The Hand that Rocks the Ladle (14 page)

“I’m not a tourist,” I blurted. “I’m Magdalena Yoder, owner of the PennDutch Inn.”

The door all but closed.

“I’m an Amish-Mennonite, for crying out loud. All my ancestors were Amish. I even have Zooks in my family tree.”

The door crept open an inch or two.

Encouraged, I opened my mouth. “I’m also a cousin of Freni Flostetler—”

The door closed altogether.

“But I support rubber wheels!” I wailed.

The door opened slowly, just wide enough for me to see a stout woman about Freni’s age and size. I didn’t have time to savor the irony.

“What is it?” the woman demanded in a thick accent.

“I—uh, I would like to speak with Rebecca.”

“Why?” Tiny eyes regarded me warily behind bottle- thick glasses.

“Well, because—well, Freni’s daughter-in-law, Barbara, had twins yesterday, but Freni is convinced there should have been triplets, only of course there weren’t, and somehow I got pressed into playing detective and coming up with the missing triplet, which I’m not even sure exists, and the only lead I have is that Dr. Pierce, who was Barbara’s doctor, and who, I believe, also was originally Rebecca’s doctor, has suddenly decided to go off on vacation, and can’t be reached, and of course I’d like to ask him a few questions, but can’t, so I’m making it a point to talk to as many patients of his as I can, and who knows, maybe I’ll come up with some clue as to where he is, in which case I can ask him directly how many babies Barbara Hostetler was really expecting.” After I got rolling, I said it all in one breath.

“Ach, you are even crazier than Freni.” The door started to close.

“Grossmudder,
please.”

I stared at the young woman now standing in the doorway behind her grandmother. Rebecca Zook. I remembered her now. I just hadn’t remembered her name. But her face—surely it was the most beautiful face God ever created.

I’ve seen Liz’s famed eyes of violet, but they pale in comparison to Rebecca Zook’s. Throw in a flawless complexion, symmetrical features, and raven hair—a rarity among Amish—the woman is simply stunning. Unlike yours truly. Unfortunately, when the Good Lord made me He didn’t break the mold, He just put a bridle on it and said “giddyap.” But Rebecca, now there was a woman who could make heads turn in any city in the world, and not just at a racetrack either. It was no wonder an English boy found her attractive.

“Can I help you?” Rebecca asked. Without any apparent shoving, and despite her size, she’d managed to insinuate herself between her grandmother and the door.

“May I come in?”

Violet eyes scanned the sky behind me. “It is a pleasant morning. Perhaps we could talk outside?”

Frankly, this irritated me. I am not, as I’ve said before, nosy. And I know the Amish homes to be plain with functional furniture, and only unframed landscapes taken from calendars to decorate the walls. But the very fact that I was obviously not wanted made it immensely attractive.

“I’m chilly,” I said.

“Just a minute.” Rebecca disappeared, leaving Grossmudder to stare at me.

“Pretty girl,” I said.

“Ach, we are all God’s children. One no different than the other.”

“Except some of us are mere Mennonites and unworthy of being invited in.” It was a mean thing for me to say, but I mumbled it, so the old lady couldn’t hear me anyway.

“What did you say?”

“I, uh, said—”

I smiled gratefully at Rebecca who had returned bearing an enormous woolen shawl, and who without further ado came outside and draped it around my bony shoulders. The shawl was incredibly heavy and smelled of horses, appropriate for me perhaps, but the truth be told, I wasn’t really cold.

“We can sit in these rockers,” Rebecca said, pointing to a constellation of chairs at the far end of an unpainted wooden porch. She led the way with remarkable grace, given her condition. I followed ponderously, dragging the heavy shawl.

“Now,” she said, when we were seated, “what is this really about?”

I must have looked surprised.

“There was a reporter here yesterday,” she said. “A man from Philadelphia, I think. He was writing a story on rebellious Amish youth.”

“Oh, my.”

“Yah, it is very embarrassing for me. For my family as well.”

“I’m sure it is. But I assure you, I have nothing to do with this reporter. I just want some information on Dr. Pierce.”

“He is a good doctor.” Her voice rose slightly, suggesting a question.

“That’s what I don’t know. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

She glanced down at her watermelon of a belly, hidden by a blue broadcloth dress and crisp black apron. I, of course, am not an expert at such things, but I couldn’t image she had much longer to go.

“I do not wish to talk about it. It was a sin, yah, and I made my confession. I will confess again when the baby has come.”

“Confess twice?” I squirmed, hoping the shawl would slip from my shoulders. The morning sun was hitting me full on and I was burning up.

Violet eyes locked on my faded blue peepers. “The first time was to the bishop and two elders. I cannot confess like this in front of the congregation. That I will do later.”

“I see. Of course. Look, I don’t want to ask you anything embarrassing or personal, I’m just curious why you went to Dr. Pierce in the first place. Don’t Amish women use midwives?”

“Yah.” She looked back at the mound in her lap. “It was Kevin’s idea.”

“Kevin?”

“My—uh, the baby’s father.”

“The boy from work?” I shrugged the shawl loose and it fell to the floor with a whoosh and a thump. It must have weighed ten pounds.

Rebecca looked at the wrap and then at me. Had she not been so encumbered, she might well have leaped up and retrieved the darn thing.

“I’m fine now,” I said. “So, tell me about Kevin. Why did he want you to see a doctor in Bedford?”

“This is not your business, Miss Yoder, but I will tell you anyway. Kevin is not of our faith—he is English. I am sure you know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

She sighed. “Perhaps the world knows. The man from Philadelphia? Where would he hear such a thing?”

“Who knows? Somebody tells somebody and they tell a cousin in Philadelphia? And since we’re not at war at the moment, it’s news. Amish are very ‘in’ right now.”

She looked puzzled.

“What I mean, dear, is the English find you fascinating.”

She nodded vigorously. “Yah, this is so. But why?”

“That’s a good question. I wish I knew.” Truer words were never spoken. If I knew the answer to that question, I would capitalize on it for all it was worth. The Good Lord doesn’t mind if we make a dollar, just as long as we give Him His tithe.

“Ach, it can be so much trouble at times. But it is a cross we must bear.”

I wisely censored my tongue. It would do no good, only cause anguish, to inform Rebecca that in her case, some of the world’s attention was undoubtedly due to her extraordinary looks, and not the peculiarities of her religious convictions.

“So, dear, it was Kevin who picked Dr. Pierce?”

“Yah. You see, Miss Yoder, it is Kevin who will raise the child.”

“What?” I nearly fell off my rocker.

“The bishop and the elders,” she spoke slowly, “have said this is God’s will.”

“She told them?”

Never shock a pregnant Amish girl unless you’re prepared to deliver her baby. Frankly, I was shocked as well. Of course I don’t believe God is a woman, any more than I believe He’s a man (oops, that “He” word again). It’s just that I get irritated when folks talk about God’s will as if they have a special pipeline to the Almighty. I guess I wouldn’t mind so much if the messages pertained only to them, and didn’t concern the affairs of others. Perhaps I wouldn’t be so bitter if Reverend Lantz hadn’t managed to persuade Mama that God didn’t want me attending college at the University of Pittsburgh, where I might have pursued a degree in clinical psychology. Instead, the Good Lord communicated through Reverend Lantz that I would be much better off enrolling in Bedford Community College. I hope someday I’ll find a use for my associate’s degree in English up in heaven, because I have yet to find one for it here.

Fortunately Rebecca didn’t go into labor, but she staggered to her feet. “I think you should leave now, Miss Yoder.”

“I’m sorry!” I wailed.

“You have blasphemed.”

“Yes, but I’m repenting. Please let me stay.”

Violet eyes looked past me. “I cannot. I am in enough trouble as it is.”

“Trouble? What trouble?”

“Shhh.
Grossmudder
.”

A second later I heard the front door close.

It was still the shank of the morning, and one slice of toast does not a breakfast make. Lacking any better leads, I had decided to drive the twelve miles into Bedford and poke around in the vicinity of Dr. Pierce’s office, maybe even his home. Just outside of

Bedford, where Highway 96 hits the turnpike, sits the Sausage Barn. It’s a new establishment, a backlash against the low-fat trend of the nineties. The Mennonite owners of the Sausage Barn subscribe to that time- honored Anabaptist tradition that fat is where it’s at. Everything at the Sausage Barn comes swimming in grease of some kind, but the management makes up, in part, for this by banning smoking altogether. Here at the Sausage Barn nonsmokers get to eat their grease in peace.

Please understand, I am not espousing high cholesterol or advocating heart attacks. I am merely stating a fact: fat tastes good. Animal fat tastes the best. What can compare to a greasy strip of bacon, fried crisp on the ends, but with just a little play in the middle? Didn’t the Good Lord forbid His Chosen People to eat pork, so that the rest of us could have more? Frankly, as a good Christian I consider it my religious duty to eat as much bacon as possible, thereby sparing Jews and Muslims temptation.

Freni cooks lavish, lard-laden breakfasts, but I still find regular excuses to visit the Sausage Barn. Breakfast is my favorite meal, and the Sausage Barn serves nothing but breakfast, twenty-four hours a day. I parked in what has become my usual spot, and was shown to my regular booth by Wanda, owner, receptionist, and sometimes server.

“Just one?” she asked. She asks that every time, although I invariably come in alone.

I forced a smile. “Yes. And I’d like my usual booth if it’s available.”

“You know,” she said as we wound through a labyrinth of wooden stalls, most of them filled with diners, “you might get yourself a man if you put a little meat on those bones.”

“I’m trying!” I wailed. “I mean, I’m trying to fill out a little. I’ve already got a man.”

“Oh?”

I thought about Gabe the babe, who probably wouldn’t be caught dead eating here, and besides he already had a babe of his own. At least a baby.

“Well, it’s nothing serious. But I am seeing someone.”

Wanda handed me a well-smeared plastic-coated menu. “You always ask to sit back here in the corner by the kitchen. Why is that? These are the last booths to fill, and nobody can see you back here. You’re not going to catch a man that way.”

“I’m not trying to catch a man! Besides, I like it back here because I can see the orders come up. Frankly, dear, Agnes is a little slow and needs prompting now and then. If I want cold eggs, I can get them at home.”

“Agnes had polio when she was a kid. And she’s mentally challenged. We at Sausage Barn do our best to be inclusive.”

I slapped both cheeks—gently, of course—with my right hand. Someday, when ducks fly backward, I’ll learn to curb my tongue.

Wanda pulled a well-chewed pencil out of a beehive that sat squarely atop her round little head. I’m not claiming that Wanda invented this hairstyle, but I know for a fact she’s been wearing her hair that way ever since we were in tenth grade together. And I don’t mean this to be unkind, but I don’t think Wanda’s washed that do in all these years.

“Agnes’s legs are bothering her a bit this morning, so I’ll be covering some of her tables. What will it be? Your usual?”

“I don’t come here all that often,” I said defensively. “And I certainly don’t order the same thing every time.”

Wanda scribbled on her pad. It was a wonder a pencil that greasy could still write.

“Two eggs, poached well. Bacon, not too crisp. Pancakes, golden brown, but not too dry in the middle. Real maple syrup—none of those fancy fruit toppings. Large O.J., Decaf coffee with lots of half and half.”

“You forgot the butter,” I wailed. “I can’t eat pancakes without butter.”

Wanda pointed to a bowl already on the table. It was spilling over with individual pats.

“Leave it to me, hon. I know you like the back of my hand. You just leave everything to me. I’ll get you a man.”

“But I don’t want a man!”

The cowbells attached to the front door clanked and Agnes bustled off to seat more guests. She was back before I could finish checking my tableware for water stains. In her tow was the arrogant and antisocial Dr. Barnes.

“This man says he’d like to meet some authentic Mennonites and Amish. You’re an authentic Mennonite, aren’t you, Magdalena?”

I sighed. “Good morning, Dr. Barnes.”

“Good morning, Proprietress.”

Wanda beamed. Her broad smile used so many muscles that the mound of hair teetered precariously. I leaned toward the window, away from the threatening do. It was a tense moment, I’ll have you know. Should that beehive fall and unravel, it might well release a plague of disastrous proportions. Who knows to what extent vermin might have mutated in that thing over the past thirty years. I briefly considered the possibility that Wanda was part of a communist plot. The demolition of the Berlin Wall, the apparent unraveling of the Soviet Union, these might all be clever ploys to get this country off guard. Then one fine summer day Wanda Hemphopple of Hernia, Pennsylvania, pulls a simple hairpin out of her towering do, and the world’s largest democracy is obliterated.

“So, you two already know each other?”

“Yes, this man’s a guest at my inn. But why he can’t be content to take his breakfast there is beyond me.” Professor Barnes had the temerity to slide into the booth and sit opposite me. “Perhaps if your establishment lived up to its claims, I would. Your brochure advertised an authentic Amish cook. So far it’s been potluck, or eat the slop those English women serve.”