Between a Wok and a Hard Place (20 page)

"I see," I said, and smiled conspiratorially.

"Ach, but it's true," Annie protested needlessly. "My mama was a Yoder, Magdalena. A second cousin to your father.

Just look at my nose. It's almost as big as yours."

Frankly, it had a long way to go, but this was no time to make her feel inadequate. Because of my back I couldn't

help them carry Samuel to the car, but I distracted the little girls while Terry, who was delighted to be conscripted,

participated in this life-saving mission.

"Wow," he said over and over again on the way to the hospital, "this is so cool. Harrison is going to be so jealous."

"Don't you say a word to anyone," I chided. "We don't know who to trust. Although Harry is probably okay. He has yet

to break any of his promises to me."

"You know Harrison Ford? The actor who starred in the movie Witness?"

I looked down the length of my considerable nose. "How do you think he did his research?"

"Wow! Cool!"

From the backseat Samuel moaned.

18

Dr. Rosenkrantz was a competent, if unpleasant man. He had his underlings hook Samuel up to so many tubes, the poor

boy resembled a bagpipe. But Doc knew his business, and in less time than it takes Susannah to steal from the offering

plate, Samuel, now known as Thomas Arnold, began to recover. Within the hour his temperature dropped to near normal

and he began to drift in and out of consciousness. I phoned the good news back to the Kauffmans.

"Thomas is on the mend," I said joyfully to Annie.

"Who?"

"Thomas!" I hissed. "Thomas Arnold in Bedford.'"

"Make sense, Magdalena. I don't know any Thomas Arnold in Bedford."

"Is that the man who runs the fresh fruit stand on Route 96?" Eli asked on the extension.

"Yah," Annie chirped, that's the one. And he's a real cherry pie if you ask me."

While Annie is fluent in English, she is idiomatically challenged. Still, I knew who she meant.

"The expression is fruitcake, Annie, and you're talking about Thomas Amstutz. He's a different Thomas. This Thomas

is the fruit of your loins."

"Ach," they cried in unison. "That Thomas!"

"Yes, that Thomas. Anyway, he's going to be just fine.”

"When will he be released?" Eli asked anxiously.

"Yah,when?"

"Good heavens," I said, "not for several days, I should think. Even then, he must stay at the fruit stand until we have

a buyer."

"Ach, so it isn't our Thomas after all," Annie wailed. "It's the cherry pie man."

"Is his fruit stand for sale, Magdalena?" Eli asked. To be sure, he sounded disappointed, but Eli is a practical man,

with a knack for making a dollar.

Call me a quitter, but I despaired of speaking in code. "Your son Samuel is fine," I practically screamed into the

phone. Fortunately it was a slow day at Bedford County Hospital and the corridor was empty except for Terry, who had

been sworn to secrecy, and Nurse Dudley. The latter, I know from personal experience, is either stone deaf, or a

prototype masochist. My call button, not to mention my screams, never once went answered. At any rate, I had been

observing Nurse Dudley, and true to form, she wasn't the least bit interested in her new patient.

Before I left I talked with the Bedford County Sheriff for the third time. It was agreed that the hospital staff would call

me at the PennDutch as soon as Samuel, alias Thomas, was strong enough to be interviewed. I could have first crack at

him on Melvin's behalf.

"We still can't get over how he broke his leg," the sheriff said, laughing. "Is it true he once shipped his cousin in

Philadelphia a gallon of ice cream by UPS?"

"He shipped the ice cream to his cousin in Scranton," I sniffed, and pointed my shnoz skyward. I am told that I do a

fair imitation of your average Parisian when asked for directions.

"Betcha he won't be milking any more bulls," the deputy said and nudged his boss. They both laughed.

Melvin might have more faults than the State of California, but hey, he's a Hernia boy born and bred - make that

inbred. And a lapsed Mennonite to boot. I just barely had a right to criticize him; but the sheriff, and most certainly the

deputy, did not.

"Police Chief Melvin Stoltzfus is the finest man I've ever met," I snapped, and then buried my nose in a hankie so

they wouldn't see it grow.

As was my right, I presided over dinner that night at the inn like a five-foot-ten-inch Queen Victoria. I sat bolt upright

like the old gal, too, thanks to a chance encounter with Dr. Brack in the parlor. Two hundred and sixty-five dollars later,

including tax, I was the proud owner of a Brack's Back Brace. Due to my injury, which had become more painful as the

day progressed, I dispensed with his offer of a free trial period and plonked the money down on the spot. And let me tell

you this, the fool thing actually works. One minute I was in agonizing pain, and the next I was singing Brack's praises.

You, like some of my guests, may wonder why it is necessary to have a sit-down supper every evening with

everyone in attendance. Well, I'll tell you. It's because American table manners disappeared along with the Edsel and the

advent of the first frozen entree. Today entire families eat on the run, stuffing fast food into their faces with their fingers of

all things. The proper use of cutlery is a forgotten art. Virtually no one remembers how to use a table knife correctly; I

have actually seen folks cut their food using the sides of their forks!

And believe you me, the rich and famous are not exempt from boorish behavior. One popular movie star chewed with

her mouth open so wide I could see the inside view of her recent tummy-tuck. Another Hollywood figure, who shall also

remain nameless, didn't even stoop to lick his fingers after eating chicken, but instead ran them through his hair. Later that

evening he got too close to a candle and his grease-soaked coiffure burst into flames. On his next visit he wore such an

atrocious wig that poor Shnookurns, Susannah's pitiful pooch, fell in love with the hairpiece and attempted to do what

comes naturally - at least in the animal world. It was not a successful mating.

At any rate, my dining room table is built of solid oak and it stretches almost two-thirds of the length of the room. It

was built by my great-grandfather Jacob "The Strong" Yoder from a tree that occupied the site of the original farmhouse.

This table can seat twenty people comfortably, twenty-six in a pinch. Incidentally, Jacob "The Strong" and his wife,

Magdalena, had sixteen children, forty-seven grandchildren, and one hundred eighty-nine great-grandchildren. The

figures for great-great grandchildren keep changing, but sad to say, it looks as if Susannah and I will never add to that

number.

Contrary to some of the tabloid rumors, my guests are not forced to eat their food directly off the table. It is true,

however, that I do not use tablecloths. What is the point, after all, when five minutes into the meal the linens resemble

Rorschach tests? And anyway, a nice rough surface, studded with splinters, is a most effective way to ensure that elbows

are kept off the table (although a long-handled fork with sharpened prongs will do the trick as well).

Of course I always sit at the head of the table, and as a symbolic second in command, Susannah is accorded the

foot. Most of the time, sad to say, it is a footless table, and on those special occasions when the foot is present, she is

more likely to be playing footsie under the table, than helping me with my hostess duties.

This particular evening my foot was in the arms of Melvin. In her place was Bradley, the oldest of the Dixon children.

His sisters, Marissa and Caitlin, flanked him.

Normally I would not have put up with such nonsense. Children at a dinner table, indeed! But normally I would not

have had children to contend with, and what else was I to do? Children had to eat, I supposed, but these three couldn't

very well eat in the kitchen. Not after the day Freni had trying to teach the English how to bake a decent pie. There was

nothing left to do but plunk the urchins down at the far end of the table and hope that any food that got flung was deflected

by the guests seated immediately in front of me.

Terry Slock was absent from the table. The poor man was just too tuckered to tackle tucker. An assault by a fierce

bear, raging floodwaters, and a daring rescue mission had left him too pooped to pop. His words, not mine.

But speaking of Pops, my father-in-law, God bless his soul, had accepted a supper invitation with the Amos

Augsburgers, an Amish couple who live on the other side of town. With any luck, the opportunity would arise for me to

speak to Shirley Pearson about his farm. Such a conversation would be impossible with Pops present. The old coot was

dead set against selling the homestead, even if it was the only way he could afford to check himself into a nursing home.

The rest were there, however. Dr. Brack, dressed in formal attire, was seated to my left, and Angus Dixon, clad

insolently in an open-necked pink polyester shirt and black slacks, was on my right. To his right was Shirley Pearson,

resplendent in her version of Amish evening wear. I must say, in all sincerity, that her floor-length, navy broadcloth gown

with contrasting apron was rather fetching.

On Dr. Brack's left was Dorothy Dixon. Like her husband, she'd opted for casual. While I have nothing against casual

clothes - I myself do not "dress" for dinner - a yellow halter top with purple polka dots and black spandex pants that start

below the navel, are simply not acceptable. Perhaps I first cracked that evening's can of worms by telling her just that.

"You'll have to change, honey," I said kindly.

Dorothy appeared taken aback. "I'm a writer. We're supposed to be eccentric."

I pointed politely to serene Shirley. "That's eccentric. But you" - I shook my head - "even Rahab the Harlot wouldn't

be caught dead in clothes like those."

To her credit, Dorothy changed, but it was hardly a change for the better. The scarlet dress she slipped into was so

short that if it hadn't been for her scarlet unmentionables, there would have been nothing left to the imagination.

"And you call yourself a mother," I muttered.

She wasn't supposed to hear that; unfortunately she did. Susannah claims my private mutterings are actually louder

than my speaking voice. This is, of course, not true. And I have no idea how it is that Reverend Shrock heard me criticize

his sermon last Sunday when I was seated in the last row. The truth be known, I'm glad he did. I am sure that when the

Good Lord told us to tithe one-tenth of our possessions, he meant after Uncle Sam had taken his share. A just and logical

God would never insist that we tithe for Uncle Sam as well.

"I'm a damned good mother," she growled.

I growled back. "I will not permit swearing in my establishment, especially not in front of children."

The woman was without shame. "My children have heard it all before," she said. 'They're only words - inanimate

objects. They only have a bad meaning if one chooses to attach it to them."

“That's nonsense," I said.

"Is it? A dam holds back water, right? You wouldn't object if I used damn in that context would you."

"That's different."

"No it's not. It all boils down to semantics."

"I don't think so, dear."

"What are you, anti-semantic?"

"Some of my best friends are Jewish," I said, hotly offended.

"Please, could we say grace?" Dr. Brack begged. "I'm starving."

"Grace, grace!" the children chanted. Not that the urchins had waited to begin-the serving bowls of children's food

Freni had placed before them had all but been licked clean. The little ones were, however, obviously quite starved for

religious instruction and they appeared to love it when I prayed.

"Amen," I said when I was through.

" Amen," they chorused.

I passed a platter of pan-fried pork chops. "How was your day?" I inquired pleasantly of Angus Dixon.