Between a Wok and a Hard Place (11 page)

As I caught my breath, I prayed for deliverance from Mama's upbringing. Dr. Brack is a paying customer, after all.

And his only crimes were lurking about and trying to peddle that preposterous posture contraption.

"Guess I scared you, didn't I?" He chuckled.

The patience I had prayed for was slow in coming. "Scare me again and you won't get your dessert, either."

"Hmm. What's for dessert?"

"Upside-down caramel apple pie."

"In that case I'll be more careful to announce my presence. I've always had a sweet tooth."

"Supper's at six o'clock sharp. That's half an hour from now. Even if the others - say, why aren't you in town with the

others?"

"I'm not a tourist," he said, suddenly indignant. I didn't come here to gawk, I came to relax."

I glanced over at my newly paved parking lot. It is a recent addition, and cost a pretty penny, but it has cut down

substantially on complaints from customers about their cars being dinged by gravel. At any rate, Dr. Brack's Pontiac with

the personalized plate bearing his name was now parked there in all its gleaming splendor, whereas it had not been there

upon my return from town.

"Well, in that case you may want to try out one of those rockers on the front porch. They are very comfortable, and

you can see the pond across the road from the porch. I paid good money for those rocking chairs, but I might as well have

poured it down the drain."

Frankly, it irked me that this was the squirmiest bunch of guests I could remember. Schusslich, Freni called them.

Not one of them could stay still long enough for a fly to land.

Dr. Brack shrugged, proving my point. "We each relax in our own way, don't we? I, for one, prefer a nice drive

through the country over rocking. How do you relax, Mrs. Miller?"

I was both shocked and irritated. How I relaxed was none of his business. If I knew - which I didn't - I certainly

wasn't going to tell him.

"Well, I've got work to do and time and tide wait for no man," I said, using one of Mama's favorite quotes. I started

back to the house.

"Mrs. Miller?" He was jogging to keep up - we Yoders are world - class walkers, especially when we're provoked.

"What is it?"

"Have you given any more thought to wearing one of my braces?"

I gave it a quick thought. "Yes, I've given it some thought."

"And?"

"Well - "

"Before you say another word, Mrs. Miller I have some good news for you. I want to tell you that I've changed my

mind and decided to go on your popular ALPO plan."

"You have?" That was indeed good news, now that Susannah was likely to quit so that she could fling herself full-

time into Melvin's arms.

"Oh, yes. And I'm going to shovel out your barn just like you suggested. Provided that Pulitzer guy snaps my picture."

"I'm sure Angus will be happy to do so."

"So?"

"Is that a needle pulling thread?" I asked with remarkable kindness, considering my mood.

"So, are you going to reciprocate and wear one of my braces?"

He had at last worn my resistance down to a mere nub. "Yes!" I nearly screamed. "I'll wear one of your braces."

"You'll be happy you did," he said, falling a little behind. "It will improve your posture a great deal. You tend to slouch,

you know. But one of my braces will straighten you right up. It'll make your bosoms appear larger as well."

"Well I never!"

I slouched away so fast he ate my dust.

10

GREAT-GRANDMA BLOUGH'S UPSIDE-DOWN CARAMEL APPLE PIE

("Messy on the plate, but clean on the tongue.")

INGREDIENTS

Crust

2 ready-made pie crusts to fit deep 9-inch pan

Caramel

½ cup firmly packed dark brown sugar

½ cup finely chopped pecans

¼ cup melted butter (or full fat margarine)

1 teaspoon warm honey

Filling

6-8 baking apples, peeled, cored, and sliced

½ cup white sugar

1 tablespoon cornstarch

½ teaspoon ground cinnamon

¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg

1 tablespoon butter

1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice

DIRECTIONS

Preheat oven to 4000 F. Combine caramel ingredients in the bottom of a deep dish pie

pan. Place one of the pie crusts in the pan, on top of the caramel mixture. Allow the crust

to extend over the rim of the pan.

Arrange apple slices in the pan. Sprinkle with sugar, cornstarch, cinnamon and nutmeg.

Dot evenly with thin slices of butter. Sprinkle with lemon juice.

Cover pie with top crust, trim, and crimp edge. Poke holes with fork to vent. Bake at 400

F for 15 minutes, then reduce heat to 325 F. Bake an additional 20-30 minutes. Remove

from oven and cool. Approximately one-half hour before serving time return to oven for a

few minutes to loosen caramel. (This may also be done by placing the pie in a microwave

oven for 30 seconds or so.) Invert pie on a large plate and serve caramel side up.

Serves eight English, or three Mennonite-Amish.

11

The next two days were relatively peaceful. Every morning after breakfast my guests scattered like roaches at sunlight

(not that I would know, mind you). The enigmatic Dixons, the lovely Ms. Pearson, and tiresome Terry Slock roamed the

countryside, Amish spotting. After the first day they no longer moved as a pack, but spread out like true hunters, the

Dixons in their station wagon dubbed the Dixonmobile, and Shirley and Terry in their rented cars.

They were every bit as devoted as bird-watchers. Armed with binoculars and cameras and notebooks, they tracked

every buggy spotted, photographed every bonnet. In the evenings they compared notes, and, depending on their level of

civility, either implored me to arrange an official Amish visit, or berated me for not having done so - not that it was my

fault.

Freni flatly refused to have her home opened as a museum for curious English eyes. "Let them stare at me in the

kitchen here while they help me do the dishes," she said. The truth be told, Freni looks down the considerable length of

her nose at the Amish in Lancaster County who not only allow, but promote home visits by English.

Dr. Brack appeared to be indifferent to the Amish. At least he never talked about them. He made frequent short trips

to undisclosed places but, much to my satisfaction, discovered the joys of a good rocker.

Perhaps someday I will be as fortunate.

Susannah I never saw. After spending two hours on her makeup she swirled right out the front door and into Melvin's

waiting arms. She didn't even say good-bye, much less thank me. I caught a glimpse of fifteen feet of flowing fabric, and

that was it. Well, that and a lingering stench of perfume so strong that I used up half a can of Lysol trying to mask it.

My point is that had I not had the awesome responsibility of a murder investigation thrust upon my broad but thin

shoulders, it would have been a relaxing two days. After all, Aaron was out of town and I was free of the connubial duties

that had taken an inordinate amount of time lately - although my Pooky Bear assures me that five times a day is the

norm.

It was, however, impossible to ignore Freni's numerous complaints. She was like a Sunday school teacher

chaperoning a class trip to Pittsburgh. There was something wrong everywhere she turned. Chief among Freni's

complaints were the children. Although I had made it quite clear to the Dixons on that first day that they were never to

leave their children unattended, they continued to do so.

"Buck up," I said to Freni. "We'll charge them day care and I'll split it with you, fifty-fifty."

Freni's brows bristled over baleful eyes. "All or nothing, Magdalena."

"Easy come, easy go," I said, and capitulated. But even with a good chunk of change as an incentive Freni found it

impossible to manage three rapscallions and cook a good meal.

"Well, there's more than one way to skin a cat," I said. I was not, of course, referring to her meals. "Why don't you

ask Barbara to help with the kids."

"Which Barbara?"

"Your daughter-in-law."

Her considerable nose aimed straight for the ceiling. "She doesn't know the first thing about children, Magdalena.

She's never had any."

"I know, but she was one herself. And she had little brothers and sisters."

"Ach, Matilda the milk cow has a little sister. Would you ask her to help?"

In the end Freni reluctantly agreed to my idea. As much as she despised and maligned her only daughter-in-law, she

realized that she would never be a grandmother without the woman's participation. Barbara, unfortunately, had been

sterile for years, but recently a minor surgical procedure - with the bishop's permission - had tipped the odds in favor of

fertility. (Not that the poor woman, already in her late thirties, had many such years to look forward to.) At any rate, it was

as if Freni believed that by exposing her daughter-in-law to the Dixon children, that Barbara might actually "catch"

pregnancy.

"Twins would be nice," Freni muttered, as we watched the urchins tie up her daughter-in-law. "It would make up for

lost time."

"Boys, girls, or one of each?"

"Ach, Magdalena, how you talk! Girls, of course. Boys bring nothing but trouble. Boys. . ." her voice trailed off sadly.

"Marry girls?"

"A son is a son till he takes a wife," she said fiercely, "but a daughter's a daughter the rest of her life."

I wondered for the millionth time what Mama would have thought of Aaron. She had known him as a youngster, of

course, since he lived across the road, but she had never met Aaron the man. It pains me to say this, but Mama would

probably not have approved of Aaron - or any man that I chose. Before she died she had her hat set on snagging Peter

Kurtz, a devout young man who not only attended Beechy Grove Mennonite Church regularly, but who had plans for the

ministry. Mama would roll over in her grave if she knew that Peter had not only left the Mennonite fold, but was now a

rabbi in Tel Aviv.

The phone rang. Now, my faith frowns on delving into the paranormal, but there have been several occasions when

I've been thinking of someone and the phone rings, and I pick it up only to find the object of my thoughts on the other end.

But I assure you that I am not so far into the world that I get premonitions from overseas, and certainly not from Heaven.

My caller was neither Mama nor Rabbi Kurtz, but my very own Pooky Bear from Minnesota.

"Aaron! I was just thinking about you." The kitchen phone has a long chord and I maneuvered as far away from Freni

as possible. The woman has the ears of fox, and can hear a mouse belch at fifty paces.

"Magdalena, I'm afraid I have some bad news." That's just what the sheriff told me the day Mama and Papa died.

That was the understatement of my lifetime. Bad news is finding out that a check bounced (mine never do!) or that your

car has just gone through another set of brakes (my old car was a certified brake-eater). But learning that the only link to

your past has been turned into mush inside the Allegheny tunnel is not bad news. It's catastrophic.

"Go ahead, I'm sitting down." I was, too, and had braced myself by wedging into a comer.

My Pooky Bear had the audacity to chuckle. "It's not that bad, sugarpeep. It's just that it's taking longer to tie up loose

ends here than I expected. I don't think I can make it home before the end of the week. But I'll be bringing back that

surprise, I promise."

What I am about to say is highly confidential, but for some strange reason I felt like laughing. Maybe even cheering. It

was like Friday afternoon at school and the teacher announced there would be no homework for the weekend. Of course

it didn't make any sense to me. I loved my rooky Bear dearly, and each mile between us was a stab in the heart. Well,