Between a Wok and a Hard Place (15 page)

Believe me, I would have stopped after that first sip, but it was so awful that I just had to sample it again to be sure

that my taste buds weren't playing tricks on me. Surely nothing that tasted like that was meant for human consumption. If

so, the urine samples I handed the nurse during my annual physicals had marketability.

The second sip was horrible, but was it as awful as the first? I needed a third sip to decide. It was inconclusive. The

fourth sip demanded a fifth as a tiebreaker, and by then the can of malt mash was manageable. By the eighth sip I was

feeling positively merry.

I giggled when the doorbell rang.

"Is that you, pizza boy?" I said fumbling with the front door latch. Lucille had taken an inopportune time to use the

bathroom. "Did you bring your cute pair of buns back with you?" I yanked the stubborn door open.

"Magdalena Portulacca Yoder!" There was a cute bun there all right, but it was on top of Mama's head, covered by a

little white prayer bonnet.

"Mama! I thought you - "

"Here's your pajamas," Mama said thrusting them at me. "Going off to a sleep-over and leaving them behind! I can't

imagine such a thing."

"Sorry, Mama." I belched. "Oops, sorry again!"

A few seconds later Mama's nose was twitching like the back end of a cat in heat. "Gut Himmel!" she gasped, "what

is that terrible smell?"

"Pizza," I lied, compounding my sin. "Lucille and I were eating pizza. Medium crust, sausage, pepperoni, green

olives, onions, extra cheese, but no anchovies.

Did you know that the word anchovy is not Italian, but is originally from the Spanish word anchova?"

"Ach, you're lying," Mama said and leaned forward to get a better whiff.

"No, I'm not. It's in the dictionary. We looked it up."

"I'm not talking about fish," Mama snapped.

"You're trying to hide something by lying."

"What makes you think that?" I asked carelessly. "You always talk too much when you lie, Magdalena." Then her

face went ricotta white. "Ach! You've been seduced by the Devil!"

I took her literally and was momentarily confused and flattered. Then it sunk in and I shamefully covered my

offending breath.

"It's only beer, Mama. And I just had a few sips." "The wage of sin is death," Mama said sternly, quoting from the

Book of Romans."

"Jesus drank," I argued foolishly. "He even turned water into wine."

"Grape juice. That was grape juice."

"I don't think so, Mama. Back then everyone drank wine. It was the beverage of choice."

Mama's fingers closed around my wrist in a steely grip. "Stop that foolish prattle right now."

"The Disciples drank, Mama. John the Baptist drank. Even Mary - "

"Get behind me, Satan!" she hissed and yanked me out of the doorway and down the walk to her car. I felt like I was

six years old.

"But I'm twenty-six!" I wailed. "And I left my purse behind."

"You're never too old for a good spanking," Mama said, and she was dead serious. I couldn't sit down for three days.

But perhaps she did know best. The beer I shared at Lucille's was my first and last.

For Harvey's sake, I hoped that Salina Zook took a different approach. The boy needed to learn that marijuana was

not going to solve any important issues in his life. Spanking was certainly not going to accomplish that. Mama, on the

other hand, died believing that a hickory switch had saved me from a life on Skid Row, when in reality it was my taste

buds that had spared me.

14

My first stop was the Hernia Police Station to see Melvin. He was on the phone when I walked in. Mercifully, the horrid

little black-and-white TV that Melvin watches was turned off. Zelda was at her desk, staring at Melvin. Susannah was

nowhere to be seen.

"Hey," I said to Zelda excitedly. "I just got a tip."

Zelda pointed with her chin in Melvin's direction. "Bad news. The Mast kid just died."

I sat down on a dirty white patio chair, the only furniture available to visitors at the station. "Oh my."

"It's a real shame, ain't it? Him just a boy like that."

Melvin hung up. He looked solemn. I don't mean to be facetious, but for once both eyes were in alignment. "That was

the sheriff. The Mast kid never stood a prayer," he said. "He was shot at close range in the face, you know. Maybe it's

best this way."

For once I didn't argue. "The other boy - "

"There was no other boy," Melvin snapped. "I've made that crystal clear."

"But you haven't," I said calmly. "Yes, I know, Harvey Zook has a history of drinking, but he's positive about this boy.

He knows him personally. His name is Samuel Kauffman."

Melvin and Zelda exchanged glances. "There was so much blood," Zelda said, shaking her head. "It was

everywhere. I thought the blood on the seat beside him was his. How was I supposed to know?"

“You weren't, dear, and no one is blaming you.”

“Speak for yourself.” Melvin straightened a jumbo paper clip, inserted it between his leg and the cast, and

commenced to scratch.

I wasted a frown on the man. “What matters now,” I said, “is that we find the Kauffman boy and help him."

Melvin stood up. Much to my amazement, his eyes were still in sync.

"Where do the Kauffmans live? Eicher Road isn't it?"

“Zweibacher Road. But, Melvin, let me go up there."

His left eye began to waver. “Why? You already spoke to Annie Kauffman, remember? As I recall, you didn't get

anywhere."

To my credit, I kept my cool. The old Magdalena would have taken umbrage, possibly even said something sarcastic.

But I was a married woman now, and as such, a pillar in my community. The tart-tongued Magdalena of yesteryear really

was a thing of the past.

“I’ll get somewhere this time," I said. “I promise. And anyway, you need to be careful of your leg."

“Damn my leg, Yoder. This is a job that needs to be done right." He started hobbling toward the door.

“It’s Miller,” I snapped, “and don't you use that 'D' word in front of me."

Zelda zipped around me and blocked the exit before I could as much as blink. Apparently all that grease on her head

made for good aerodynamics.

“I’ll go up there, Mel," she said.

"You?”

“Sure, me. I know Annie Kauffman - I bought eggs from her last Easter. I'll find her boy. I'll bring him back this time."

"You're a million laughs, Zelda," he said cruelly. "But like I just said, this is a job that needs to be done right. A big

job. This isn't Rita's scarecrow we're out to recover, but a witness. No, this job needs to be handled by a professional."

"But I - "

"Face it, Zelda, you're a twit."

Zelda not only shrank from his rebuke, she burst into tears. Sad to say, one of the most creative paint jobs I'd ever

seen was reduced to muddy rivulets in a matter of seconds. The poor woman needed to consult with Susannah who, due

to self-induced economic need, perfected a makeup routine that renders her facial creations virtually indestructible. Her

makeup jobs last for days, sometimes even weeks. Tammy Faye, I am told, spent a mere fifteen minutes with my sister,

and ever since has been a much happier and wealthier woman.

At any rate, I was on my feet, my tongue honed sharper than a samurai's sword. "You apologize this minute, you

miserable, miscreant, malodorous mantis."

"Who, me?" I gave Melvin a look that, if maintained for just fifteen minutes, could melt the polar ice caps, thereby

obliterating New York, Miami, and points in between. Fortunately, Melvin melted within my specified minute.

"Yeah, okay, I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Zelda said. She was clearly still in love with Melvin.

"Now sit," I said to Melvin.

"The hell I will! Yoder - "

I glared again, forcing him back to his chair. Then I turned to Zelda.

"You run along home, dear," I said kindly, "and scrub that face. You look like someone fire-bombed a Sherwin-

Williams store. I'll go out to the Kauffman farm."

Zelda gratefully fled to fix her face.

I drove straight from the police station to the Kauffman farm. That is to say, I went there directly. I certainly didn't

drive in a straight line. My part of Pennsylvania is a series of long, low ridges. Mountains, we call them, and they all have

names, but my guests from Denver and points west laugh at that. Most of our mountains - the tops at least - are forest-

covered, but the lower slopes and the wide valleys between have been cleared and that's where our farms lie.

Buffalo Mountain separates the incorporated Village of Hernia from the Kauffman farm, and Zweibacher Road is the

cut across the mountain nearest the Zook residence. It is by necessity a winding road, and for about a third of the way up

the mountain it follows a stream we locals call Slave Creek.

This stream and its intriguing name do not appear on any maps, but legend has it that on several occasions runaway

slaves, escaping from Maryland, stopped there to refresh themselves and get their bearings. One legend goes so far as to

claim that the name Hernia is an African name bestowed on the area by one of these fugitives from injustice. That legend,

I know, is not true.

Hernia was named by my great-great-great-grandfather Christian Yoder, one of the first white settlers. He was

clearing his land one day and foolishly tried to lift a rock that was too heavy for him. That rock, I am told, is one of the

cornerstones of the Beechy Grove Mennonite Church, although I have never seen it, and I am a lifelong member.

At any rate, it is hard to be objective about one's native surroundings. That said, Bear Mountain, the Slave Creek

portion in particular, offers the prettiest scenery anywhere in the United States of America. Slave Creek isn't grand and

pretentious like Niagara Falls, and Bear Mountain isn't excessively high like those much-touted Rockies. They are just

plain pretty - prettier even than Stucky Ridge where my ancestors are buried.

So I should not have been surprised to find Terry Slock, with his flair for the dramatic, clad like a Tyrolean in

lederhosen and knee socks hiking along Zweibacher Road. Instead, he was dressed just like an Amish man - black

pants, blue shirt, suspenders. Even a straw hat. He certainly hadn't dressed like that at breakfast.

When Terry saw that it was me he waved furiously. Reluctantly I pulled over and rolled down my window partway.

"Mrs. Miller," he panted, "I just saw a grizzly bear."

"What?"

Without asking my permission, he tried to open the passenger door. He was out of luck. The doors on my new car

lock automatically whenever I put the gear into "drive."

"It was huge, and it was coming right at me." I politely covered my smile with my hand. "That wasn't a grizzly bear,

but a black bear. Chances are it was just as afraid of you as you were of him. Anyway, they're not very common around

here, so consider yourself lucky."

"Oh." He seemed almost disappointed.

"Where's your car?" I asked pleasantly. He was, after all, sweating like a Mennonite bride on her wedding night, and

the leather seats of my BMW had yet to be defiled by even a single stain.

"l left it back at your inn. I thought I would get a better feel for the area by walking."

"Well, you're certainly- "

Something snorted in the woods and a terrified Terry nearly ripped the handle off my door trying to open it.

Fortunately, the window was cracked only a few inches, otherwise he might have dived right on through.

"Mrs. Miller!" he screamed.

"All right, dear," I said, reluctantly unlocking the door, "but don't lean back until that sweat on your back has had a

chance to dry." To be on the safe side I cranked up the air conditioner.

"What are you doing here anyway?" I asked, once he was safely ensconced and was breathing at a near normal

rate. "Aren't you supposed to be learning how to bake pies?"

"Oh, that. No offense, Mrs. Miller, but your cook is - well - she's - uh - "