Doc was ever solicitous. "Are you sure I can't get you anything? Maybe a bicarbonate of soda?"
"What I need is an intimate," I wailed.
"I think there's a pair of ladies panties, size eight, in the top dresser drawer of the guest room. Just help yourself to them," he said generously.
I shook my head again. The lump had grown at an alarming rate, and was now occupying my throat as well. How could I explain to Doc that what I needed was a best girlfriend. Someone I could pour out my secret thoughts to. Everyone I knew had a best friend, except me. I mean, Doc had his - some old horseshoe-playing crony who was every bit as licentious as Doc, and whom I studiously avoided. Freni had her husband, Mose, and vice versa. As for Susannah - she had the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Well, the truckers, at least. Anyway, although Doc was always there for me, there were certain subjects I knew he didn't enjoy discussing. And men was at the top of the list.
"It isn't that gangster from Maryland again, is it?" asked Doc dutifully, proving that he is really a very good friend in his own way. "What was his name? Jumbo Jet?"
"Jumbo Jim. And no, it isn't him."
Doc slid the leftovers from my plate onto his. Ah, some new guy, then, is it?"
I glared at Doc. A man doesn't have the right to be perceptive, especially when you're feeling vulnerable. "It isn't a man, Doc. So can we just drop the subject?"
Doc looked relieved. "Well, whatever it is, Magdalena, I'm your friend, remember?"
"I remember, Doc."
"Read any good books lately?" asked Doc in a valiant attempt to change the subject and make us both feel better.
"In fact I had. I had just read Dorothy Cannell's latest, so I forced myself to tell Doc some of the high points.
"Sounds good," Doc agreed. "I haven't had much time to read lately. Got myself a new computer, and I've been having a ball teaching myself how to use it. Got a fax machine too. Want to see them?"
"Sure," I said listlessly. "Why do you need a fax machine, Doc?"
Doc glanced dramatically at the nearest window, so I wasn't sure if he was pulling my leg or not. "To play the horses," he whispered.
"Do tell, Doc." I didn't expect it to help a whole lot, but surely hearing about Doc's vices would at least take the edge off the pain in my gut.
"It's all very simple," Doc started to explain, "I've: got this buddy, Garth, down in Hialeah, who - "
"Speaking of Garths, Doc," I interrupted, "you did know that Norah Hall was seeing someone by that name?" Perhaps I was rude, but when old Doc starts talking about his buddies, you either cut him off or plan on taking a nice nap.
"Yeah, I know," said Doc, only mildly irritated "What about it?"
"Just that it's an unusual name." Then I thought of something I really did want to ask Doc. "You pretty much have your finger on the pulse around here, don't you, Doc?"
Doc looked pleased with himself. "You might say that. Everyone talks to their vet, you know. You see, they can talk to their pets and their pets don't rat on them, so they figure they can talk to me as well. Some sort of transference thing, I guess. Whatever it is, I hear it all."
"I figured it was something like that. Anyway, Doc, I was wondering if you ever heard anything about Norah Hall losing it and ending up in a loony bin?"
"Losing what?"
"Her marbles, of course. Come to think of it, a baby too. Rumor is she killed it."
Doc had definitely forgotten Garth and his new fax machine. "Who on earth told you something like that, Magdalena?"
I debated confidentiality for all of three seconds. "Martha Sims."
Doc laughed while he cut into the freshly baked chocolate crazy cake in front of us. "And I thought Norah Hall was our most inventive gossip."
"Then it isn't true?" Doc slid a slice of still-warm cake in front of me. I didn't resist. During our idle chitchat my appetite had slowly started to return. After all, I was eating for two, wasn't I? I mean, the lump did count for something.
"Look," said Doc, "that Norah Hall might be a first-class bitch, but she's always been one of the sanest, most calculating women around. To my knowledge, Norah has never been away from Hernia longer than it takes to fly down to Jamaica to renew her tan."
"Then Sherri really is her only child?" I'd known ; Norah all her life, and I sure couldn't remember her: being pregnant more than once. That one time I had no trouble remembering. Norah is one of those women who opts for full-blown maternity clothes the moment following conception. When she was pregnant with Sherri, Norah wore maternity clothes for such a long time that some of the elderly ladies in Hernia chalked her up for two pregnancies. Perhaps that was the origin of Martha's rumor.
Doc cut himself a piece of cake twice the size of mine. "I am not Norah's obstetrician, although I have delivered puppies for her three times. Still, I'd have to say that little Sherri is, and has always been, Norah's only child. Poor thing."
"At least she has a child." I hoped I didn't sound bitter.
"I meant the child, not Norah."
I felt better for the rest of the evening, at least until I pulled into my own driveway and was faced with the front porch again. I did suffer a momentary relapse when I laid eyes on the rail upon which that arrogant Aaron had perched. Angrily, I ran my fingers along the length of the thick wooden rail. It is one thing to be mocked by virtual strangers when one is out in the world, but to have one's emotions assaulted on one's home ground is a terrible ordeal I wouldn't even wish on Melvin Stoltzfus. In a way I almost felt violated. Now I could never enjoy my front porch again without seeing Aaron Miller's mocking face, or feeling the heat of his lips as they pressed against mine. Then suddenly, and shamefully, I was aware that my fingers had slowed in their angry race across the smooth, worn wood, and were almost caressing it. Horrified, I jerked them away. But it was too late. The cool wood had somehow managed to scorch my fingertips just as surely as if I had touched hot coals. Despite the pain, I felt a strange sense of exhilaration. For the first time in my life, I, Magdalena Augusta Yoder, was playing with fire.
Mama was right. I am a shameless hussy. No doubt about it. I was in the shower, trying to cool off, when I heard a knock on the door. Quite wittingly, I grabbed my summer robe and practically flew to answer it. Of course I put the robe on first, and I did cinch it tight at the waist, but I will confess that I did not clasp it tightly shut at the collar as I might have in the past.
"Yes?" I said in a naturally but appropriately breathy voice. The wet hair in my eyes prevented me from seeing clearly.
"You were expecting someone else maybe?"
"Melvin Stoltzfus!"
"In the flesh. Oh, you might want to dry off, Mags. You're dripping water all over your nice hardwood floor."
"And you'll be dripping blood, Melvin, unless you vacate my property in the next three seconds."
"No can do, Mags. I'm here on official police business." He patted a tawny-colored leather briefcase, undoubtedly made from the skin of one of his victims.
"What's the business?"
"You sure you don't want to get dressed first?" I could feel at least one of Melvin's eyes staring at my robe. It is, I'll have you know, a modest terry robe that comes well below my knees.
"State your business, Melvin. In ten words or less."
"You can't rush me when I'm on official police business, Magdalena. I have to say what I have to say in as many words as it takes to say it."
I changed first. My hair would be dry and my floor probably moldy before Melvin got through with his badgering. I've known cheese to age in less time than it takes Melvin to get to the point.
"Yes, what is it?" I asked again a few minutes later. This time I was wearing a calf-length dress that buttoned up to the chin. There are advantages to being too lazy to store away one's winter things. Let Melvin's eyes rove. They would tire well before they alighted on anything of interest.
"Sit down," said Melvin peremptorily.
"Give you an inch, and you'll take a mile," I said. "This is my house, Melvin, remember? I sit or stand only when I want to." So saying, I scooted to claim my favorite rocking chair.
Melvin sat on a hard, high-backed antique thing that had once belonged to Grandma Yoder. I blessed the woman inwardly for her austere taste. Not even a cushion can remain long on that chair without squirming.
"Well, spit it out," I said. "I don't have all night."
"I'm afraid your gig is up, Magdalena. It would be easier for you if you just came clean and confessed."
I complied. "I confess that I loathe you, Melvin Stoltzfus. There, will that do? Will you please leave now?"
Melvin looked rather comfortable in Grandma's chair. Perhaps he was considering spinning a cocoon there, or whatever it is that praying mantises lay their young in. "Joke all you want to, Magdalena, but the last joke's on YOU. This evening I got an anonymous call telling me that a pitchfork had been found in the woods behind your barn. Zelda and I checked it out, and sure enough, we found it, all right. It was pretty stupid of you to leave it right out in a clearing, if you ask me."
I willed my hands to maintain their grip on the arms of my favorite rocker. Melvin's neck was probably a fragile and unrepairable thing. "So, you found a pitchfork, what of it? It just so happens that I'm missing two pitchforks. The one used to kill Don Manley, and the one Steven bought to replace it. That one has been missing as well. Ask Mose about it. He was complaining earlier. He'll tell you."
"I bet he will. So, in other words, Magdalena, you are confirming that the pitchfork we found in the woods belongs to you?"
I rolled my eyes like Susannah does when she's exasperated.
"Oh, no, you don't," Melvin practically screamed. "Don't you go having an epileptic seizure on my time!"
I rolled them spitefully again. "Get a grip on it, Melvin. You're the one who's having fits." I paused until he had calmed down enough to, at least theoretically, hear what I was saying. "Just because you found a pitchfork in my woods doesn't mean it belongs to me, and even if it does belong to me, it could well be the replacement pitchfork. Did the one you and Zelda find have any blood or other body tissue on it?"
"You could have wiped it off."
"I'm not that bright, Melvin. Besides which, a good forensics lab can easily find traces of blood that can't be seen by the naked eye." Although maybe that wasn't true in Melvin's case. He looked like he had 360-degree peripheral vision. Who knew what those eyes could see.
"Ha! I'm one step ahead of you, Yoder. I'm taking the pitchfork into Harrisburg myself tomorrow. And I'm going to camp outside on the lab steps, if I have to, until I get that report."
"Good for you, Melvin. It warms the heart to see a lawman doing his job. But you keep forgetting one thing. Even if that is the same fork that killed Don Manley, it doesn't prove I did it."
The hoods on Melvin's eyes came down like miniature barbecue covers. "Prints, Yoder, prints."
"Prints shmints!" I said loudly (I do not scream, regardless of what Susannah says). "What would my fingerprints prove? It was my pitchfork, and of course I used it! I don't wear gloves when I pitch hay, Melvin."
Melvin rolled back the hood on one of his eyes and regarded me balefully. "I can produce fifty witnesses who will each swear that you threatened them with a pitchfork on the day Reels and Runs Productions held their first casting session."
I put my mind in fast-reverse. Even then it took me a couple of seconds to figure out what Melvin was talking about. I guess it is simply a matter of perspective, something of which I admittedly always seem to be in short supply. But from my point of view, brandishing a pitchfork (quite harmlessly) to maintain an orderly presence on one's property is hardly the same thing as threatening someone. This I hopelessly tried to explain to Melvin.
"Look, Yoder, it's as simple as this. You can give me your thumbs here, or I can haul you down to my office. Take your pick."
"You brought your own screws with you?" I eyed the tawny briefcase nervously.
Melvin's laugh was typically invertebrate; his mandibles moved, but little or no sound was emitted. "You're a laugh riot, Yoder. Now, look, you want me to do the printing here, or not?"
I gave Melvin the finger he was asking for.
-28-
"There is no justice when it comes to paychecks," Papa used to say. He was right. If there were justice, ditchdiggers would be millionaires, and ballplayers would be half a paycheck above the poverty level. I guess the same holds true for movie stars, although I would give them that extra half paycheck as compensation for all the waiting around they have to do.
I didn't know, and didn't want to know, what went on at those motels in Bedford every night, but from what I could tell about life on the set, movie stars lead very boring lives. Even a pill bug in a pot of dead petunias is bound to have more fun. For every minute of film one sees on the big screen, there's an hour of sitting around and waiting while camera angles are changed, lights and sound equipment adjusted, and the director and his subordinates gab endlessly. While all this is tediously transpiring, the actors sit around perspiring, presumably counting the money they're getting in return. Ballplayers have downtime too, but they at least spit, grab their crotches, and if they find nothing there worth grabbing, pat each other's fannies.
