Play It Again, Spam (14 page)

sardines in a can. We couldn't even lie down. And it was hot in that hole too - hotter than in the desert, I think. And the smell,

ma'am - "

"Please! Can we get back to the Bedouins?"

"Yes, ma'am. That's where the Butcher caught up with his brother. His brother, the Scorpion, was an S.S. agent whose job it

was to round up Allied troops who had escaped capture behind enemy lines. Anyway, the Scorpion had this network of spies and

unfortunately one of them was a Bedouin. His name was Achim - "

"Bless you, dear."

"No, that was his name. A very personable fellow in his early twenties. The only one in the camp who spoke a little English.

Anyway, the minute the Butcher and his brother, the Scorpion, showed up, our lives were hell."

"I do not allow swearing in this establishment," I said firmly.

"I wasn't swearing, Miss Yoder. Just stating a fact. The Butcher and his gang of sadists starved and beat us. I wouldn't do

that to a rat. For six months we lived like that - may as well have been six years; it seemed like a lifetime. Three of my regiment -

Eddy Dalton, Bill Easley, and Jackson Hayes - didn't make it. I swore that if I ever got out of there alive I was coming after the

Butcher of Tunis. The Scorpion and Achim too."

"And did you? Go after them, I mean. You're obviously very much alive."

"You better believe it, ma'am. We all did. Frank there even hired a German private investigator."

"What did you learn, dear?" I said, turning to Frank, and then immediately wished I hadn't. Anyone that old and still having

sex is unstable if you ask me - like Doris and Jimmy Hall. If by the time we reach our dotage we're not free of the urges of the

flesh, then there's no hope for our redemption as a species. Besides, in heaven there are only single beds. Read your Bible if you

don't believe me.

"The Butcher disappeared without a trace. However, the Scorpion left a short trail in Italy. I think he was murdered - I should

say executed - by the Mafia. No doubt something to do with a money-laundering scheme gone awry."

"And what about Achim, dear?" It was fun just saying the name.

"Now that's a good one. He was kind of a big guy, but he ended up as a belly dancer in Newark. Went by the name of

Fatima."

"Oh, dear."

"Well, Miss Yoder," Bob said, eager to take over the reins again, "that's all going to be water under the bridge soon. In a few

years there won't be any of us left - "

"Speak for yourself!" Marjorie Frost had placed a protective hand on her husband's arm.

"No offense, little lady. It's just that Frank there is - well - he's my age, and I don't plan on hanging around forever.

"We do," Doris cooed and nuzzled her husbands neck.

"Please, dear," I said, "not at the table."

"The truth is," Jimmy said as his wife blissfully ignored me and nibbled her way up to her chubby hubby's ears, "I consider

myself lucky. No one in my family - on either side - has lived past sixty-five. Heart attacks on my father's side, cancer on my

mother's."

"Yeah, but Jimmy works out and watches what he eats," Doris grunted, her mouth full of lobe.

"That's true, babe, but I'm still going to die."

"Then I'm going to die with you." Doris ceased her naughty nibbling long enough to look pointedly at Marjorie. "Jimmy and I

are only six weeks apart."

"Well, my Frank is in better shape than any of you," Marjorie said, her eyes blazing. "He'll live to be a hundred and ten."

"And how old will you be then, dear?" I asked pleasantly. "Thirty?"

"I'm twenty-four, and Frank's seventy-six. I already told you that!"

Dixie Montgomery cocked her large, pleasant head. "It's hard for the young to accept death," she said, in her charming

Minnesota accent.

"I have no problem with death," Marjorie practically screamed. "It's you old fossils that drive me crazy."

Clearly it was time for me to intervene, and trust me, it is something I'm quite skilled at. "Please, dear," I said to eager Bob,

"regale us with more of your war stories."

Bob beamed. "Be happy to, ma' am. Did I mention - "

The doorbell rang and I nodded at Sam to get it. He responded immediately, which was no surprise, because he had been

butling beautifully all evening. To think that I had been missing out on such service all these years. . . perhaps if I offered him

Susannah's room, now that she was moving in with Melvin - she was moving out, wasn't she? My heart raced. My sister hadn't

said a thing about that. Still, they couldn't possibly be thinking of him moving in here! Susannah knows that Melvin gets under my

skin like a chigger in June, and that if he were to move in I would surely kill him and end up you-know-where. There is no shortage

of double beds in that place. Even a few triples, I've heard. That would of course appeal to Susannah, but. . .

"Magdalena," Sam whispered in my ear, "that woman is here to see you."

I shook my head to clear my brain of cobwebs. "Which woman?"

"The one who meddles."

"You mean Freni's back?"

"Ach, not her. The Mennonite preacher's wife."

"Ach!" I squawked. "Lodema Schrock?" Sam nodded soberly.

12

Please," I begged, "let's go into the parlor. It's so much more comfortable than standing here in the foyer."

"Comfort is but a worldly illusion," Lodema snapped. The woman should know. She looks like she's never been comfortable a

day in her life. Although only in her early fifties, our pastor's wife could pass for his mother-except that Reverend Schrock's mother

is really much prettier. Lodema has a hard, pinched look about her that can be obtained only through extreme suffering or by

religious zeal.

"Oh, no, dear, my furniture is quite real. After the tornado I replaced all that stark wooden furniture of Mama's with

upholstered pieces. I even have a sofa now."

"Soft furniture, for soft minds. It will only lead to laziness and idle hands, and as we all know, idle hands are the devil's

playground."

I clasped my hands as if in prayer. "Well, perhaps we could step outside then."

"It's chilly out there, Magdalena. Do you want me to catch my death of cold?"

I bit my tongue.

"So, what is this I hear about you harboring criminals?" I rearranged my size elevens into a more comfortable stance. I was

going to need that sofa when Lodema left. "There aren't any criminals here - not to my knowledge, at any rate."

"I've heard otherwise. I've heard they're hardened killers - the lot of them."

I small sigh escaped me. "They're war veterans, dear. Heroes."

"But they've killed other men, right? And women and children, too?"

I rocked slowly on my heels. "I didn't ask them for a body count."

"No, of course not. You wouldn't. If their money is green, you'll take it, right?"

"The Bible tells us not to judge, dear."

"Magdalena, you are a Mennonite. All your ancestors were either Mennonite or Amish. Do you know what that means?"

"That I have fifty percent fewer genes than the average American?"

"It means that we are pacifists," she hissed. "We shouldn't have anything to do with the warring English."

The Amish may refer to outsiders as English, but we Mennonites seldom, if ever, do. But somehow, Lodema Schrock-

perhaps because she is the pastor's wife - has elevated herself to a higher level of exclusivity without having to make the

accompanying sacrifices.

I gave Lodema's pinched hardness the once-over. "Those cheap plastic combs you wear in your bun are from Walmart. Ditto

for your faux turtleshell eyeglass frames. And that dress you're wearing isn't homespun, is it? Looks more like polyester. And

those leatherette shoes - where did you get them? Payless? Chances are they were made by the English in China - "

"Okay, I get your point. Just don't blame me if something terrible happens this week in Hernia."

“I won't."

"Because something evil is going to happen. I can feel it in my bones."

"It's probably just a touch of arthritis, dear."

"And I'm not talking about that so-called wedding that your sister is having Wednesday."

"Oh?"

"It won't count in God's eyes, Magdalena - you do realize that, don't you? In the Lord's eyes your sister will be an

adulteress."

That did it. Susannah might be the bane of my existence - well, Freni aside - but she is my baby sister. No one has the right

to say anything critical about her except for me. And who was Lodema to tell me that God would disapprove of Susannah's

second marriage? The woman's husband was doing the knot tying, for pete's sake.

"Tell that to your husband, the reverend," I said.

"Oh, Reverend Schrock will not be officiating. You can be sure of that."

"Of course he will. Susannah might have defected to the Presbyterians, but that was years ago, and she's learned her lesson

since then. Besides, Melvin is still a Mennonite - well, loosely speaking."

Lodema Schrock's smirk can spoil milk. "That may be so, but the reverend is out of town."

"That's silly. I saw him at church yesterday."

"But that was then, and this is now, like the young folks say today. No, I'm afraid the reverend is off fly-fishing in West Virginia

until Friday."

"But he can't be! Susannah is getting married Wednesday out at Elvina Stoltzfus's place. Just ask anybody. Ask Freni

Hostetler!"

The smirk swelled, becoming a full-fledged grin. "There's no need to ask anybody. I already know about the so-called

minister your sister has lined up."

"Oh, Susannah brought in a woman minister? Well, there's nothing wrong with female clergy, dear - "

"Oh, this one's a woman, all right, but she's definitely not clergy."

"Then what is she? The pope's pajamas?"

"She's Diana Lefcourt."

My heart sank into my stomach, which in turn sagged until it bumped against my knees. "The same Diana Lefcourt who

changed her name to Sister Anjelica Houston?"

"The very one."

"Who heads a commune in Bedford called Convent of the Broken Heart? That Sister Anjelica Houston?"

"Yes, except now she goes by the title Mother Anjelica Houston."

"Oh." There was nothing else to say. Diana Lefcourt, a.k.a. Mother Anjelica Houston, is to New Age religion what Shirley

MacLaine is to we Mennonites. She's so far out on that limb that there's nothing left to cling to but twigs and leaves. Diana actually

believes she is able to call forth into the present, via channeling, the very person of Pharaoh Tutankhamen. It started out as a

scam, but tragically progressed far beyond that. Now, not only does Diana swallow her own bunk, but she bunks with the buried.

That is to say, on those nights she's not Mother Anjelica Houston, Diana sleeps in a sarcophagus.

"Even you wouldn't approve of a marriage performed by that nutcase, now would you, Magdalena?"

I humbly mumbled something.

"What was that? I'm afraid I didn't hear you."

"I said I'd talk to her, dear."

"You do that. The Good Lord knows that girl would be so much better off if only she had a proper mother."

"She's in her mid-thirties," I wailed. "You can't accuse me of child neglect."

"Just the same, if your mother was still alive, your sister would not be getting married by the high priestess of some satanic

cult."

I avoided Lodema's taunting eyes. "You've made your point, dear. Now if you'll just skedaddle, I have guests to attend to."

"Magdalena, are you giving me the bum's rush?"

"Truer words were never spoken, dear." I gave her the gentlest of pushes.

"Why, I never! Just wait until the Mennonite Women's Sewing Circle hears about this."

They say that the best defense is a good offense, and I can be quite offensive if I put my mind to it. "Believe me, they will

hear about this - from me. You see, I have a phone right here, and you, dear, don't have a cellular phone. By the time you get

home everyone in the circle is going to know about your visit-and that of your dear friend, Lady Marion."