor.”

“Oh?”

“He’s so eccentric,” Daphne said. “If you don’t mind my saying so,” she added.

“By all means, dear, call the kettle black.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s just a silly expression,” I said, hoping they didn’t have the same one back in Manchester, England.

“He’s weird,” Sandy the sex slave had the nerve to opine. His head was tilted, and one of the pearl and platinum earrings was out of kilter.

Vivian Mays gave her new hubby a quick, disapproving look. I had the feeling their marriage was going to last no longer than last week’s milk. That, at least, can be made into sour cream.

“None of us is perfect, dear,” I said. “In fact, once in a moment of weakness I—”

The phone rang in the front lobby, saving me from an embarrassing confession.

“PennDutch Inn,” I said gratefully. I was out of breath, having vaulted through the dining room, no doubt startling the absentminded professor.

“Did you find my little namesake?”

“Freni! How is Mose?” In the background I could hear someone paging a Dr. Killdeer.

“Ach, you would never know he was operated on. The man has the constipation of a horse.”

“That’s constitution, dear. And how are you doing?”

“Fine. Magdalena, did you find my baby?”

Her baby? To hear Freni, one would think she carried those babies around for nearly nine months. I swallowed a throat full of sarcasm.

“I haven’t found any missing babies, dear.”

“But you promised!”

“I said I would do my best.”

“Your mama was a nervous woman, Magdalena. I’m not saying she didn’t love you, but . . .”

“But what?”

“Ach, it isn’t right to speak bad of the dead, Magdalena, but there is no other way to say it.” She took a deep breath. “Your mama knew as much about babies as a hen knows about ducklings. It was me who took care of you, Magdalena. I am the one who fed you and wiped your skinny red bottom.”

“Why I never!”

“Yah, you never once said thank you. Not that I can blame a child, but now, well . . .” Her voice trailed again.

“You can have my firstborn,” I wailed.

Mercifully, Freni failed to remind me that I was as barren as the Gobi Desert, as fruitless as the Kalahari, as sterile as the Sahara. “You want to show your thanks, Magdalena?”

“Of course, dear.” Thank the Good Lord she couldn’t see my eyes, which were rolling like the wheels of a truck on the turnpike.

“Then find Little Freni!”

“I’m doing my best, Freni. In fact, I’ve been following a few leads.”

“Yah?”

“Yah,” I said, and then flushed with shame. “Freni, dear, do you know Rebecca Zook? The one who until just recently was working at Miller’s Feed Store?”

“Ach, such a sad story.”

“Oh?”

“There are rumors, Magdalena.”

“What sort of rumors?”

Freni sighed, delighted to have my rapt attention. “She’s in the family way.”

“I know that, dear. It isn’t a secret—oh, you mean she isn’t married. Is that it?”

“Yah, but there is more.”

“Do tell!” The ninth commandment forbids us to give false testimony against our neighbors. It does not forbid true testimony. Besides, Proverbs, chapter eighteen, verse eight says, “The words of a gossip are like choice morsels, they go down to a man's inmost parts.” Freni took a deep breath, nearly sucking my ear into the phone. “They say she bundled with an English man and—”

“Get out of town!”

“What? You want I should tell this story or not, Magdalena?”

“I want! ‘Get out of town’ is only an expression I learned from Susannah. Go on with your story, dear.”

“Do you know what this bundling is, Magdalena?”

“Yes, but I want to hear more.” Boy, did I! Supposedly, the custom originated some centuries ago in the cold, unheated farmhouses of Switzerland, but persists to this day among some Amish groups, especially here in Hernia, Pennsylvania. It is a controversial subject, even among the Amish themselves. I had heard references to bundling as long as I can remember, but had never had the nerve to ask Freni for details. Mama, a Mennonite born and bred, looked down her long Yoder (and not only by marriage) nose at the custom, calling it “sinful” and “an abomination.” Of course Mama was also of the opinion that Mennonites should never engage in sex while standing, lest it lead to dancing.

At any rate, beyond the age of sixteen Amish teenagers are given an astonishing amount of leeway, known as
mit einander rumschpringe
, or literally, “running around together.” This is the age when dating begins. If a relationship becomes serious, some Amish will permit the young people to cuddle, in bed, in a horizontal position. More often than not a rough board is placed between the couple to prevent any direct physical contact. In some Amish communities, however, the couple may actually embrace, but only from the waist up. One Amish church in the area insists that the young men remain fully clothed, but the young women may remove their dresses, as long as they remain in their petticoats!

Freni mumbled something that let me know she didn’t approve of bundling altogether. No doubt this disapproval extends to Jonathan and Barbara’s marital relations—or it may be because her son married a woman she couldn’t stand (i.e., any woman).

“But from what I hear, Magdalena, the Zooks practice this custom.”

“With or without the board?”

“Ach!” She paused. “Without. And now they are paying the price.”

“But with an English man?”

“Yah, a young boy who comes into the feed store now and then.”

“You’re saying the Zooks allowed their daughter to date an English boy?”

“Ach, so dense, Magdalena. Maybe they don’t allow such a thing, but if they practice the bundling—well, you see what happens?”

In Freni’s court the Zooks had been tried and convicted of parental neglect, or worse. It was time to steer the conversation away from the irresponsible parents and back to Rebecca.

“Is there any possibility of marriage?”

“Ach!” The sound of boulders crashing into my ear was a clue that Freni had dropped the phone on her end.

“Freni? Are you okay?”

“Yah,” she panted, “but such nonsense you talk. Maybe the Zooks are not such good parents, and maybe Elizabeth is not such a good housekeeper— and her pie crusts are too dry—but they would never let Rebecca marry an English.”

“They would shun her?”

“Yah, of course!”

Of course. Shunning is a major tenant of Ordnung, the Amish code of behavior. Members of the community are required to shun those individuals who have been excommunicated for grievous sins. These sins range from persistent playing of the radio (despite grave warnings) to adultery. The act of shunning is not a token slap on the wrist. One is forbidden to talk to, sleep with, and even eat with a shunned person. Fortunately, this need not be a permanent situation. If the sinner is truly repentant and promises to change his or her ways, they can be reunited to the community, both physically and spiritually. If the sinner is intransigent, the shunning could go on forever.

Spiritual insubordination can sometimes have disastrous consequences. Take the Troyers, for example, who live just down the road from me. He was excommunicated for pridefully installing rubber tires on his buggy. That was six months ago, and since then, by all accounts, Daniel and Lizzie Troyer have been living in separate parts of the house. Meanwhile Daniel refuses to repent for something which he does not view as a sin. In fact, I have seen him drive past my house in that very buggy, flaunting those comfy tires in broad daylight!

Unfortunately, but as might be expected, Daniel’s parents, siblings, and numerous cousins think the bishop—who is a first cousin to Lizzie—has been too harsh. Lizzie’s family, and reportedly herself included, support the bishop. There is speculation now that this particular congregation will split in half, and those in favor of rubber buggy tires will establish a new church. This will undoubtedly mean the end of Daniel and Lizzie’s marriage. The Troyer situation might even be funny if it were not for the fact that Jonathan and Barbara are in favor of rubber tires, whereas Mose and Freni are dear friends of Lizzie’s parents, and thus quite against this seductive worldly comfort. When rubber tires threaten to divide my loved ones, it stops being a laughing matter.

“Freni, dear,” I said softly, “is there any chance that Rebecca Zook will repent?”

“Who knows? The Zooks are a hardheaded bunch. So why do you want to know about Rebecca?”

“I thought she might be able to use a new friend,”

I said deftly. That was true, only I didn’t expect that new friend to be me.

“The Zooks want these rubber tires,” Freni said tartly.

“Maybe I could talk them out of them.”

Freni snorted. I knew what she was thinking. I’m a car-driving Mennonite, for crying out loud. I couldn’t possibly talk an Amish person out of anything that was bad for them. To the contrary, I was likely to buy them a one-way express ticket to you know where.

“Are they the same Zooks who live next to the Kauffmans on Zweibacher Road?” I asked cagily.

“Ach! Those are the Bontragers! Rebecca Zook lives in that big white house on Hooley Lane. The one right beside that terrible curve. Dead Man’s Curve,” she added in a whisper.

Virtually every Amish family in the area lives in a big white house, but I knew now exactly which one she meant. Last winter two Hernia high school boys were drag racing down Hooley Lane, when the car in front plowed head-on into a horse and buggy. Five members of the Stutzman family were killed outright, three others were critically injured, including the driver of the lead car. As for the poor horse, no amount of whispering could save his hide.

“Terrible about that accident,” I said, and clucked appropriately. “So when are you coming home, Freni? Do you need a ride?”

“Visiting hours are over at eight,” she said. “That nice Mennonite couple will be picking me up.”

“The Redigers? Aren’t they being just a little too nice?” Believe me, I’d known Freni my entire life. There was no way I could be jealous of two leaf- watching upstarts from Indiana. Even if they were fellow Mennonites.

“Such good people, Magdalena. Always so calm and soothing. You could take a page from their dictionary.”

“That’s
book
, I wailed. “And the Redigers use rubber tires!”

Freni hung up. She obviously didn’t have a comeback for that.

They say that when the going gets tough, the tough get going. They may be right in this case. I got going— right out the front door and straight into the lap of temptation.

Bubble and Squeak
²

2 cups cold mashed potatoes

1 cup cold roast beef, shredded

1 cup cold steamed or boiled cabbage, chopped finely

1 medium onion, chopped finely

2 ounces sharp cheddar cheese

4 slices bacon

Salt and pepper to taste

Fry bacon until crisp, and remove from pan. Mix and shape remaining ingredients into four large patties. Fry for about five minutes on each side until hot through and golden brown. Garnish with crumbled bacon.

I have a new neighbor. The farm across from me, the one where my erstwhile Pooky Bear, the bigamist who took my precious flower and tore it asunder, used to live, this farm has been sold to an immigrant. Dr. Gabriel Rosen—a medical doctor in this case—doesn’t hail from someplace overseas, but from New York City. The Big Apple, as he calls it. Urban refugee is what he calls himself.