Play It Again, Spam (5 page)

"So, Mags, will you give me away?"

"Will I what?"

"You know, give me away like Papa would, if he were still alive."

Frankly, I was touched. Moved almost to the verge of tears. Susannah had been only twenty when Papa died, killed instantly

along with Mama in a tunnel, when the car they were driving was sandwiched by a milk tanker and a truck carrying state-of-the-art

running shoes. Since then I have been both father and mother to Susannah. I have also bailed her out of jail more times than

Robert Downey, Jr.'s, lawyers have had to spring for him. Because I've had to act as parent, principal, and guidance counselor,

we have not always seen eye to rolling eye.

"When is the wedding?"

"Wednesday morning at ten."

"This Wednesday?"

"Melvin got us this special rate to Aruba and - "

"But that's impossible, dear. I could never get a wedding put together that soon. I mean, I've got paying guests coming from

allover and - well, I suppose I could do something in the barn."

"The barn!"

"That's where I was married," I reminded her needlessly.

Susannah laughed. "Don't worry, Mags. It's all been settled. Melvin's mama is throwing the wedding. I just want you to give

me away."

My mouth must have opened and closed repeatedly, like a baby bird begging to be fed.

"You understand, don't you, Mags? Melvin is an only child. This is her only chance to put on a wedding."

"What about me?" I wailed.

Susannah smiled. "You had your own wedding, remember? The one in the barn?"

"But - but - but - " I was sputtering like a grease fire in a rainstorm.

Susannah lunged forward and enveloped me in fifteen feet of filmy fabric. To put it plainly, she hugged me. Neither of us is

genetically programmed for such an intimate, nonsexual gesture, and I was stunned. Then, quite inexplicably, four centuries of

inbred reserve dropped from me like a discarded mantle and I returned her hug. Perhaps I squeezed too hard. I certainly, and

quite stupidly, forgot about the dinky dog lurking in the nether regions of her underpinnings.

The beast howled pitifully. I staggered backward several steps, but not before the maniacal mutt had managed to mangle my

mammary with his malodorous mandibles. Okay, maybe I overstated the extent of my injuries, but I'm telling you - it hurt every bit

as much as that time I innocently poked my proboscis in Susannah's electric pencil sharper.

It was a tossup as to which of us howled the loudest, Shnookums or me.

4

Fortunately no stitches were needed. By the next morning I was feeling fit as a fiddle and ready to take on the world. I was even

prepared to swallow my pride and call Elvina Stoltzfus, Melvin's seventy-five-year-old mother, and offer my services. In fact, I was

just reaching for the phone when the doorbell rang.

I peeked through the sheers in the door window and espied the cutest little couple, each with a stubby arm around the other.

Short, plump, heavier on their bottoms, they were a pair of pears. Since they had a pile of suitcases with them on the porch, I

assumed they were guests. I patted my bun to make sure it was in place, fluffed up the bodice of my deflated dress, and flung

open the door.

"Gut Marriye," I said cheerfully, and then immediately regretted it. One should never be too friendly with guests, after all. I

mean, why else is Paris so popular?

"Hey, there! I'm Jimmy Hill," the male pear said, extending his left hand, "and this is my wife Doris."

I pressed the pudgy, proffered palms - although a couple of nods would have sufficed me. "Velcommen to zee

PennDeutsch."

"Ooh, I just love the way you talk!" Doris squealed. No doubt the tightness of her jeans, into which she must have been

poured, contributed to her unusually high voice.

"Thank you, dear," I said, dropping the fake accent, which is frankly a lot of trouble. "Now come on inside, before every fly in

Hernia does the same."

The elderly pears moved in tandem, as if joined at the hip. But even though my front door is six inches wider than the

standard, they could not enter as a pair. They laughed as they tried to squeeze their respective bulks simultaneously through that

generous frame. I, on the other hand, was genuinely concerned. What if they got stuck? I wasn't about to take a crowbar to my

brand-new doorjamb. They would have to remain stuck until one or both lost enough weight to make a difference. If Winnie the

Pooh could do it, so could they.

"Why not let go of each other and come through one at a time like normal human beings?" I asked sensibly.

"Today's our golden wedding anniversary," Jimmy said. I must have showed them the whites of my peepers.

"It's bad luck to cross a threshold separately," Doris screeched. "Jimmy would carry me over like he did when we got back

from our honeymoon, but he has a hernia."

"I wonder why," I muttered.

"He was helping a neighbor stack stones." At least that's what I think she said, before her voice went soaring off the register.

She might have said "hack bones."

Jimmy grinned. "Doc says I shouldn't do any lifting for a while. We figured an embrace was almost as good as my carrying

her. Although as you can see, we've been having a little trouble."

"Then just hold hands," I snapped. "That's what the flies are doing."

Of course they ignored me. But after a few more minutes of groaning and jostling - during which flies from as far away as

Pittsburgh showed up - they discovered it was possible to squeeze their tubby bodies through the door if they moved sideways.

Since I wasn't about to let Philadelphia flies in as well, I volunteered to get their luggage.

"Ooh, this is charming," Doris squeaked, as I struggled in with an overstuffed American Tourister.

"Just perfect for a second honeymoon, isn't it, love bug?" Jimmy was, of course, talking to his wife.

Doris giggled, and her eyes all but disappeared.

"Do you have heart-shaped beds?" Jimmy asked.

"Vibrating ones?" Doris giggled again.

"This isn't Sodom and Gomorrah," I hissed. "You're going to have to try the Poconos for that."

Jimmy shamelessly kissed his wife on the lips. "A king-size bed will do just fine, won't it, sugarplum?"

I shuddered. "You break it, you buy it."

"Been there, done that," he said gaily.

It was time to lay down the law. "I'll have no disturbing the other guests - myself included. And no unseemly displays of

affection now that you're inside."

They nodded, giggled, and smooched again. I was going to have to reinstate a screening process. Clearly there was such a

thing as being too happily married. And at their age, yet!

Thank heavens the couple from Minnesota were pleasantly sedate, like proper senior citizens. Although they both insisted on

shaking hands, they did so quickly, and their palms were dry. They even carried in their own luggage. What's more, they were one

of the most attractive couples I'd seen in years. Sure, they had gray hair and a few wrinkles - they were in their sixties, after all -

but they were the kind of couple you might expect to see in a Geritol commercial.

"What a beautiful state Pennsylvania is," Scott Montgomery said with just a hint of Scandinavian lilt.

"Thank you. I'm sure Minnesota is beautiful too."

"And this really is a charming inn."

I beamed. "Thank you again."

"Here, we brought you a present." Dixie Montgomery reached into an oversized stitched leather handbag and withdrew a

beautifully wrapped present.

I kept my hands to my sides. "Oh, my, you shouldn't have."

Dixie smiled down at me. At six-foot plus, she was even taller than I. She also had much whiter teeth.

"It's just a little something to bring the flavor of Minnesota to you."

"I mean, you really shouldn't have." The last time a guest gifted me, she tried to stiff me as well. The seven-carat "diamond"

ring that harlot starlet gave me may very well have once been the bottom of a coke bottle. Fool that I was, I told her she could owe

me the money for her bodacious bill. Of course I never saw a penny of it. Since then I've been wary of Greeks bearing gifts.

Minnesotans too.

"Go ahead, take it," Scott directed. He was tall, broad shouldered, and the picture of mature health. To resist a directive from

him would be contrary to nature - well, mine at least.

I took the present reluctantly. "You're still paying in full, you know."

Scott's teeth were as white as his wife's. "Of course. Now open it."

I shook it. Nothing rattled. Nothing yelped. They were both good signs.

"Bet you can't guess what it is."

"Yes, make her guess," Dixie said.

I sighed. I hadn't the foggiest idea, and I hate guessing games. Aaron tried to make me play one on our wedding night, and I

was nearly traumatized for life. Who knew that something so little. . .

"A tin of SPAM® luncheon meat," I said off the top of my head.

Their handsome faces fell. "How did you know?"

"I didn't - you mean it is?" Noble heads nodded.

I ripped off the silk bow, and the heavy, embossed paper. "It is SPAM®!"

Dixie looked particularly crestfallen. "You've had it before?"

"When I was a child. I love the stuff, but I haven't eaten it in years. Thank you very much."

"We're particularly fond of it in Minnesota," Scott said. "There must be ten thousand ways to fix it. Go ahead, Dixie, tell her

some of our favorites."

"That's ten thousand lakes, dear," Dixie said gently. "There are a million ways to fix SPAM®."

I was still wary. "I'm sure there are dear, but do you always give tins of food to your hotel hostess?"

Dixie blushed. "Well, you see, Scott is on a low-fat diet, and this is SPAM® Lite."

"So?"

"So, I heard that Amish and Mennonite cooking is - uh - how should I say this - uh - "

“Spit it out, dear."

"Heavy."

She had heard right. We are a people of the soil, farmers by tradition, and have developed the highly caloric cuisine needed

to fuel intense physical labor.

"You could have asked for a low-fat diet," I snapped. "You didn't need to beat around the bush." Although frankly, as long as

Freni wielded the ladle, they would be lucky to get the occasional overcooked vegetable.

"Sorry about this," Scott said. "It was my idea."

"I'll give this to the cook, dears," I said graciously. It was time to move on. "Say, there's another guest staying here who hails

from the land of ten thousand lakes. Maybe you know him."

Yeah, right - like I know everyone in Pennsylvania. Still, it was possible for two acquaintances to meet unexpectedly in

another state, especially if they were both from Minnesota. I mean, with that much water, how I, many people could there be?

"Oh?" Apparently Scott Montgomery didn't think it was such a silly comment.

"His name is John Burk. He's from a little town in western Minnesota on the Canadian border called New Bedford."

Scott shook his head.

"About your age, a bit taller than me, and almost bald?"

"I mean I've never heard of the town. I'm from Noyes, and you can't get any closer to the Canadian border than that."

"Well, that's what he said. I remember, because we have a Bedford in Pennsylvania. In fact, you probably saw the signs for it

on the turnpike."

"We did," Doris said. She yawned, and then quite unexpectedly stretched. Her fingers almost touched my nine-foot ceilings.

"Excuse me. We had to get up real early to catch our flight. Is the room made up now?"

"Indeed it is. But your group leader - I mean, Bob Hart - did explain that you will be on the A.L.P.O. plan, didn't he?"

Two gorgeous sets of teeth presented themselves for my inspection. "He did indeed," Scott said. "Dixie and I think it will be

fun."

"Loads," Dixie said, and yawned again.

I thanked them again for the SPAM® Lite.

I would have opened the SPAM® Lite right there in the lobby, sliced off a piece with my letter opener, and had myself a nice