Between a Wok and a Hard Place (24 page)

"It's his fault, Melvin. He had me totally hood-winked. I didn't even suspect he was married, but then again, why

should I?"

"I thought you screened them," Melvin had the audacity to say. "Anyway, his marital status has nothing to do with it.

It's his pushiness. Selma Eichleburger says he pushed his way right into her kitchen and stripped down to the waist before

she had time to blink. She says she nearly fainted when she saw it."

"And you think I'm crazy?" I snapped. "It's not above his waist, dear. Even I knew that before I got married. And

Selma is a widow yet!"

"He wears a truss, too?"

"What?"

"Seems he's bothered every housewife in Bedford County in the short time he's been here."

"He has an insatiable appetite for it," I wailed. There, I finally said it, even if it was to Melvin.

"He isn't licensed to sell that thing door to door, Yoder."

I gasped. "They give licenses for that?" At last the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania had followed the rest of the

country you-know-where in a handbasket.

"A vendor's license is only a couple of bucks, you know. That's what I hate about these outsiders. Think they come in

and just ignore the law, like we're some little one-horse town."

"He's no outsider," I said, temporarily forgetting that I was no longer obliged to defend Aaron. "He was born and

raised right across the street from the PennDutch Inn. Went to Hernia High just like you and I. Who would have known?"

"Give me a break, Yoder. Your Dr. Brack did not go to Hernia High. I have all the yearbooks - "

"Dr. Brack? Are you talking about Dr. Wilmar Brack?"

"Are you deaf, Yoder, or do you flap your gums for exercise?"

Of course not! I got all the exercise I needed jumping to conclusions.

"I'll have a stem talk with him," I said and hung up.

The crow pie could wait.

22

I am a woman of my word. I found Dr. Brack in the parlor examining the back of his head in the parlor mirror with the help

of a little mirror. A compact, Susannah calls them. I'm sure I startled him because he dropped the little mirror. But then,

barely missing a beat, he kicked it sideways underneath Grandma Yoder's walnut burl Victorian sofa.

"Shame on you," I said, wagging my finger at him. "You've been caught red-handed."

"You may not understand this, Mrs. Miller, but it's important for a man in my position to look good. Next year I'll

undoubtedly be up for the Nobel prize again, so, I was just checking to see if a hair transplant was in order. But of course

it's not. Is it?" he asked, taking me by surprise.

"Of course not," I said kindly. "I'm sure those three hairs you've trained across it help cut down the glare

substantially."

"Madame Curie used to love running her fingers through my hair." He sounded convincingly wistful, but I knew that

Marie Curie died in 1934 when Wilmar Brack was nothing more than a gleam in his father's eye.

"It's not your vanity I was talking about, dear. It's the way you've been pestering everyone in the county to buy your

braces. You're obviously a man of accomplishment and means, so why do you feel compelled to go door to door like the

Fuller Brush man?”

He gently fingered the three lacquered strands. “It's the personal contact. It revitalizes me.”

"You're a doctor, for pete's sake. Don't you have personal contact at work?”

He stared at me. “What's this all about? Have there been complaints about me?”

“Apparently tons. You aren't licensed to sell door to door and you push your way into people's houses. If you don't

stop, you might find your belongings have been moved over to the Hernia jail. Trust me, it's not the kind of place you want

to spend your vacation.”

He stiffened. “I've been in jail before. There was that; time in India with the Mahatma. We shared a cell for six

months. Did you know that Gandhi married when he was only thirteen?”

I shook my head. I was as likely to get through to him as I was to Susannah. Some people are just born without a

clue.

“You're intrusive,” I said gently. “You get under people's skin like a polio vaccination.”

“Ah, Jonas Salk! What a nice young man he was.”

" And you're a braggart, dear.”

I made no progress except to offend my guest to the point that he refused to go with the rest of the group to the

Augsburgers for lunch. Perhaps he would have declined anyway, having already made his pitch to Lilibet and failed.

Freni was put out when I announced to her that I was taking the gang over to Lilibet's for lunch. Actually, that's

putting it mildly. The woman flapped around the kitchen like a chicken with its head cut off. Of course I may have been

partly to blame, springing it on her at the last minute, but it wasn't like I had much warning. Besides, I was going through a

very difficult time, and should be cut some slack, especially by older and wiser cousins.

"What about my poached chicken salad?" Freni wailed.

"It's the best in the world," I said, and meant it. "I'm sure our guests wouldn't mind having it tomorrow for lunch."

Freni frowned fearsome furrows. "The walnuts will get soggy."

"Leave them out," I said patiently.

"I already put them in."

"Either take them out, or serve the salad tonight at dinner."

"I've got a roast planned."

"That's perfect. Your scrumptious chicken salad will be the appetizer."

"Ach, the English and their meals! Whoever heard of having dinner at night?"

"That's because they're not farmers, dear. They don't need high-calorie noontime meals so that they can have

strength to plow the fields. They prefer to take the bulk of their calories at night. This bunch is actually rather easy to cook

for, wouldn't you agree? I mean, at least we don't have any macro-vegetarians to contend with this time."

"This bunch is meshuggah," she said. It's the only Yiddish that Freni knows, and it's thanks to one of our favorite

guests, a great gal with a trademark proboscis and an outstanding set of pipes. The two women seemed to hit it off.

"You say that every time, dear, and frankly, that sounds a little proud to me. We are all a little crazy in our own way.

Even you, dear."

"Oy gevalt," Freni said and rolled her eyes. Apparently she and Babs were closer than I thought. So that was them in

the kitchen singing tunes from Funny Girl. Who would have known that Freni could even carry a tune?

"This attitude of yours is not in the least bit Christian," I said sternly. "You should be ashamed of yourself, the pot

calling the kettle black. You shouldn't even have bothered with those walnuts, dear. They probably think you're as nutty as

a Christmas stolen, already."

"Ach, me? They should talk! That business woman snooping around our farms, making us ridiculous offers - "

"She has?" I cried in dismay. Shirley Pearson had said nothing further about having a look-see at the Miller farm. Of

course now with Pops winging his way to Minnesota, it was no longer a matter of life and death. But it was still critical. I

had had no time to rustle up Amish buyers for the place, and unless I wanted a Wal-Mart sitting in my lap, I was running

out of time.

"Yah, but she isn't as crazy as that movie star."

"Former child television star," I corrected her.

"Whatever. He wears such ridiculous clothes, Magdalena. Everybody's laughing. Thelma Mishler asked me

yesterday if he was a refugee from Bosnia. She thought maybe that was his national costume. Frieda Gingrich said she

was sure he was a Mormon missionary and wanted to know why he didn't have a partner with him. Don't they always

travel in pairs?"

"I think so."

"Well, I told them that this was the way people in California dressed, and they could hardly believe it. They said they

felt sorry for him and wanted to donate some of their husbands' old clothes. Do you think he would wear our style of

clothes? they wanted to know. I told them I would ask him, but I haven't seen him since he walked out of my pie-baking

demonstrations. Is that crazy or what?"

"Let me ask him about the clothes," I said wearily. Terry Slock was not going to be happy to learn that Abigail Cobb's

creations had failed miserably. The Amish had not even recognized them as resembling their own. The Children of the

Com were going to be the laughingstock of Bedford County.

"And he can't make a pie crust to save himself," Freni said, on a roll.

"Poor baking skills does not make one crazy, dear. And anyway, Dorothy Dixon bakes a decent pie, you said so

yourself. So, at least one of our guests isn't crazy."

"Ach, but her husband. Whoever heard of a black room yet?"

"A what?"

"In the cellar. He said you gave him permission for his black room."

"Darkroom!"

"I just went down there to get a jar of huckleberry preserves, Magdalena, and he acted like I'd let the cows out of the

barn. Is that crazy or what?"

I shrugged. "Apparently light ruins the film. It's a big no-no."

"Everyone who does evil hates the light," she said, quoting from the Gospel of John.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Ach, don't you read your Bible anymore, Magdalena?"

"Of course I do. But I want to know what you mean by that."

But she was walking away, shaking her head and muttering to herself. "Mark my words," was all I could make out.

The Augsburgers live on Augsburger Lane. This fact tickles me, because we Yoders have always lived on Hertzler

Lane, and the Hertzlers live on Mast Drive, the Masts on Kauffman Road, and the Kauffmans on Zweibacher Road. As for

the Zweibachers, they moved into town two generations ago, gave up the faith of their fathers altogether, and joined the

First Methodist Church. There is no Yoder anything that I know of within a day's buggy drive of Hernia.

Amos Augsburger, like all good Amish men, is undoubtedly humble. As I've said before, I'm not so sure about Lilibet.

The two-story frame house she presides over gleams white in the sun like the tip of a giant ice-berg, emerging above a

lush green sea. The long drive that leads up from the lane is the iceberg's wake. Only the flower borders, still vibrant this

late in the summer, remind one that they are in the Pennsylvania countryside and not the north Atlantic.

Other Amish women maintain kitchen gardens near their back doors, but not our Lilibet. Her vegetable plot is located

behind the barn, to spare visitors the sight of organic detritus. Ditto for her clotheslines. To spot bloomers blowing in the

breeze, one had to hike around the back of the white chicken house, a smaller but more pungent iceberg. Lilibet's laundry

might look clean, but you wouldn't want to bury your nose in her towels.

"Awesome," Terry said. To avoid cluttering the Augsburger driveway with unseemly number of cars, I had gallantly

chauffeured the two unmarrieds. The Dixons, cum urchins, were on their own.

Shirley paid no attention to the house and lawn. Her eyes were on the barn and the fields beyond.

"From here the corn looks a little stunted. What's his bushel yield per acre?"

"It's a much smaller crop than what the Miller farm produced in its day," I said, stretching the truth only slightly. Aaron

Sr. primarily raised beef cattle.

"This place has good vibes, though," Terry said. "It reminds me of Sedona. And the placement of the house on the

lawn is good fueng-shui. It would make j a great retreat center."

"I saw it first," Shirley said. I was surprised by the fervor in her voice.

Apparently Terry was as well. "What?"

"You heard me," she said almost coldly. "This one is mine. I'm not just playing childish games here, Terrence. If it

comes up to specs, I intend to make an offer."

"And I don't?"

"Why would you? You're not a businessman."

"I had a career in show business, lady."

"I'm talking about the real world, Terrence, not Mama Wore Pearls."

I clucked my tongue. "Children, please!"