No Use Dying Over Spilled Milk (15 page)

“That shows they are comfortable in themselves,” he said. “They don’t need to act macho or dominate in order to prove that they’re real men. In fact, I would hazard a guess that they make superb lovers.”

“Amish men don’t have sex!” I practically screamed at him.

“Then how do you explain their large families?” he asked smugly. “Are those all virgin births?”

The double dose of heresy was too much for me to bear, and I cracked. “Well, maybe the women have sex,” I said, “but the men don’t.” The fact that I had just condemned all Amish mothers as adulteresses was lost on me until much later.

Considering that they were still grieving, the Mast family were remarkably cordial to me. Catherine seemed neither surprised nor upset to see an extra face at her table. She seated me beside the diminutive daughter, who I judged to be about fifteen, and across from the gargantuan Enos, who might have been eighteen. Three older daughters, I’d already been told, had married and left the nest.

“Will your mother be joining us?” I asked politely of Jacob.

He seemed startled. “Ach, Mama passed on to glory ten years ago.”

I kicked myself under the table for having been so stupid. Clearly the mother he’d referred to earlier was Catherine, the mother of his brood.

Fortunately, soon after that the food was passed and I refrained from opening my mouth except to fill it. Unless, of course, I was spoken to.

“We might be moving, you know,” Sophia announced, as she crammed a forkful of egg casserole into her mouth.

“To where?” I tried to sound surprised.

“We don’t know yet. Maybe Indiana. Where are you from?”

“Pennsylvania. I live in a little town called Hernia.”

“Are you English?”

I coughed uncomfortably. “Well, I suppose that depends on your definition. I’m a Mennonite.”

“Do you have a television?” Sophia asked, her mouth full of food.

“No.” The fact that I allow Susannah to own a little black-and-white set was irrelevant, wasn’t it?

“Do you listen to rock and roll?”

“No.”

“Do you go to the movies?”

“No.”

“Do you hang out in the malls?”

“Not when I can help it.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Do you kiss him?”

“If you want to enjoy the rest of your meal, I’d stick to the less personal questions,” I said sweetly.

She nodded. “Have you ever met Michael Jackson?”

“No.” That time I had to fudge as well. The pair of white women who reserved a room under the names Jones and Smith might well have been who they said they were. It was only Susannah who claimed to recognize them as Michael Jackson and Lisa Marie Presley. As for the fat man in a rhinestone-spangled jumpsuit who booked the adjoining room—that could well be a coincidence. And just for the record, I did not clean the pair of blue suede shoes I found outside his door that evening.

“Do you drink wine and other things?”

“Other things,” I said, “but not with alcohol.”

“Ach,” Sophia said, the disappointment evident in her voice, “and I thought you were a Mennonite!”

“I am a Mennonite, dear. Perhaps you thought I was a Baptist.”

“Speaking of baptism,” Catherine said gracefully, “our Enos is of age now and is going to be baptized next Baptism Sunday.”

“Is that so?” I asked pleasantly.

“Yah.” A typical boy in his late teens, Enos apparently preferred eating to talking, and had already consumed as much food as your average salad bar patron, or a medium-sized Third World country. His parents perhaps should have been considering limiting his calorie intake unless they wanted to raise the ceilings.

“Well, you certainly have grown into a fine young man,” I said.

“Levi was taller,” Sophia said.

There was a shocked silence, and Enos even stopped chewing.

“Well, he was!”

Catherine recovered first. “Yah, Sophia, you’re right. Levi was a few inches taller. And very strong too, like an ox.” She smiled at her second son. “Of course, Enos is very strong too.”

“But Levi was stronger,” Sophia said. “He could lift the front end of our buggy off the ground with one hand.” The admiration in her voice was unmistakable.

“So?” Enos asked. His face was suddenly red.

“So, I don’t think it was an accident when Levi fell from the silo. Even if he slipped, he could have grabbed one of the ladder rungs and held on with one finger.”

The second shocked silence lasted longer. Fortunately I had the sense to see it as opportunity knocking.

“I think Sophia may have a point,” I said. “Levi doesn’t sound like someone who would accidentally fall from a silo.”

“It’s winter,” Jacob said. “The ladder could have been icy.”

“Then why would he climb it?” I asked.

Enos’s jaw had begun to twitch, even though he was no longer chewing. He glanced at his parents and then at me. “We don’t need any English outsiders sticking their big noses into our business.”

“Enos!” Catherine turned to me. “He didn’t mean it, I’m sure.”

“That’s all right,” I said. “I know I’m sticking my big nose in where it doesn’t belong. But I hate the idea of you moving when you don’t have to. There has got to be another reason Levi fell, besides slipping and possession.”

Sophia’s eyes widened. “Possession?”

“I told you she would find out sooner or later,” Catherine cried. She was staring at her husband. “Mama, is it true?”

“I suppose God only knows for sure, but there were signs,” Catherine said. Her eyes beseeched her husband. “You tell her, Jacob.”

Enos stood up. “I’m sorry, Mama, but I don’t want to listen to this again.”

“Enos! Sit down,” Jacob said softly. “It’s time we all talked about this. Sophia as well.”

They may have been small pants, but it was clear who wore them in the Mast family. Enos sat down obediently, although he looked like an animal about to bolt.

“Levi was my brother, and we didn’t always get along,” he said, “but I know he wasn’t possessed. And I don’t think what he did that morning proves anything.”

“You mean when he crowed and flapped his arms like a rooster?” I asked gently.

Four pairs of eyes stared at me, one more intensely than the others.

“Papa, is that true?” Sophia asked.

Jacob nodded. “You’ve always been a heavy sleeper, Sophia. I thank the good Lord that you slept right through it.”

“How did you know this, Magdalena?” Catherine asked. I could see that she was trembling.

Mama used to tell Papa that our walls had ears. Of course, she meant Susannah and me.

“Let’s just say that your cornfield has eyes,” I said. “Catherine, please understand that I really want to help you. And I agree with Enos. Your son Levi was not possessed. Something else happened to him that morning, and that’s what I’d like to find out.”

“But what?” Hope and anguish mixed in her voice.

“Maybe he was drunk,” Sophia said.

“Ach du Heimer!” her father said. “Levi didn’t drink. He was already baptized, a member of the church. Those days were behind him.”

“But Papa, he did drink sometimes. Just ask Enos.”

We all looked at Enos. I prayed that he wouldn’t bolt. “Is this true, Enos? Did your brother drink? Even after joining the church?”

I once saw a deer in my headlights with the same expression on its face. “Ach, Papa, how can you ask me that?”

“Enos?” Catherine’s eyes were brimming with tears, surely the most effective weapon a mother has.

“Ach, Mama, Levi was my brother! And it wasn’t often, Mama. Just once or twice when he rode along with us on Saturday nights.”

I knew what Enos meant. Teenage Amish boys, prior to baptism and membership in the church, have been known to drive their buggies into town and tipple a bit. Their parents don’t approve, but they sometimes turn a blind eye. That blind eye, however, sees very well when it is turned to young men who have been baptized, and thereby formally joined the church. Then, strict obedience is paramount, and excommunication and even shunning can be the reward for deviance.

I felt it was time to butt in. “I’m not an expert on drinking, Catherine, but I’d have to say alcohol, even a lot of it, wasn’t responsible for what happened to Levi. As I understand it, alcohol slows you down, and your silo is pretty high. If Levi had drunk enough to jump from the silo, he probably wouldn’t have made it up to the top anyway.”

“Yah, you’re right.” The tears were now streaming down Catherine’s face.

“Then it was the possession,” Jacob said quietly.

“No!” I hadn’t meant to be so sharp, so I took a deep breath and counted to three before continuing. “It doesn’t have to be that either. It could be something totally different. Like... like... well, maybe a medical condition of some sort.”

“Jacob?” Catherine asked softly.

Jacob shrugged. “Yah, it’s possible, I suppose.”

“Like Great-Aunt Veronica?” Sophia asked. “She thought she was Mary Magdalene, and nobody said she was possessed.”

The other three nodded, but they didn’t look as if they were convinced that Levi and Great-Aunt Veronica belonged in the same padded cell.

“What did the medical examiner say?” I asked. “What was the autopsy report?”

“There was no autopsy,” Jacob said. “The sheriff agreed that it was an accident.”

Catherine and Jacob exchanged looks.

“All of us did,” Jacob said. “Catherine, me, Stayrook. Even Annie Stutzman.”

“Stayrook Gerber?”

“Yah, his farm is just over there. I sent Enos to get him.”

“Annie showed up on her own,” Catherine said. “That woman knows everything about everyone’s business.”

“Mother,” Jacob chided gently.

“Yah, but—”

There was a knock on the door to the mudroom, and before anyone could get up and answer it, Stayrook Gerber strode into the room. He seemed tremendously relieved to see me.

“Ach, there you are! I’ve been looking all over Farmersburg for you.”

“Is something wrong?” I demanded. Experience has taught me that there is seldom time to panic after a disaster has happened, especially if immediate action is required. Those of us who revel in distress had best do it when we can.

“It’s your sister, Susannah. Apparently something terrible has happened.”

“Dead?” I asked. And no, I didn’t sound hopeful. Stayrook shook his head. “No, according to her, it’s worse than that.”

Annie Stutzman’s Brown Sugar Pie (Milche Flichte)

1 unbaked 8-inch pie crust

1 cup brown sugar

3 tablespoons all-purpose flour

Dash of salt

112-ounce can evaporated milk

2 tablespoons butter G

ground cinnamon

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. With your fingers, mix the brown sugar, flour, and salt directly in the pie shell. Spread evenly. Slowly pour the evaporated milk over the mixture, but do not stir in. Dot with lumps of butter and sprinkle cinnamon liberally over the surface. Bake for 50 minutes.

The filling is supposed to be gooey. The pie is best eaten at room temperature.

Serves eight, although Susannah has been known to down as entire pie at one sitting.

I found Susannah slumped in a heap at the foot of our bed. She wasn’t alone, of course. Four of the Troyer boys (the oldest was in school) ringed her like curious island savages finding a stranger washed up on their beach. At least they weren’t crying. As for Lizzie, she was downstairs in a tizzy. The crazy English house-guests had clearly been too much.

“Is she dead?” Benjamin, the oldest son present, asked. He poked her with a bare toe.

Shnookums, who was perched precariously on a hunched shoulder, snarled.

“I think the rat bit her,” Solomon said.

“Rat bite?” asked Elias the baby, taking a cautious step backward.

“The rat’s a dog,” Peter said. At three, he was the most intuitive of the Troyer boys. No normal boy looking at Shnookums would come to the same conclusion.

I shooed the boys out of the room and knelt down by my sister. “What’s wrong, sis?”

Shnookums snarled again but went silent as soon as I raised a practiced hand. Of course I would never smack a dog, or even a rat for that matter, but Shnookums, totally lacking in intuition, doesn’t know that. Apparently some of Susannah’s boyfriends have cuffed the cur upon occasion. And no, I don’t feel guilty for having played upon that mutt’s neurosis—not when my sister needed me.

Susannah slowly lifted her head, like Lazarus must have as he prepared to climb out of the grave. Her eyes were red and swollen and her mascara had streaked, forming miniature batwing patterns across her cheekbones.

“It’s all your fault!” she sobbed. The ducts opened and a fresh flood of tears cascaded down her cheeks, moving the batwings before them.

“What’s my fault, dear?” I racked my brain for something I might have done in recent memory to cause her such anguish. Blacking out her name and phone number on the men’s-room wall at the rest area on our way to Farmersburg couldn’t have been that big of a deal. Undoubtedly there were still plenty of rest areas within a three-state radius that carried her message.

“It’s your fault my life’s over!” she wailed. Shnookums wailed sympathetically along with her, only three octaves up the scale.

I was concerned. Truly. “How is your life over? Susannah, are you ill?”

“It’s your fault Danny Hem dumped me,” she shrieked. “If you hadn’t given him the third degree and forced him to eat eels, I might have had a chance with him. I could have been rich! Rich, Magdalena! Now it’s all gone because of you.”

I held my tongue well beyond the count of ten. When Susannah gets hysterical, it’s best to let her get it out of her system. When the shrieks turn back into sobs, one can approach the water again, but cautiously. Susannah’s emotional life is strewn with dangerous shoals and hidden riptides. Only an exceptionally strong swimmer or an utter fool would voluntarily plunge into that sea.

“There, there,” I said gently, when the water had abated some. “There are other fish out there.”