"Well, not exactly square one. I used to do straight reporting - run-of-the-mill reviews, that sort of thing. Now I get to judge contests, and write inspiring articles on food trends. Of course this is all really just publicity for East Coast Delicacies."
Both Freni and Susannah think I'm bitter, but you could sweeten Marge Benedict by sprinkling her with lemon juice.
"Why don't you quit?"
"Food review is a specialized niche, you know. It's not like I run a motel."
"Well!"
"I'm sorry," she said. "I meant a B and B."
"This isn't a B and B," I may have snapped. "This is an inn with atmosphere."
And as far as I was concerned - due to the atmosphere - our conversation was over.
There is no rest for the wicked, Mama always said. If that maxim applies only to the wicked, then I make Saddam Hussein look like a Goody Two-shoes. No sooner had I closed my eyes again than the doorbell rang. One of these days I'm going to drive into Pittsburgh and select a doorbell with a pleasant chime - perhaps the opening bar from "The Sound of Music." My current bell squeals like a terrified pig. Ned Beatty once said it gave him goose bumps.
When I saw that I was Lodema Schrock standing there, her pocketbook clutched in front of her in both gloved hands, I almost didn't open the door. But I am ever the optimist, and the woman did owe me five dollars she'd borrowed form me at a church bazaar the year before.
"Yes?" I said guardedly.
"Well, aren't you going to invite me in?"
I thought about it. Lodema is a pillar of Beechy Grove Mennonite Church. She is president of Mennonite Ladies' Sewing Circle, leader of the Wednesday Women's Bible Study, church organist, Sunday school teacher to the senior high class, adviser to the Mennonite Youth Group, plus she's married to the pastor.
None of this has stopped Lodema from being the town's biggest gossip. To make matters worse, she has a razor-sharp tongue, which she wields like a scythe in a wheat field, and unfortunately I was experiencing a bumper crop that year.
"Invite you in?" I echoed, stalling for time. "Well, you see, we're just about to eat lunch."
"I haven't eaten my lunch yet."
"You haven't? Oh, well, then I won't be keeping you." I started to close the door.
Lodema has disgustingly small feet, and she's remarkably quick with them. She also wears sensible shoes that can hold up to a good slamming.
"Magdalena, I need to talk to you, and I need to talk to you now."
I wracked my brain for sins past, present, and future. In all honesty, all I could come up with was the fact that I had skipped church the day before and pawned by Sunday school class - the junior high - on Annie Blough. Although Annie is a sweet person, she has the intelligence of a hitching post, and half the personality. Whenever she substitutes for me, the kids tend to get out of hand. The last time I was absent the girls locked themselves in the bathroom and smoked a cigarette, and the boys stuffed X-rated pictures in the tract box.
"Annie promised she'd stay on top of things!" I wailed.
"Your Sunday school class in only part of it, Magdalena."
I prayed for wisdom and patience. There's nothing quite as frightening as a pacifist pastor's wife on the warpath.
"Make it quick, dear. Like I said, it's almost lunch."
I made no move to let her in, and if I was letting enough warm air out of my house to turn the front yard into a tropical jungle, so be it. Lodema has made no secret of the fact that she thinks the PennDutch should be renamed The Den of Iniquity. Of course that doesn't stop her from gawking at my celebrity guests whenever she gets the chance.
"If I catch my death of cold out here, at least I'm going to heaven," she said.
"Bon voyage, dear."
"What? Magdalena, I suppose you think that's one of your funny worldly jokes?"
I tugged harder on the door. Even the best shoes have their limits.
"Well, it wasn't funny, you know that? In fact, that's why I'm here."
"My salvation is assured," I said. I know that's not a popular position with some folks, but I firmly believe that.
She fumbled with her purse, extracted a clump of tissues, and dabbed at her reddening nose. "I'm not talking about your salvation per se. That's between you and the Lord. I'm talking about how you flaunt your worldly ways in front of the rest of us. The stumbling blocks you set in our paths, so to speak."
"That's not a stumbling block at the front of the driveway," I snapped. "That's a concrete urn, and if you've hit that again - "
"Your adultery!" she barked. "That's what I'm talking about! Your sin of lying with a married man, and then not having the decency and humility to confess it publicly.
I was stunned. Public confession of sin was an old Mennonite custom, but one that had been largely ignored in a church as progressive as Beechy Grove Mennonite Church. But even then, whenever it occurred, it was always voluntary, and always involved sin. Sin, not stupidity. And more likey than not, the sin confessed was invariably one that had been directed against the entire congregation.
"Is that what Reverend Schrock says?"
"The reverend" - Lodema never calls her husband by his first name - "is a very busy man right now. Margaret Kauffman is dying of caner, and Reuben Gindlesperger was almost decapitated when his combine overturned. Of course, you'd know all that if you came to church."
"I only missed one Sunday!" I took a deep breath of freezing air. "So, the reverend didn't say that, did he? Then you have no right to put words in his mouth. And not that it's your business, Lodema, but I didn't know Aaron was married. Where's the sin in that/"
She honked into the wad of tissues. "A sin is a sin. The Bible says - "
" `Judge not, lest ye be judged,' " I said. I made it a point of looking her squarely in the eyes.
"Very well," Lodema said, shoving the wad of soggy tissue back into her purse, "try and hide the behind Scriptures, but it isn't going to work. We've already taken a vote."
"A vote? And who is we? You and the Lord?"
She gasped. "Now you can add sacrilege to your list of sins! For your information, the we I was referring to was the membership of the Mennonite Ladies' Sewing Circle."
It was my turn to gasp. "You didn't! Did you?"
She nodded smugly. "Unfortunately it wasn't unanimous, but nevertheless, a majority of us voted to revoke your membership."
"Ach, du leiber!" I said, reverting tot e Pennsylvania Dutch of my ancestors.
"You brought this on yourself, Magdalena. Fortunately Annie Blough has agreed to take over your Sunday school class on a permanent basis."
"What?"
She sniffed. "You can't possibly expect to continue on as a teacher, given your morals."
"My morals are not contagious!" I wailed. "Besides, I didn't intentionally do anything wrong."
"Of course we had to leave you in the Wednesday Women's Bible Study Group - how else will you learn right from wrong?"
"How generous of you!" I flung the door open all the way, inadvertently knocking Lodema Schrock to the porch. When I saw that she wasn't hurt, I slammed the door shut and locked it.
I know, a better Christian would have helped her up, and maybe even made her a cup of tea. But the Church is a hospital for sinners, not a country club for saints, and I had a whole lot of healing still to do.
"Beware the wages of sin!" Lodema screamed, pointing a gloved finger at the peephole in my door. " `The wages of sin are death!' "
A sensible woman would have gone straight to bed and stayed there for the remainder of the week. Enough said.
-9-
George Mitchell was a first-rate cook. His Marilyn Mitchell's Tortilla Cake Surprise was a hit. Even Freni grudgingly admitted to liking it. In fact, I found her in the pantry after lunch, scribbling what he remembered of the recipe on the inside of a brown paper bag. No doubt future generations of Amish will eat this tasty dish and believe it to be part of their cultural heritage.
At any rate, our noonday meal should have been a delightful experience for everyone. I am, after all, more lax at lunch than I am at breakfast or dinner. This particular occasion, for instance, I went so far as to permit free seating. Bear in mind that my dining-room table is extraordinarily long - thanks to my ancestor's lusty loins and fertile wife - so there is invariably a lot of empty space. This is never a problem when I seat folks, because I spread them thin, like a single pat of butter on a double order of toast.
Imagine my dismay when everyone but Alma Cornwater and Gordon Dolby squeezed together at Susannah's end of the table. If Gordon hadn't seated himself at my immediate right, and Alma at my left, I might have been deeply wounded. I shower every day, and change my clothes almost as frequently, so hygiene couldn't have been the problem. I did a quick sniff test just to be sure. Everything seemed to be okay.
I smiled benevolently at my two loyal companions and then, just to punish the others, said the longest grace that table has witnessed since Grandma Yoder, bless her senile heart, said the Lord's Prayer twenty-three times in succession.
"So tell me, Mr. Dolby," I said, after grace had been said and the food passed around, "are you a native of Baltimore?" that wasn't a lucky guess, mind you. I take the time to read the addresses recorded in my guest book.
"Baltimore, born and bred," he said. "Birthplace of `The Star-Spangled Banner.' "
"Is that so? What do you do for a living?"
"I'm retired," he said, and helped himself to a double portion of the entr‚e.
"Oh? Retired from what, dear?"
He glanced at his daughter, Gladys. "Let's just say, I've served my country."
I turned to my left, where Alma Cornwater sat, her glasses about to slide off her nose, her thick hair straying from its bun.
"Miss Cornwater," I said pleasantly, "what do you do when you're not competing in a cooking contest?" I already knew that woman was a Cherokee Indian, but that isn't an occupation.
She pushed her glasses back into place with a pudgy brown finger. "I'm a mother."
"Oh." I don't mind telling you that I was disappointed. Some of my most unpretentious guests have been my most interesting. Who knew that Nevada Barr was a park ranger who once flung a tranquilized wolf over her back?
But Alma wasn't done. "Now that Jimmy, my youngest is in school, I plan to look for a job."
"How many children do you have?"
"Eight." She sounded defensive.
"I just have the one," Gordon said, nodding at Gladys.
"And I have none," I said lightly. "At least none that I know of."
Nobody even smiled. When a man tells that joke, however, folks think it's a hoot.
"Being a parent is never an easy task," Gordon said. Again he nodded in his daughter's direction. Fortunately she was sitting at the far end of the table and engrossed in a conversation with Marge Benedict. I couldn't imagine the mild-mannered Gladys giving her father an ounce of trouble. Clearly the man had no perspective.
"Being a big sister is no picnic, I can tell you that," I said and stared down the table at Susannah's empty place. Lunch is a meal she never eats, falling as it does in the middle of her sleeping schedule.
"In fact," I said, "look up at the ceiling."
They looked up. Mercifully, no on else did.
"See those footprint up there?"
Alma nodded. "Women's size eleven, double A. You don't see that very often."
I gaped like a gulping guppy.
"My daddy was a traveling shoe salesman. We used to play with his stock."
"I see. Well, those are my sister's. And that's a ten-foot ceiling. Lord only know how they got up there. Now look closer."
Alma nodded again. "A man's ten right beside hers. Faint, but definitely there."
"Kids," Gordon said.
"She wasn't a kid when that was made," I said, and stabbed at my salad. "Those were made last week. Susannah is thirty-five years old."
"My Gladys is thirty-five."
"I bet she doesn't leave her footprints on the ceiling."
"There are other ways to rebel."
Rebel? Do thirty-five-year-olds rebel? Perhaps Gladys was a rebel, but that is not a word I'd used to describe my sister. Any woman who has been married and divorced, and served more men than McDonald's, is not rebelling, she's indulging. Yes, I know, that makes me a codependent, because I allow her to use the inn as a home base, an I give her money from time to time. But what choice do I have?
